Kerry Fisher - The Love Island - The laugh out loud romantic comedy you have to read this summer

Her calling him Mr Right brought out the devil in me.

‘I bet Xavi would be on Facebook. You could have a quick peek without him even knowing.’

‘Yes, I could, but I’m not going to. I’m very happy with my life, thank you. Let’s fill in the questionnaire about personality.’ Octavia immediately started laughing. ‘God, this is sophisticated. Tick the boxes that apply to you. ‘I like to converse at an intellectual level.’ Big fat tick. ‘I enjoy luxury.’ Huge double tick. ‘I get discouraged easily.’ Think that’s another tick.’

‘I don’t get discouraged easily.’

‘You do at the moment. At the New Year’s Eve party, you told me every time I spoke to you that you’d never meet anyone.’

‘Pardon me for being a bit depressed. I’d only left Scott six days before.’ No doubt Octavia would have led them all in the conga and a burst of the hokey-cokey.

Half a questionnaire later, with my imperfections glittering in cyberspace, I needed a break. ‘Come on. Let’s see if we can find Xavi.’

‘We’re supposed to be finding a man for you,’ Octavia said, but her protest was weak.

I shuffled her out of the way, logged on to Facebook through Alicia’s account, and typed in Xavier Santoni. No results.

‘He’s probably living in the Corsican mountains and working as a shepherd,’ I said, preparing to click back onto my dreaded dating profile.

Octavia put her hand on my arm, ‘Try just putting in Santoni – might bring up one of his rellies.’

I nudged her. ‘I thought you weren’t interested anyway.’

‘You’ve only got yourself to blame. You’re the one who’s let the genie out of the bottle. I’ve spent years telling myself “Step away from Google”.’

Forty-six results for Santoni. I scrolled down. She pointed to the screen.

‘Click on that one. I think that’s his cousin, Magali.’

I went into Magali’s photos. We stared at the pictures, trying to ascertain whether they were taken in Cocciu or not.

Octavia squinted at the screen. ‘That might be Xavi’s mother. Or maybe Xavi’s aunt. Ooh look, I bet that’s Magali’s daughter. She looks just like her. I think that’s his parents’ garden – I’m sure that’s the view down the hill, where we saw those wild boar with their babies when you came to visit me.’ Happy memories were lighting up her face in a way I rarely saw any more.

She then insisted on clicking on every Santoni who lived in Corsica, searching through their friends, looking into the crowds in party shots, peering at children for any resemblance to Xavi. I felt as though I’d taken a bit of fun and turned it into something desperate.

Eventually Octavia sighed. ‘He’s not there. Probably living in a yurt in Ulan Bator. Anyway, let’s stick to the task in hand.’ She pulled out her mobile phone to take my picture. She’d lost some of her playfulness. I knew I’d touched a nerve.

Xavi had been special in a way Jonathan wasn’t.

Xavi had such energy, approached life with such gusto. He was the perfect match for Octavia’s whirlwind of ideas, her zest for the zany. Though now I reflected on it, it was a long time since she’d made us wash our faces in the dew on the first of May for eternal youth, or read the Tarot cards. Little by little, her quirkiness had descended into something more pedestrian. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was having three kids and a demanding job. Maybe it was Jonathan. I hoped I wasn’t going to become one of those bitter women who saw faults in everyone’s marriage because my own had imploded. I pulled a face at the camera.

‘Stop it, or you’ll only get the boss-eyed axe murderers emailing you.’ Octavia was zooming in far too close for my liking.

‘I won’t date anyone, anyway.’

‘Of course you will. When they start telling you how gorgeous you are, how you look like a young Audrey Hepburn and that they’ve got a holiday home in Andalucia, a yacht in Antibes and by the way, you’re going for dinner at The Savoy, you’ll be dying to go out with them. Anyway, you’re not looking for a husband, just someone to go to the cinema with.’

‘I’ve got you for that.’ I nodded as Octavia showed me a photo that didn’t make my complexion look like a piece of ageing Stilton.

‘You’re not going to meet a bloke toddling off to the Odeon with me to watch a rom-com, are you?’

‘You sound more excited about this than me.’

‘If I was in your position, I’d go absolutely wild. Fill my boots. Shag myself silly. You might get married again in a few years’ time and be stuck with the same bloke for half a century.’

I heard something in Octavia’s tone that made me swing round to look at her.

Envy.

I had ignored the alumni newsletter from the Middleton School for Girls when it arrived before Christmas. I’d confounded everyone’s low expectations by getting good A-levels, but two decades later, I still resented my time there. The biggest lesson I’d learnt was that I was pretty crap at conforming. If it hadn’t been for my symbiotic relationship with Roberta – our uniting sense of humour, plus her need for a little rebellion and my need for someone who knew the system so I could work it to my advantage – I would probably have dropped out and gone to tech college instead.

So my enthusiasm when she rang to say she wanted to go to the school reunion was underwhelming. ‘Who do you want to see? Old Bristles Birtwistle for a quick Latin test? Penelope Watson for a quick rundown on Daddy’s new Bentley and Mummy’s latest steed? I can’t afford it, anyway.’

‘I don’t want to see anyone in particular. I’ve rung up and they said there are still a few last-minute tickets left. Might be a way of extending my social network away from all the friends I share with Scott. I’m finding sitting in every night quite tedious. Go on. I’ll pay. Pleee-aaase.’

‘I can’t let you pay. You’re already spending a fortune on that shoebox you’re living in.’ I still couldn’t understand why she’d chosen somewhere with a concierge, a lobby and water features, rather than useful features, like bedrooms and a garden.

‘Scott’s in a generous phase at the moment. He’s agreed to cover the rent till we can sort out the finances. He’s trying to keep me sweet so I don’t start claiming half the business, I think.’

‘And you’re going to roll over?’

Roberta sighed impatiently.

‘I just want a decent settlement so I can get on with my life. I’m not squandering thousands of pounds in lawyer’s fees trying to prove how much money Scott has got. I’ve no doubt the lion’s share will be in some obscure bank account on the other side of the world by now. Anyway, will you come with me?’

‘Christ. I hated that school. You were the only good thing to come out of it.’ Still, I was impressed that Roberta was thinking positive. And slightly ashamed that I was more inclined to go if it wasn’t my £35 I was wasting. Because, as Jonathan never missed the chance to point out, there was no money to burn.

‘You would never have set up a holistic nursery if the rigidity of school hadn’t scarred you for life. It’s your opportunity to go back and show them what you achieved.’ Never mind interior design, Roberta should have carved out a career as a hostage negotiator.

‘True. Though that’s a perverse way to be thankful for years of detentions and lectures on being responsible,’ I said.

‘You did leave school over twenty years ago.’

I hesitated, knowing that I was going to give in. Anything to keep Roberta from going back to Scott. ‘OK, then. I’m going to regret this.’

Once I’d agreed to go, I brushed away any discussion or plans. Thinking about any of them – teachers or pupils – reminded me how stifled I’d felt through all my teenage years. Roberta saw my household as liberal compared with her dad’s strict rules of staying at the table until everyone had finished breakfast and not coming downstairs in your nightie. She loved learning how to dressmake with my mum or watching TV in our dressing gowns all day, legs dangling over the arm of the settee.