We’re at the departure gate at Heathrow when my phone rings. Before I can move, Noah plucks it out of the side pocket of my bag and studies the display.“It’s Aunt Lottie phoning!” His face lights up in excitement. “Shall I tell her we’re coming to surprise her on her special holiday?”“No!” I grab the phone. “Just sit down a minute. Look at your sticker pack. Do the dinosaurs.” I press answer and take a couple of steps away from Noah, trying to compose myself. “Lottie, hi!” I greet her.“There you are! I’ve been trying to reach you! Where are you?”“Oh … you know. Just around.” I force myself to pause before I add, light as gossamer, “Any luck with your room yet? Or the bed? Or … anything?”I know from Nico that she’s still roomless. But I also know Ben tried to hire a room off another guest on the beach. Sneaky little sod.“Oh, the room.” Lottie sounds disconsolate. “It’s been such a bloody saga.We’ve given up for now. We’re just going to enjoy the day.”“Right. Sensible plan.” I b

About half an hour into the flight, Richard comes up to the front, where Noah and I are sitting in a row of three in club class. I haul Noah onto my lap and Richard slides in next to me.“How tall would you say this Ben is?” he says with no preamble. “Don’t know. I’ve never met him.”“But you’ve seen pictures. Would you say … five eight? Five nine?” “I don’t know.”“I’d say five nine. Definitely shorter than me,” Richard adds, with a grim satisfaction.“Well, that’s not hard,” I point out. Richard is at least six foot two. “Never thought Lottie would go for a short-arse.”I have no reply to make to this, so I roll my eyes and carry on reading the airline magazine.“I looked him up.” Richard mashes an airsick bag between his fingers. “He’s a multimillionaire. Owns a paper company.”“Mmm. I know.”“I tried to find out if he’s got a private jet. It didn’t say. Expect he has.” “Richard, stop torturing yourself.” I finally turn to him. “It’s not about privatejets. Or height. There’s no po

It’s a game. Just a game. It doesn’t mean anything.Even so, I’m feeling more irritable by the second. Why can’t I remember this stuff? And, more to the point, why can’t Ben? Isn’t he interested in the details of my life?We’re sitting in the hotel garden with ten minutes to go before Couples’ Quiz starts, and I’ve never felt less prepared for a test in my life. Ben is lying in a hammock, drinking beer and playing some new rap song on his iPad, which really isn’t improving my mood.“Let’s go again,” I say. “And, this time, concentrate. What shampoo do I use?”“L’Oréal.”“No!”“Head and Shoulders, extra strong for monster dandruff.” He smirks. “No!” I kick him. “I told you. Kerastase. And you use Paul Mitchell.” “Do I?” he says blankly.I feel instant rage boiling up inside me. “What do you mean, ‘do I’? You told me you use Paul Mitchell! We have to be on the same page for this, Ben. If you say Paul Mitchell once, you have to stick to Paul Mitchell!”“Jesus.” Ben takes a sip of beer. “L

“France?” I say tentatively. “A farmhouse in France?” I’ve always fantasized about moving to France. “Maybe the Dordogne, or Provence? We could do up a house, find a real project.…” “I love that idea.” Ben’s eyes are sparkling. “Find a wreck, turn it into something amazing, have friends to stay, long lazy meals—” “Exactly!” My words tumble out, mingling with his. “We’d have a great big table and wonderful fresh food, and the children would help make the salad.…” “They’d learn French too—” “How many children do you want?” My question halts the conversation for a moment. I’m holding my breath, I realize. “As many as we can,” says Ben easily. “If they all look like you, I’ll have ten!” “Maybe not ten.” I’m laughing in relief. We chime perfectly! My worries were unfounded! We’re totally on the same page when it comes to life choices. I almost want to get out my phone and start finding old French properties to drool over. “You really want to move to France?” “If there’s one thing I

This is the perfect setting for a wedding night. I mean, our own private beach! How cool is that?We’re in a secluded little cove that you reach from the main beach over stepping stones and there’s a DO NOT DISTURB sign placed on a rock. Our two massage therapists led us here in a little procession, followed by Georgios and Hermes carrying champagne and oysters, which are waiting for us on ice. Now we’re lying on a huge double massage bed, while the two massage therapists, Angelina and Carissa, rub oil into our bodies. Billowing all around us are white curtains, so we’re totally private in our enclosure. The sky is that intense blue you only get at a certain point in the early evening, and scented candles planted in the sand are giving off a sweet aroma. Birds are swooping and calling. I can hear the tiny splash of waves on the sand, and the air has a salty tang. It’s all so scenic, I feel as though I’m in some arty pop video.Ben reaches out his hand to take mine, and I squeeze it ba