Page 113 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘That’s what she told me.’ Buzzing the intercom, Flick leaned out of the window. ‘Hi, Flea . . . yeah, it’s me, Flick . . .’

As the gates silently opened, revealing a sweeping driveway lined with olive trees, bougainvillea and droves of French lavender, they entered the kind of sprawling estate you see when you’re flicking through glossy magazines at the hairdresser’s with your hair in tinfoil. The ones featuring beautiful women in designer clothes artfully posed on chaise longues, while you slump in your chair underneath a monstrous black cape.

‘This doesn’t look like any farmhouse I’ve ever seen.’

Thinking of the farm back in Yorkshire where she’d been living in the caravan, with its muddy fields, leaking barns and piles of cow shit, Maggie gave a low whistle.

‘This is amazing.’

As they neared the bottom of the driveway, they heard trance music playing from the outside speakers. A skinny blonde girl in a bikini was waiting to welcome them, arms flung out, waving excitedly, like one of those inflatable advertising air dancers you get outside car dealerships.

‘You’re here! This is SO awesome, I haven’t seen you since graduation! And welcome to your friend!’

Throwing her arms around them both as they climbed out of the taxi, she led them through the enormous house, quickly doing introductions to all the other guests while Flick said hello to some people she knew from uni and Maggie tried to remember all their names.

‘This is Jasper and Pelly . . .’

Identical twin brothers with identical beaded necklaces looked up from grazing at the kitchen island to nonchalantly wave hello.

‘Fabio . . .’

Over by the diving board. Tiny trunks. Less budgie smuggler, more Avert Your Eyes.

‘Hattie, Panda, Toots, Kitty, Tigs, Topsy . . .’

They were lazing around the pool in various poses, looking like they’d just come in from a club, which they probably had. It was like Saltburn meets the characters of Beatrix Potter. Though the Tale of Gen Z on Their Phones Smoking Spliffs didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

‘Daddy . . .’

Maggie wondered if she’d misheard. Surely she meant Granddaddy? Snoozing in a hammock, he looked like Father Christmas. That’s if Santa wore a batik sarong and drank too much rosé in the sun.

‘Cousin Haz.’

Red trousers. Signet ring. Socks and sandals. Financial Times.

‘I’ll introduce you to Mummy later – she’s gone sailing to Es Vedrà, but she’ll be back this evening for her drumming circle.’

‘Wow, you’ve got so many people staying,’ said Flick, who hadn’t quite realized just how rich Flea really was and was feeling a little intimidated. Though she would rather die than show it. ‘Are you sure you have room?’

‘We’ve got ten bedrooms, but it’s a bit of a full house,’ laughed Flea, cheerfully. ‘But luckily we’ve got a couple of spare tents.’

Uh-oh. She should’ve known there had to be a catch.

‘Great!’ Flick smiled brightly and tried not to look at Maggie as they were led away from the house, past the saltwater swimming pool and into the orchard to be with the goats and chickens. It was like being in a game of social mobility snakes and ladders and they’d just slid down the ladder of the British class system.

‘So, you said on your DMs you’re out here working on a story? How exciting!’

‘Yes, we’re just here for the one night.’

‘Are you a journalist too?’

Flea turned to Maggie who was trailing behind, looking like she’d done ten rounds with Tyson Fury.

‘No, I’m—’

‘Oh! Don’t tell me! You’re undercover!’ Goggle-eyed, Flea turned back to Flick. ‘Is it a major scoop?’

‘Well, I’m not sure I’d call it that—’