on the lawn, everyone aware that it was slightly too early to start drinking and not quite willing to be the first to do it anyway. Detaching herself like the man with no name at the end of a Western, Anvita wandered off and sat down under a tree, staring moodily over the grounds.
“She’s having a bit of a time, ain’t she?” said Harry.
Nora made the sort of noise your gran makes when you fall over and scrape your knee. “Poor dear. It’s tough for you young things. She’ll be okay, though. Most people are.”
“I’m sure she will,” offered Rosaline. “But if the way she’s feeling now is anything like I was feeling last week, then it super sucks.”
Alain’s hands landed gently on Rosaline’s shoulders, and she half turned so he could whisper in her ear. “I’m quite disappointed as well. I think I might need to head back to the Lodge and spend some quality time with my recipes.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t entirely sure what Alain had to be disappointed about given that he’d done about as well as her and significantly better than Anvita. “Um, okay?”
“I’ll see you later?” Without waiting for a reply, he strode off—his long legs carrying him swiftly across the lawn and away.
“I think,” announced Nora, “I’m going to take advantage of this lovely afternoon to sit on a bench with a glass of lemonade and finish my book. The Greek billionaire has just offered the virgin cellist a very saucy proposal, so I think we’re about to get to the good bits.”
While Rosaline was still processing this, Harry asked, “How many of them books you read, anyway?”
“About one a week for the last fifty years.”
Rosaline couldn’t quite help doing the maths. “That’s two and a half thousand books.”
“Yes, my husband’s forever making bookshelves. I should probably give them to charity, but it’s a collection now.”
“Well”—Harry gave an easygoing shrug—“don’t let us keep you from your billionaire.”
Nora grinned. “Wild horses couldn’t. You certainly can’t.”
That left Harry and Rosaline alone in front of the hotel, watching Anvita being sad at a distance.
“It’s a bit weird having all this time, init?” remarked Harry. “I feel like I should do something about Anvita, but I reckon I’ll bollocks it up.”
“I’m sure she’ll be glad to know we care.”
“I’d probably say one of them things that’s not allowed anymore like, Cheer up, love, it might never happen.”
“Why don’t we,” suggested Rosaline, on the assumption that Harry was probably right and Anvita would prefer a differently phrased encouragement, “ask if she wants to come to the village with us?”
“Yeah. All right. Why don’t you do that, and I’ll . . . kinda stand next to you.”
She gave him a confused look. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
“Nah, I’ll come. It’s just I don’t want her to think I’m trying to pull her.”
“Well, she won’t?”
“I know. I just . . . I have the worry.”
“You mean”—she smiled up at him—“that she’ll think you’re an utter ballsack?”
“Yeah.”
“Fair enough.” She set off towards Anvita’s Sad Tree of Sadness. “I’ll be a ballsack for both of us.”
Harry’s arm nudged gently against hers. “Mate, the things you say.”
“It was your ballsack originally. I just made use of it.”
“I really would like us to stop talking about my ballsack if we could.”
“Why,” asked Anvita, who they suddenly realised was now within earshot, “are you talking about Harry’s ballsack?”
Rosaline sat down on the grass next to her. “We were wondering if you wanted to come to the village with us.”
“That doesn’t answer the ballsack question.”
This was probably a sign that Anvita was feeling better. “You’d almost think it was a deliberate choice.”
There was a pause. “Is this a ‘pity’ let’s go to the village?”
“It’s a We finished a bit early, I thought it might be nice, and you’ve had a bad day let’s go to the village.”
Anvita sighed. “I knew I was going to fuck up patisserie. I mean, who thinks, I’ve got some people coming over this weekend. I know what’ll be nice, I’ll make twenty-eight mille-feuille and a croquembouche?”
“You’ve still got tomorrow, though, ain’t you?” said Harry. “It’s just a big cake with biscuits on it.”
Anvita made a visible, though not totally successful, effort to be cheered.
“How about,” suggested Rosaline, “we discuss how much we will or won’t fuck up tomorrow on the way to the village?”
Climbing to her feet, Anvita dusted the grass off her jeans. “What’s with you and the village? Do they have, like, an orgasm museum or