The Road Trip: The heart-warming new novel from the author of The Flatshare and The Switch Beth O'Leary (ready to read books .TXT) 📖

drink and down the rest in one while Addie laughs. I know what this beautiful village is for, now: it was built all those hundreds of years ago for this moment, the moment when Addie slips her sandals on and walks ahead of me to the car, hips swaying with promise.

I defy anyone to drive better than me in these conditions.

Addie slips her dress down one shoulder, then the other. I would say my eyes are on the road approximately twenty per cent of the time, and I’ve just remembered about all the wine I drank at lunchtime, but – oh, no, I’ve forgotten about it again because Addie has dropped her dress to her waist and I’m fixated at the sight of all that creamy pale skin. Her bikini is dark orange, two minuscule triangles, a few strings tied at the back of her neck, and her eyes are wicked and wide, mouth open in a laughing smile.

My throat is extremely dry; for a fleeting moment I wish Marcus could see this, a girl stripping in the passenger seat as I speed down a narrow French road with the sun in my eyes, then she touches my leg and I forget Marcus altogether. I am driving extremely dangerously, but quite frankly this would be the best possible way to go.

By the time we pull into the entrance to Villa Cerise I am so turned on I’m shaking. I turn to Addie and meet the heat of her gaze square-on, and there’s that teasing edge there, like a challenge, but there’s a little vulnerability too. Her creamy skin has goosebumped in the cool breeze of the air con; I can see her nipples beneath the thin fabric of her bikini top. My breath is coming fast. I hardly know where to start. Her eyes move to my lips – then, at a sound outside the car, she glances to the window.

I’m just mustering the courage to place a hand on the bare skin of her thigh when she says,

‘That’s not Deb’s car.’

I pause with my hand over the gearstick and follow her gaze to the rental car now parked under the plane trees outside the villa. I stare at it blankly. It’s not registering. Car, yes, I see that, but why could it possibly matter more than kissing Addie right this very moment?

‘Are you expecting someone?’ she asks.

I let out an involuntary little moan of despair as she reaches to pull her dress back up, then try to disguise it as a manly clearing of the throat.

‘Uh, no.’ Reluctantly I return my gaze to the other car and try to slow my breathing. Is it – my stomach drops, blood pounding – but no, it’s not my father. I recognise the jacket slung over the back of the bench at the front of the house, facing out towards the fountains and the valley beyond. It’s brown leather, Gucci, and my uncle Terence has worn it almost every day for all twenty-two years of my life.

‘For fuck’s sake.’ I kill the engine and press my forehead against the steering wheel.

‘What?’

‘Uncle Terry.’

‘Your uncle is here?’

‘He was supposed to come. Before the familial dispute.’

I straighten up, close my eyes for a moment, and then open the car door.

‘Dylan, my boy!’ roars a voice from the terrace. ‘I was beginning to think you’d absconded! O-ho, who’s this beautiful young lady? Where did you find her?’

Well, that’s done the trick. There is no greater turn-off in this world than my uncle Terence.

‘Hello, Terry,’ I say wearily. ‘This is Addie. She works at Villa Cerise.’

‘Hi,’ Addie says, waving up at Terry. ‘Anything I can get you, sir?’

I look askance at her. She’s wearing a new expression, a strange, plastic smile. This is her speaking-to-clients face – I’m pleased to see how different it is from the slow, wicked grin she gave me within moments of us meeting.

‘Dinner! Do you do dinner?’ Terry asks.

I cringe. ‘Addie isn’t . . .’

‘Absolutely,’ Addie says smoothly. She adjusts her dress a little higher at the neck. ‘I can request a chef for you – there are some fantastic local ones, I’ll fetch you the list.’

I watch her go. Her hips aren’t swaying now. I am desperate with longing.

‘Pretty, that one,’ Terry calls down to me. ‘But I expect you’re still smitten with the blonde from Atlanta?’

I cringe again as Addie pauses in the doorway to the kitchen for a moment, one hand on the stone wall. Terry is out of date in all senses – that jacket of his hasn’t looked good since the nineties, and Michele from Atlanta hasn’t been on the scene since Michaelmas term of third year, for Christ’s sake.

‘What are you doing here, Uncle Terry?’

‘I heard on the grapevine that you’d decided to go ahead with the family holiday!’ He grins down at me. ‘Three weeks of sun and wine with my favourite nephew? And none of the rest of the rabble? How could I pass that up? Come on up here, boy, let’s open a bottle to celebrate.’

I drag my feet up the steps and across to the terrace. The pool lies at one edge, glinting pale blue; beyond the water, the vineyards look hyper-real under the sun’s glare.

Terry slaps me on the back. His receding hairline has retreated so far now that he just sports a small patch above the forehead and one of those around-the-ears styles that monks used to favour in medieval times.

‘Good to see you, Dylan.’

I grit my teeth. ‘You too, Terry.’

My family. They’re like a bad cold I can’t shake, a dreadful pop song I can’t stop singing. How do I get rid of them?

And, more immediately: how do I get rid of Uncle Terry?

NOW

Addie

The sun’s properly up now, starbursting on the windscreen, making me squint even with my sunglasses on. The road ahead looks kind of dusty through it, like everything needs a wipe.

Dylan hasn’t said a word for over half an