When we get back, David and Gigi have made up. That’s how it looks, anyway.

They’re down on the jetty with the photographer and Gigi’s posing, only it’s not a pose, it’s completely natural – whether she’s hugging one arm, or sitting on the jetty with her feet dangling in the water, or folded up thoughtfully with her chin resting on her knees; all of it is unconsciously elegant and somehow poetic in a way that touches me. Watching her, I try to analyse it and I imagine adopting the same position, but it’s a quality peculiar to her.

David’s wearing a fresh white shirt and pale trousers that show up his tan and he puts his arm around Gigi’s waist. Against the shimmering water they would have looked like the perfect couple, like every Instagram I’ve ever envied, if only Gigi hadn’t abruptly twisted away from him.

He’s not quite forgiven, obviously.

A windsurfer tacks across the water, its sail blazing red. I can hear ducks quacking and a swan puts in an appearance in the distance.

Gigi calls me down to join them and suddenly I’m part of the picture. We take our shoes off and dangle our feet in the cold water, disturbing the fish that are hiding in the shade.

Gigi looks across the lake. ‘Fern, do you fancy a swim?’

‘You can’t swim here,’ David says. ‘There’s all sorts of junk in it, it’s an old gravel pit.’

She points across the water. ‘Look! He’s swimming.’

‘He’s not swimming, he’s that windsurfer and he’s just fallen off.’

‘Fuck off, Dave. You’re so sensible, you know that?’ she says vehemently.

‘Hey, guys!’ We look up as Jenna and Ben come outside and lean on the barrier, arms around each other, all loved-up, making happy noises of appreciation while their children run around behind them.

‘We’ll have to do something this afternoon or we’ll go stir-crazy,’ Gigi says. ‘We could hire some canoes, couldn’t we?’

‘Sure,’ David replies.

I think about telling them that I ought to go home. It’s not exactly that I feel like a gatecrasher, but there are too many undercurrents.

You can’t tart up a relationship with nice clothes and hope that it’ll look fine. It’s what’s underneath that counts. I don’t know if that was just something that Max said to mess up my mind, but it hit a nerve. I know I like David too much for comfort and I can’t bear to see him get hurt. I’m losing control of my emotions.

A terrible thought hits me: You don’t just like him; you love him.

I have an urgent need to get away and think about things clearly, in my own time.