'I've got something delicious for you to munch on,' he says. 'It's very high in protein. Good for the skin, too.'

I pause. That's normally the kind of absurdly obscene comment that would make me giggle. But I can't. Fear has sucked the giggles out of me.

'Oh, alright, I suppose we should eat before we eat,' he grumbles. 'See you at Odette's in half an hour?'

'Make it an hour,' I say. I need time to prepare, physically and mentally.

'Ah, the elusive Miss Wood. It's a deal,' he says, and hangs up.

I can hardly eat at dinner, or speak, but Dave doesn't seem to notice. He goes on and on about his day, and his latest deal, and tells me I look gorgeous. I'm trying to keep my end of the conversation up, but I feel like a moth pinned to one of those Victorian wall-hangings. Fluttering with panic and unable to move.

'I saw Bella today,' he says, towards the end of our meal, as he pours me another glass of wine. At least I can still drink.

'Really?' I choke out, staring into my glass so I can avoid eye contact. 'How is she?'

'Great, fine,' he says. 'She was in London for a work thing, wanted to catch up. After a free lunch, I expect. She's a bit embarrassed about being such a bitch in France, wanted to apologise. She and Ollie were having problems.'

'Are she and Ollie OK now?' I ask.

'Fine,' says Dave dismissively. He's not interested in other people's relationships, he's told me that before. 'If you'll excuse me, angel, I have to use the what is it you always say?'

'The euphemism,' I murmur.

'And then I'm taking you home and I want you naked within minutes, if not seconds. Got that? You're looking ridiculously delectable tonight.'

The moment he's gone I nearly collapse with relief. They really were just having lunch! Nothing more! And he told me about it! He wouldn't do that if he had anything to hide! Thank fuck.

I'm overwhelmed with adoration and relief. He is honest. He adores me and wants me. Not Bella.

Dave's iPhone is, as ever, face-up on the table, and it buzzes with a text.

I glance down at it.

You can read texts on iPhones without opening them, and I can't help that I can read upside down from years of sitting across from people in meetings. So I'm really not snooping. The second I read it, I wish I hadn't. The text is from Bella.

Ha, enjoy. Am home safe. B I'm frozen, staring at the text, till it disappears from the screen. It's obviously a response to a text he sent her. Enjoy? Enjoy what? Dinner with me? Why the 'ha'? It sounds sarcastic, doesn't it?

Stop thinking about it, Abigail, goddammit, you crazy fool. You're overreacting again.

A little wispy curl of insecurity winds itself around my chest and settles.

Dave returns and, before sitting down, leans over to kiss me. Our eyes meet as he pulls away and with a little grin, he puts his hand out to tweak my ear. I smile at him and remind myself that he wouldn't be here if he didn't want to be with me. He wants me, not Bella. Me.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

'This has been the slowest Christmas ever,' I say. 'Ever.'

'I know,' says Plum.

It's December 30th. I've been in France for almost a week. Sophie left on Boxing Day to join Luke at his parents' house in Bath, so it's just me and my parents.

I'm lying on my bed the bed that Dave and I were deliciously filthy in all those weeks ago with my legs propped up against the walls. The shutters are half open, revealing a very dark grey sky. Plum's at her parents' house in Yorkshire.

'I am so over my family,' she says. 'If I have to go carolling one more time . . .'

Plum's family Christmases are very traditional. Carolling, church and long freezing walks. The only tradition we have is watching Annie on Christmas Day after lunch, with my parents singing along.

'ABIGAIL!' bellows my father from the kitchen downstairs, making me jump. No one bellows like my Dad.

'Oh my God, this is like being six again,' I murmur to Plum. 'Yes?' I call down sweetly.

'There you are. I thought you were lost. Would you care for some soup?'

'It's four o'clock in the afternoon, Daddy,' I call.

'I know. But I thought it might be nice.'

'No, thank you.' I shut my bedroom door. 'That's the eighteenth time one of them has yelled for me today.'

'Maybe you're not spending quality time,' says Plum.

'I eat every meal with them, I go to the market with them, we watch movies together, I mean, unless they want to chat to me when I'm weeing.'

'When are you seeing Dave?'

'ABIGAIL!' There's another bellow from the kitchen.

'I'd better go,' I say, sighing. I don't want to answer the Dave question.

'I can't wait to see Dan,' says Plum, ignoring me. 'Did I tell you that he surprised me by wrapping Christmas lights around his willy and singing "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" to me?'

'You did,' I say.

'Are you OK? You don't quite sound yourself,' says Plum.

'Fine, I'm fine, I've just got cabin fever,' I say quickly. The truth is that no matter how much I remind myself that Dave said he wanted to be with me, the insecurity curl won't release its hold around my chest. And it's all because of Bella and that text. It makes it hard to concentrate on anything else . . . I feel very unsettled.

He hasn't called me since I got here. But he does send two or three funny/filthy texts a day, all signed off with an 'x'. Which he didn't used to do. That's good, right? My uneasy longing for reassurance is so severe that when he finally texts, it's like a reprieve from someone hitting me in the face. The relief lasts seconds. Then the chewing, restless worry starts again.

'No problem. You're back tomorrow, right? Are you seeing Dave right away?'

'Uh, no,' I say. Dave hasn't told me when he's back in London, and because I don't want to be needy, I haven't asked. Text-terrogations and all that. 'You?'

'Dan is coming over tonight for dinner to meet my parents and then we're driving back to London together,' she says. 'I've got to go and wrap his presents, actually. Then we're flying to Geneva tomorrow night for the ski trip.'

'Meeting the parents! Good luck,' I say. I cannot imagine Dave meeting my parents. And I don't have a present for him either as all he said about the subject was 'I don't do presents, but I promise to slip you a little Christmas cheer'.

'Alright, darling. Miss you like cock!'

'Miss you too. I'll call you tonight.'

This holiday has been endless. Plum and I have slipped back into talking three times a day, like teenagers. And I haven't thought about my career doubts, and the job offer in Hong Kong, and what I'll do next. I haven't told anyone in my family about it either. They'd just get carried away and that would make it even harder to think clearly.

'ABIGAAAAIL!'

God, it's irritating to be shouted at every 20 seconds. I walk down the stairs, automatically checking my phone and email on the way. Dave hasn't been in touch today, which I think might be why I'm feeling particularly feverish.

'ABI- '

'I'm here,' I say quietly. Dad is standing in the kitchen, saucepan of soup bubbling on the stove, staring at the open fridge with his hands folded thoughtfully over his chest. It's the same stance he uses to watch cricket.

'Oh! Darling. Good. I'm doing the fridge, and I thought you might like to be my little helper.'

When I was five, 'doing the fridge' with Dad was my favourite activity, simply because we almost always found chocolate stashed behind some eggs or something, and we'd share it, giggle furtively and Not Tell Mummy. Now that I'm almost 28 and have my own fridge and chocolates, it's less exciting. But I can't say that as it'll hurt his feelings.

'I'd love to,' I say as enthusiastically as I can.

'So, bub, tell me about your plans for New Year's Eve,' he says a few minutes later, when we're rubber-gloved and ready to go. He starts handing me the milk and juices ('Door first! Then top to bottom!') and I stack them symmetrically on the bench.

'Um, I'm not sure yet,' I say honestly.

'Your first New Year as a single girl, not to mention your birthday on New Year's Day, you should be out on the town,' says Dad. 'Fun. It's all about having fun.'

God, he sounds like Robert. 'Well, Plum's with her boyfriend, and Henry is at home in the Cotswolds with Charlotte, did I tell you about her? I introduced them and now they're in love. I don't really know what the rest of the uni crowd is up to, I've avoided them a bit since Peter and I broke up,' I'm auto-wittering to hide how distracted I'm feeling. 'I think Sophie and Luke are coming back to London. I guess my flatmate, Robert might be around.'

'Have you been seeing anyone, since, er, you know who?' asks Dad. Ah, he wants a daddy-daughter heart-to-heart. He always likes doing these over a project. When I was here last summer, just before I broke up with Peter and was mute with anticipatory worry, it took him three similar daddy-daughter projects to get me to talk about it. When I finally did, however, I felt so disloyal to Peter that I could hardly say a thing. I just cried. So then Dad took me to the huge supermarket in Beziers and we looked at the hardware aisle together in silence. 'I have been dating,' I say. 'It's fun. I am very glad I broke up with Peter, put it that way.'

'Good,' he says. 'Anyone in particular?'

'Nope,' I lie. I don't want to talk about Dave. They'll wonder why I haven't mentioned him till now, and why he hasn't called, and why I didn't open a present from him on Christmas Day. I wonder if he's found out it's my birthday on New Year's Day . . . Oh God, I am tired of thinking. 'You know. Taking it casual.'

'There's no hurry. I hope you don't feel pressured to meet someone because of Mrs Mop getting married.'

Mrs Mop is Dad's pet name for Sophie. I am Mrs Waterbucket. They've been our nicknames forever, for reasons unknown.

Dad starts handing me the pickles and chutneys from the top shelf of the fridge. Condiments always seemed to me to be an extraordinarily grown-up thing to have in a fridge, don't you think? I used to have loads of chutney-type things when I lived with Peter. Such a different life.

'Earth to Abigail,' says Dad. 'I asked if you'd met anyone particularly nice.'

'Sorry!' I say. 'Mind wandering again.'

'You've always been the same, carrying on entire conversations in your head and exhausting yourself. I think it's the reason you didn't speak till you were three.'

'Till I was three?!'

'Well,' he says, his voice muffled from deep inside the fridge, as he passes me jars of anchovy paste and mussels. I've never seen a fridge so full of non-food food. 'You were always the slowest to do anything, because you thought about it so much first. But then when you actually tried, you were brilliant. Like when you finally started talking, you spoke in full sentences. None of this mama-dada-baba rubbish for you. So I'm sure it's the same with, you know, love.'

'But learning to talk is a bit different from love.'

'Take your time,' he says. 'It sounds ridiculous, but when you find the right person you'll just know. It'll all be very easy.'

'Really?' I say doubtfully.

'Everyone says it, but it's true.' The fridge is empty now. 'Right. Now we wash the shelves.'

Dad is so happy when he's got both sinks full of hot water, splashing soapy bubbles everywhere. He's like a big duck. It drives my mother nuts. On cue, the front door bangs, and my mother walks in. She's been out gossiping with the neighbours, judging by the gleeful look on her face.

'Hands up who wants to watch Grease tonight? I just borrowed it from Virginia and Rod up the road!' says Mum excitedly. Sometimes she says things in an eager voice in an attempt to get Sophie and I keyed up about things. I think it worked when we were small.

'Yes please,' I say. 'Sounds great.'

Mum cocks her head to one side and looks up at me. She's a good five inches shorter than either Sophie or I, though she thinks she's very tall. ('I based my whole personality on being tall, I can't change now,' she said once, when Sophie and I confronted her about it.) She also has the ability to pick some-one's mood based on the way they're holding their drink.

'Are you alright? You look tired. Are you tired?'

'I'm fine,' I say to the fridge so she can't look at my eyes and see that I'm lying.

'You've been out of sorts ever since you arrived. Have you twosied today?'

'Everything's smashing in that department, thanks, Mum,' I say, giving her the double thumbs up. 'I don't think "twosie" is a verb, though.'

'Thank you, smartypants,' Mum pretends to smack me, but I jump away.

Dad is now standing in front of the fridge, inspecting every corner. 'I think we can probably improve the system, you know, make it more intuitive, streamlined . . .'

'Yep,' I say, trying to give the fridge the attention Dad feels it deserves.

'Vegetables and fruit at the bottom, obviously, and then meat next, and then and now, this is a bit controversial, but stay with me the yoghurt and cheeses on the middle shelf, because statistically, I think we reach for them most often.' Dad is beaming with pride. 'Right? And then condiments and mustards and mayo at the top back, jams at the front for brekkers, and voila. A perfect fridge!'

'Yay!' cheer Mum and I, as applause is clearly required.

When we're done, I kiss him on the cheek and head back upstairs. My mind is an intense whirlpool of half-thoughts and half-worries. I take out my notebook, open it to a new page, and write down what Dad just said.

When you find the right person you'll just know.

What a singularly irritating statement.

I start drawing little curls around the sentence.

I wonder if I 'just know' with Dave. I might, you know. I've never felt that crash-bang attraction before. I tremble whenever he is near me, or looking at me, or at the same table as me . . . And when he kisses me, my brain goes into a total arrest.