The first thing we do after getting to our holiday home is allocate bedrooms. Three couples, three double rooms; all lovely, light and well-furnished…but only one of them has a chaise longue. That’ll be ours then.
“You’d better believe I’m getting drawn like one of your French girls,” I say (and tweet).
The chaise longue is next to a window, facing east. In the mornings it’ll be flooded with sunlight, and I think about how that’ll feel on my skin when I’m stretched out naked, a cool breeze drifting over me.
But this isn’t really that kind of holiday. Mornings are spent running round after small children, or sleeping off the previous night’s indulgences, while in the afternoons we’re always bundling into cars and heading off to the beach or the mountains, or just to the nearest adventure playground.
The last day comes far too quickly. We pack up the cars, then sweep the house for any missing socks or forgotten toys. I dash through our bedroom, then stop suddenly. The light is perfect: cartoon clouds floating across a cerulean sky, with broad sun shafts piercing the window and landing like arrows on the chaise longue’s seat.
Do we have time? I think we have time! I shimmy out of my clothes and call for Liv. Drawing me is out of the question, but a quick photo or two? That feels like a pretty decent substitute. A modern version of Jack’s French girls, I guess. And the perfect end to an absolutely perfect week.
