It Happened In Venice

Book 2: Evie Dexter

by Molly Hopkins

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

He cheated, but only once! Evie Dexter has promised to forgive and forget her fiancé Rob - and her efforts to absolve his sins are paying off: in the past ten days she's only called him a two-timing love rat eleven times. Thank goodness her flourishing career as a tour guide takes her to fashionable Dublin, in-vogue Marrakech and cool Amsterdam. So when Evie's offered a luxury visit to the sensual city of Venice she jumps at the chance. With its gondolas, wine and sultry Italian men, four days in the city of light and love is just what she needs. Who knows what could happen?

Release date: August 30, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

OK, he cheated on me but he couldn’t be sorrier, and it was only once.

Sitting beside Rob on the flight from London to Barbados, I pondered the amazing U-turn my life had taken over the past ten days. Rob and I were back together, after a separation of two long months.

I gave him an adoring look and nuzzled my head in the crook of his neck. He smiled, wrapped his ankles around mine and tucked my legs behind his. We’ve made a pact. We’re going to move forward and put the whole sordid episode behind us. I am not going to ruin the rest of our lives because of one silly mistake on his part; a mistake that I know will never be repeated. And I won’t be rubbing his face in it, because I want this relationship to work. And it will work because I love him. So I won’t mention his silly little indiscretion, ever. It’s in the past. I’ve forgiven him completely because I’m a forgiving person with a forgiving nature. There is no room for grudges in this relationship. We’re engaged and I have a whopping diamond ring to prove it. I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder and snuggled in to enjoy the rest of the flight.

*

The hotel was amazing. It was a fabulous vanilla-coloured wooden affair flanked by palm trees and a kaleidoscope of tropical flowers. I stepped out of the taxi, clasped my hands to my heart and gasped in awe. I stared in silent wonder as a turtle edged its way through the shrubs. I was about to bend down to have a chat with it, when Rob gripped my arm and whizzed me through the oak-floored, lavishly decorated lobby towards the reception desk.

I spotted a glass display cabinet full of handbags.

Rob followed my gaze without breaking his marathon pace. ‘You don’t need any more handbags,’ he said stiffly.

‘I’m only looking,’ I shot back. ‘But you’re wrong. I don’t have a purple bag.’

We halted at the reception desk. He slid a menacing look at my new red Louis Vuitton Monogram Vernis bag, which I’d bought just before Christmas.

‘I cannot believe how much you paid for that bloody bag,’ he said. ‘What were you thinking?’

I’m instantly rattled, because this is a major sore point.

I clutched the bag protectively to my chest. ‘It was cheaper than therapy and better for me than Valium. What was I supposed to do? I was depressed. You’d gone off shagging around behind my back and if it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have been in the position where I needed to buy the bag, would I? It was your fault!’

A crimson stain soaked his cheeks, as well it might.

‘I could’ve ended up a Prozac addict,’ I told him bitterly. ‘Or a manic-depressive, or addicted to gin or self-help websites. Anything could’ve happened to me. More to the point, what were you thinking?’

He exhaled an infuriated sigh. The cheek of him! I thought. I’m the one with the axe to grind. I’m the one making all the allowances here.

‘You promised me that you wouldn’t mention that again,’ he said, measuring every single word.

I spread my arms wide. ‘I’ve hardly mentioned it at all. In the past week, I’ve only brought it up eleven times,’ I told him factually.

‘Exactly!’

‘Am I just supposed to roll over and accept the fact that you are a harlot and I have a love rival? Am I?’

Quick as a flash, Rob’s hand shot out and he grabbed my Lipsy waistcoat. He drew my face towards him and gave me a long, hard, lip-bruising kiss.

The receptionist coughed – ahem – into her fist.

He raised me on to my tiptoes by my collar. The kiss lingered for a bit and then he ran his tongue around my lips.

‘Evie, if you ever mention that singular moment of madness on my part again, for which I am eternally sorry, I’ll pin you to the floor and pluck your eyebrows until they’re non-existent.’

There was a beat of silence. Blue eyes held my gaze.

‘You’d look like an eejit without eyebrows,’ he said with a shoulder-shaking chuckle.

‘You’re choking me.’

‘I’m not choking you but I admit I’m sorely tempted. So have we reached an understanding?’ he asked, giving me another kiss. ‘You agreed to put it behind us and you promised never to throw it in my face.’

I gave a noncommittal shrug, privately regretting having been so amiable.

‘A promise is a promise,’ he said dolefully, tracing my cheeks with his thumbs.

I gave a congenial nod.

‘Truce?’ he asked, cupping my face in his palm.

I sighed and blinked a yes.

He kissed my forehead and then turned to the receptionist who pushed the registration card in front of him. I quickly turned and took a picture of the display cabinet on my phone. I would check out the handbags later if I had time.

We’ve now been blissfully cohabiting in a luxurious beachfront villa on this beautiful island for eight glorious days. In that time Rob and I have encountered only two other human beings. There was a maid who Rob catapulted from the room when her lips quivered suspiciously, as though she might’ve been about to strike up a conversation, and there’s the waiter who delivers our room service meals. Rob said he wanted me all to himself and I’m more than happy to comply with that sentiment.

Robert Harrison is the love of my life, my raison d’être. An invisible cord draws me to him, heart and soul. This randy handsome Adonis is my destiny, of that I am absolutely positive. I simply cannot get enough of him. Every nerve ending in my body tingles and jives when he puts his arms around me and a cascading torrent of excitement erupts and percolates in my chest when he kisses me, leaving me breathless. My obsession with him is both physical and psychosomatic. I’m driven by and demented with lust. I’ve been behaving like a sex-crazed lunatic, even waking in the middle of the night with this fierce ache in my groin that only he can satisfy. My fiancé, Robert Harrison, doesn’t have a normal willie like other blokes. Robert Harrison has a bloody magic wand.

This obsession of mine is showing no signs of waning, which frankly has me worried because I’m exhausted and I don’t feel very well. I have a vicious throbbing in my tummy as though I’ve done two hundred sit-ups. OK, I’ve never actually done a sit-up, so perhaps a more appropriate metaphor would be to say that I feel like I’ve had my appendix removed. My lips are bruised and I’ve ruptured a muscle, which I never knew I had, in my inner thigh, the result being that I now have a limp. I’m dragging my left leg around as though it had a club foot. And as for my hair, I can hardly bear to look at it. Sweat and friction damage have morphed my long shiny brown extensions in to a frizzy matted beehive. In short, I look like a hairy goblin.

This cannot go on, so this morning I showered, straightened my hair, put on my white bikini with a matching sarong and a wraparound top, and accessorised with silver bling. I’m going to wake Rob up and insist we go out. I will not be swayed. I’m resolute and determined. I whizzed some Glam Shine around my lips and peered in the mirror. I looked quite normal, not like the haunted, sunken-eyed tart who woke up an hour ago. I’ve also got a tan because a fair bit of our shagathon has taken place on our stretch of private beach. I stood at the foot of our four-poster canopied bed and nipped Rob’s toe.

‘Get up.’

He blinked like a drowsy bull and curved an arm above his head. ‘Why?’

‘Because I want to do something different!’

He sat up slowly. The sheet fell around his waist and he wore nothing but a lazy smile. ‘You do?’

His face shone with the promise of possibility, his eyes were pooled and glazed and his smile beatific. He looked like he’d seen an apparition of the Blessed Virgin or the Angel Gabriel. Obviously he thought I was talking about sex.

He Mexican-waved the sheet and looked below for signs of life. His already wide smile grew wider. ‘I’m game,’ he boasted, ‘to do something different.’

I snorted inwardly. ‘I want to go out.’

‘Out? You mean, out on to our terrace?’

I crossed my arms defiantly and jerked my chin at the open window. ‘No, I mean out to the hotel pool or the beach bar.’

He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Why?’

‘I want to meet other people. You know, do that holiday thing where we get chatting to someone and they ask where we’re from. I’ll say, “London,” and they’ll say, “Oh, my sister lives in London. Perhaps you know her? Her name is Mary Lewis, she lives in Staines.” And I’ll scrunch up my face and pretend to think hard, and then say, “No, I don’t think I do,” and they’ll say, “Never mind,” and then we’ll strike up a conversation and maybe have a drink and—’

‘Evie, shut up and get back in this bed.’

I held up the flat of my hand. ‘No.’

He threw back the sheet and padded, naked, towards me.

‘Rob, a shag is off-limits. Tonight perhaps,’ I said, in my ward sister voice, ‘but not now!’

He flashed me a manic smile.

‘I don’t want my holiday filled with raunch and porn and precious little else.’

He loomed above me. ‘I do,’ he said, lifting a long strand of hair and tucking it behind my ear.

He held my shoulders and bent his blond head to mine. His tongue tickled my forehead, then slowly travelled the length of my cheek. He stopped briefly to nibble the lobe of my ear before exploring my neck and hairline. My groin flashed on super-high alert, my spine stretched and my back arched, pushing my pelvis towards his.

‘That’s a shame … ’ he whispered, his voice warm on my cheek.

I felt a rush of excitement. He slipped his thumb inside my bikini bottom and did that fantastic little cartwheely thing he does that activates my lust-bubble trip switch.

‘Because I was going to spoil you … ’

My eyes followed the hum of the ceiling fan in contemplative diversion.

‘But you might not be interested … ’ he said.

The problem was that my mind and my erogenous zones had completely different principles.

‘Really spoil you,’ he said, rugby tackling me to the bed.

I wriggled free and pointed a stern finger. ‘Right, Rob, I’m telling you and I mean it; a quickie as a favour to you. And then we’re out of here,’ I said primly.

The view was breathtaking. Turquoise, choppy white-capped waves lapped the beach, stretching as far as the eye could see. In the distance the deep, blue calm of the ocean merged with an azure sky, forming a line of indigo where both met. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but already the sun was high. I halted, and tilted my face towards a welcoming patchy breeze.

‘We should’ve come here before now,’ I told Rob with a wistful sigh.

‘Why? This beach is exactly the same as our beach.’

I felt a flicker of irritation; he’d said that without even glancing at the ocean. I trudged past him through the sand towards the beach bar. I could see the sunbed flunkey sleeping on one of the loungers that he was supposed to be distributing to guests, like me.

I gave the flunkey a gentle prod on the arm. ‘O-l-a!’ I punctuated loudly. ‘Ola! Ola!’

‘Ola?’ Rob echoed. ‘What language is that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

I tossed him a backward glance. He rocked on his heels and dug his hands into the pockets of his linen shorts.

‘Is it the local dialect?’ he asked, arching his brows in question.

‘I am trying to wake him up. The beds are locked and linked with a chain, it’s not as though we can help ourselves. I simply refuse to lie on the sand,’ I told Rob. ‘It makes me itch.’

‘We could go back to our villa, and—’

I cut him off. ‘No! We’re out and we’re staying out.’ I turned and gave the beach attendant another jab in the arm. ‘Ola!’ I tried again.

‘Evie, I’m not convinced that this is your man.’

I wheeled round. ‘What do you mean, not my man? I don’t see anyone else around here, do you?’ I asked, gesturing around the beach.

Rob pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head; smiling denim-blue eyes teased mine.

‘No, I don’t see anyone else either, but still, I’m fairly positive that this is a case of mistaken identity,’ he said, rooting at the sand with his big toe.

‘Oh really? So in your esteemed view, this person looking after the sunbeds could not possibly be the sunbed attendant?’

‘I think it’s highly unlikely.’

‘Why?’

‘This guy is wearing a pair of chinos, a long-sleeved shirt and a black waistcoat. He’s also cradling an empty bottle of vodka. I suspect he’s drunk and on his way home from a blinding night out. I don’t think he’s the sunbed attendant you’re looking for.’

I heaved my beach bag on to my shoulder. OK. He had a point.

‘Fine, we’ll lie on our towels. It’s no big deal.’ I said.

I fidgeted miserably on a towel on the sand for over an hour. This was supposed to be a five-star hotel, and I had sand riding uncomfortably up my backside. What was going on? I’d a good mind to complain to the management. In fact, I’m definitely complaining. In fairness, I didn’t have to prompt Rob to sort the beds out; he sauntered over to the bar as soon as the beach attendant arrived with a key for the padlock.

I arranged myself on the bed, out of Rob’s shadow, and slipped the straps of my bikini over my shoulders. I didn’t want white lines. I took my magazine out of my beach bag. This was the life.

‘Evie, why must I use the blue bottle of suntan lotion and not the yellow? Is it his and hers?’ Rob asked.

I lifted my eyes from my magazine.

‘No, it’s Superdrug for you and Clarins for me,’ I told him, flicking through the pages of Vogue.

‘Right,’ he said with a bewildered nod.

I gave a weary sigh and frisbeed my magazine under my sunbed; I’d seen all the pictures. To be honest, I find sunbathing boring. Well, it is, isn’t it? The ocean view was absolutely breathtaking. The glimmering reflection of the sun skimming the shifting waves drew me to it; I had to get out there, I had to.

‘Shall we take a pedalo out?’ I suggested, seized by a flash of adventure.

Rob relaxed back on his elbows and gave me a lazy smile.

‘Sure, but you have to do your fair share of the pedalling,’ he warned.

‘Of course I will,’ I told him.

Why did he think I wanted to go on a pedalo if not to pedal? Does he think I’m stupid?

‘Pedalling is the whole point of going on the boat, everyone knows that,’ I said, gripped with enthusiasm.

The thing is, pedalos look much more fun than they actually are. I mean, I’m now pedalling and wondering, what is the point? We have no destination, I’m thirsty and now that I think of it, I’m quite hungry. Still, we’ve only hired the boat for an hour. That’s no time at all.

I trundled the pedals; they were quite noisy.

‘How long have we been pedalling?’ I asked Rob conversationally, not that I was bored or anything, I was merely curious. After all, this had been my idea.

He eyed his watch. ‘Four minutes.’

I gave him an incredulous stare. Had it really only been four minutes? I put my hands squarely on my knees.

OK, I admit I was surprised. I thought we’d been pedalling for half an hour or so because my thighs were beginning to sting. My legs crunched on. I quickly turned around. The shore was quite far away. In fact, I couldn’t see our beds. I stole a glance at Rob; the sun flickered and twinkled on his sunglasses as he titled his head and slowly circled his neck. He had both hands on the steering wheel. Was that necessary? The only direction is straight on, surely! What’s to steer? Bloody hell, my legs were going like the clappers. What’s the rush? Are we being chased? Are we fleeing from pirates?

‘There is no need for you to pedal so quickly! I have to keep to the same pace and your legs are longer than mine, and so obviously I’m working much harder than you!’ I snapped.

He really was making this quite unpleasant.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! The length of your legs has nothing to do with how hard you work; you’re covering exactly the same rotations as I am.’

I pedalled on.

The same rotations!?

Listen to him talking as though this was some sort of military manoeuvre, some sort of amphibious naval operation. I was beginning to sweat. Actually I was sweating quite a lot. I looked sideways. Rob’s arms were now folded across his chest. He looked … relaxed, even though his legs were pumping. My fingers, which were gripping the plastic seat, were clenched into a white-knuckled knot because my thighs were absolutely blazing and my tummy muscles were beginning to contract. This was like a bloody spinning class. Not that I’ve ever been to one, but I’ve watched a spinning DVD. I would take a break, I decided. I lifted my feet off the pedals. You have to listen to your body when you’re working out, everyone knows that. I inhaled deeply and breathed out slowly, leaned back and stretched my legs. I was almost horizontal. It felt good, it felt really good.

‘HAVE YOU STOPPED PEDALLING!?’

I shot upright in shock, and while my feet scrambled manically for the pedals my backside nearly fell off the seat.

‘Of course not!’

‘Well, it felt suspiciously like it. The tension shifted down a gear,’ Rob said sharply.

I trudged on.

Tension? Gear? What is he talking about? This was a plastic dinghy, not a friggin’ seaplane or a flying boat! I pushed my damp hair from my forehead. Rob takes things far too seriously; the truth is he can be a real knob sometimes. Like now!

I turned around.

We were so far out that I couldn’t even see the beach; we were at sea. Literally at sea! In a crappy little yellow plastic tub. I felt a swoop of misery. Even if we went no further, I would still have to pedal all the way back. The thought was depressing. I’m on holiday, I thought. I’m supposed to be enjoying myself.

I racked my brain for a get-out, a way to end this grinding hard labour, because that’s exactly what it was. My heart was racing, and there was a buzzing sound in my ears. I was exhausted. The blood in my fingertips was pounding. Even my teeth were sweating! I was on the point of collapse. Surely an engine should be an optional extra on a pedalo?

All of a sudden, I had a flash of inspiration.

‘Rob, how about a swim? Shall we stop for a while and … cool down?’ I suggested, breathless. If he didn’t agree there was a chance I’d burst into tears. In fact, I would burst into tears; it was a certainty.

He stopped pedalling and nodded. He didn’t even look tired.

I exhaled with relief, emptying my lungs of whatever air was left.

He stood, steepled his fingers and stretched his arms.

My jellified legs trembled as I edged out of the plastic chair.

‘Nice breeze,’ Rob said, planting a kiss on my shoulder as he bent to take his shorts off.

Breeze? I hadn’t noticed a breeze. There certainly hadn’t been a breeze on my side of the boat. I had been slowly cremating!

‘I’m quite enjoying this, now that we’re here. Are you?’

Was he joking?

I was too tired to reply. My sarong fell in a chiffon puddle at my feet. I stood at the edge of the boat, raised my arms above my head and gave a spirited leap. Although the sea was warm I felt a cold shiver of delight when I hit the water.

‘Is it nice?’ Rob asked as I broke the surface.

‘Fabulous,’ I told him. And it was. There was new life in my limbs.

In one stealthy, fluid movement he dived into the water and glided like a shark towards me. To my surprise he was able to stand. I tried, but I couldn’t.

‘There are advantages to being in shallow water,’ he said, smiling and shaking his head like a wet dog.

My legs floated as he pulled me close. He nibbled my ear. At his touch, a warm prickle ran down the length of my neck. He eyed me levelly. I curled my legs around his waist and circled my arms around his neck. His expression clicked from jovial to serious.

‘I love you, Evie,’ he said solemnly.

‘I love you, too.’

‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m lucky that you’ve given me a second chance. I’ll make you happy, I swear.’

I pressed my lips to the salty hollow of his neck.

‘I know you will.’

His knuckles travelled the length of my back.

‘So … shall I show you?’

‘Show me what?’

‘The advantage of being in shallow water, of course.’

‘Yes, show me,’ I said as the waveless sea lapped our shoulders.

And he did. Twice.

The hotel restaurant was huge. It was full of potted palm trees, fairy lights and bamboo furniture draped with lemon linen, and it had an enormous aviary with noisy, coloured birds squawking in accompaniment to a calypso band. I couldn’t help but do a salsa hip-shuffle as we followed the waiter to our table – no small task considering I’d pedalled a triathlon earlier.

‘I love it, just love it,’ I told Rob, dropping heavily into my chair.

He reached for my hand across the table and by the shadow of a flickering candle, lifted my palm to his lips and kissed it. But instead of launching in to his usual repertoire of chatty banter, he dropped his gaze and slowly turned my hand in both of his. He appeared preoccupied, meditative. It wasn’t like him.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

He looked caught out.

‘Nothing,’ he said defensively. ‘Nothing, I’m just … happy.’ He folded his palm over my knuckles and gave them a squeeze. ‘I’m happy, Evie. Sometimes I just want to take a silent moment to appreciate it,’ he said.

This solemn Rob was a bit of a stranger; still, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with appreciating happiness. I jerked my head buffetwards.

‘Shall we go to the buffet table and choose something delicious to eat?’ I asked, lightening the mood.

He pushed back his chair. ‘Sure,’ he said.

He held out his hand to me. His smile seemed … stilted and forced. Inexplicably, I felt a needle of foreboding.

‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if something was bothering you?’ I asked.

He slipped his arm around my shoulders, pulled me close and gave me an absent kiss. ‘What could possibly be wrong now that we’re back together?’ he asked.

We’re in Bridgetown Hospital. Rob has a vicious oyster allergy. He hadn’t realised there were oysters in the fish stew: he ate three mouthfuls and collapsed. The hotel manager called an ambulance, and now Rob’s having his stomach pumped. A doctor jammed a long plastic tube into his mouth. On tiptoe, I craned my head around the doctor’s shoulder to see how much of the tube disappeared down Rob’s throat. It was quite a lot.

Rob was jerking and thrashing violently, as fountain after fountain of projectile liquid spurted from the other end of the tube into a bucket. Fortunately he was on a gurney, with supporting side frames. He would’ve fallen off a normal bed, I’m sure of it. What a vile procedure. Well, it’s certainly a vile procedure from a spectator’s perspective. I’m sure Rob thinks the same.

I’d seen enough.

I found a chair in the corner of the room, and quietly opened my handbag and began to give it a spring clean. I may as well make the most of the spare time. I slid a guilty look right and left, and quickly jabbed off my phone. You’re not supposed to have phones on in hospitals in the UK, it’s likely to be the same in Barbados. I dragged the metal waste-paper bin along the tiled floor and placed it between my legs, and closed my ears to the violent retching noises Rob was making. It was amazing how much clutter I’d collected considering I’d only had my Louis Vuitton a couple of weeks. I decided to be ruthless; tube tickets, out of date Tesco Clubcard coupons and Starbucks’ lids were the first to go. I counted eleven torn magazine advertisements but I couldn’t throw them out because I hadn’t got round to buying any of the things in the adverts yet. And nine lipsticks but I needed those because they were different shades. And four pens, but isn’t it always typical that you can never find a pen when you need one, so I decided to keep those, and—

‘Would you like to see your husband now?’ a friendly voice asked.

Taken aback, I looked up. ‘My what?’

‘Your husband?’

A nurse with a jolly ebony face looked at me firmly. The room was quiet. The doctor had left, and Rob was asleep on the gurney.

‘Yes, yes,’ I said prudently. Husband. I quite liked the sound of that. I quickly jammed my handbag under my arm and walked over to Rob’s bed. He wore a green smock-apron with a sheet lying loosely across his waist. His face was sheened with dampness; he looked … waxy. He made a sudden unconscious convulsive movement. I took a startled step back.

‘He be tired, we keep him here ovanight,’ the nurse said, rubbing my back as though winding a baby. ‘I think we rid him of his poison, but to be certain we give him a … laxative,’ she told me brightly, as though this was fabulous news and I should be delighted to hear it.

‘Right. OK, thank you, for … for that, and … for everything.’

Rob’s breathing was deep and heavy. I put my bag on his bed, snaked an arm inside for my lip balm, gently coated his cracked lips, and then rested my palm on his cheek. His skin felt chilled and clammy. Poor thing. I felt an overwhelming surge of protectiveness towards him. I smoothed his hair from his forehead. I was here for him, for as long as he needed me.

The nurse gave me an energetic smile. ‘You can stay with him if you want, I’m sure we can find something for you to sleep on,’ she said kindly. ‘I’ll leave you. If you need me I be in reception.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied to her retreating figure.

I didn’t like seeing Rob any other way than his strong, domineering, robust self. I wouldn’t go back to the villa without him, definitely not! I would stay with him. A fleeting image of me sitting in the villa, clutching his shirt to my face, crying, popped into my head. I couldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t leave me. My place was here, by his side.

But then I remembered the laxative. What if, what if … it worked?

I grabbed my bag. I’d go find the nurse and ask her to call me a taxi. Rob would be fine. Of course he would. It’s not as though I’m leaving him in the hands of kidnappers. I glanced around. On the contrary, it was very nice here. He’d love it. I could pick him up tomorrow. He was asleep, what difference would it make to him whether I was here or not? None at all. In fact if he were awake he would probably insist that I go back to the luxury of the villa.

So I did.

We’re on a pony-trek; I booked it when Rob was convalescing. Thankfully he’s fine now. I’m riding a gorgeous white pony called Button, and Rob is riding an enormous black pony called Bluebeard, which appears to be suffering from some sort of an equestrian multiple personality disorder. Bluebeard will not let any other pony walk beside him, not even close, not even the guide. Who I noticed is very sexy. Not that I’m particularly interested. I’m, well … I’m thinking of my flatmate Lulu – she would like him.

The guide’s name is Ronaldo and he’s twenty-nine. He has black hair that is tied in a ponytail, and a broad hairless chest. I suspect he has it waxed; he’s from Rio de Janeiro. I’m awestruck. Ronaldo rides bareback. He flicks the reins with a practised twist of the wrist, lowers his torso, whispers in the pony’s ear and bolts off, hair billowing. I am loving this. Rob, however, hates every single minute of it and when he catches my eye I know he’s looking to me for confirmation that he’s not alone. Out of loyalty to him, I put on a scowly, sour, make it stop face – all the time trying really hard not to smile – but it isn’t easy. I’m riding à la posse with three middle-aged French couples who, like me, are making the most of it, and two lovely gay German blokes.

OK, to be fair to Rob he hasn’t been able to chitchat while idly trotting along the ocean surf like the rest of us because, as I said, his pony wants to be up front. His pony wants to be up front all the time. It rises on its hind legs, hoof-scrambles midair and bolts if anyone comes within a furlong, not that I know what a furlong is exactly, but it sounds like the appropriate term to use. Rob’s horse thinks this is some sort of steeplechase as opposed to a leisurely trek. To avoid being thrown Rob has to lie flat and cuddle the pony. At one point both his arms and legs were practically around the pony’s neck; he’d looked ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, like an idiot clown in the circus. We’re now trotting to a halt to stop for lunch, at a rather grim-looking tumbledown shack on the beach. Still, I’m sure the food will be delicious. Appearances can be deceptive.

Not surprisingly Rob beat the rest of us to the restaurant. He was pouring a bottle of Evian down the crotch of his trousers when we arrived. I thought it a waste, as Evian is quite expensive here.

I dismounted with a jaunty landing hop. ‘You won the race,’ I said to Rob, trying for joviality. He didn’t appreciate my attempt at humour.

‘Evie! Tell me there are a fleet of jeeps waiting behind this hovel to take us back to the hotel!’

I smiled at the lapping ocean. I felt a tingling all over my body. The ride, the fresh air, the guide – everything was so perfect and exhilarating and—

‘Evie!’

‘No,’ I told him flatly. ‘We ride back.’

I tied Button’s reins over a wooden post and ran my palm along the length of his neck. He gave me an affectionate snort.

‘My balls are killing me!’ Rob snapped, squatting and flapping the waistband of his shorts to try to generate a draugh