One Perfect Summer

white walls and a lot of windows. The lights are off inside and it appears dark and unlived-in.
    ‘Whose house is this?’
    ‘A family friend’s,’ he tells me. ‘They’re not here.’
    ‘Where are they?’
    ‘The south of France.’
    ‘On holiday?’
    ‘No, this is their holiday house.’
    Some holiday house . . .
    ‘One of them, anyway,’ he adds flippantly.
    Oh. Glad we got that straight.
    He climbs out of the car and opens my door, helping me out. I look around. The house is surrounded by tall trees with auburn leaves, many of which have fallen and crunch under my heels as I walk towards the front door.
    ‘We’re not going inside,’ Lukas calls. He points to the stairs at the side of the house. I follow him with increasing interest.
    We climb the two flights to the roof, and there, on an enormous, flat terrace, is a table for two, set within dozens of flickering candles in large glass vases. Then I notice the view. It stretches across the orange, red and yellow treetops to the gently undulating fields beyond. The sun is just dipping below the horizon, its orange glow spreading across the dark-blue sky. Wow. Lukas hands me a flute full to the brim with sparkling champagne. I stare down at it, bemused. Where did he get this from? And then I turn to see that dinner is already laid out on the table underneath silver domes, together with a champagne bottle, chilling on ice.
    ‘How did you do all this?’ I ask with amazement.
    ‘I had some help,’ he admits, gently chinking my glass with his own. He takes a sip but doesn’t elaborate. I don’t want to spoil the mystique so I don’t ask him to. The bubbles tingle as they hit the back of my throat. Lukas motions towards the table.
    ‘Shall we?’
    He pulls my chair out for me, pushing it back in again as I sit down. I feel a little like a princess. I feel a little overawed, if truth be told. Warmth emanates from the outside heaters standing nearby.
    I follow Lukas’s lead and lift off the silver dome in front of me to see a smoked-salmon starter on my plate. It melts in my mouth. I look out to the west to see that the sunset has intensified.
    ‘We’re lucky with the weather,’ I comment, then want to kick myself for not finding something more interesting to say.
    ‘Yes.’ He smiles. I take a large gulp of champagne, which goes straight to my head.
    ‘I was going to say I feel overdressed for a picnic, but this isn’t your ordinary picnic, is it?’
    ‘You look incredible,’ he says, and I blush at his unexpected compliment. ‘And I don’t do ordinary,’ he adds.
    ‘I can see that.’
    He refills my glass and clears our plates. He opens a silver chafing dish on a nearby table and the smell of something delicious wafts out. He serves up and I look down to see a large, rosy-red lobster tail, drizzled with warm garlic butter. I help myself to new potatoes and vegetables.
    ‘This is amazing,’ I say.
    ‘I’m glad you like it.’
    ‘You knew that I would.’ I remember his earlier confidence.
    ‘I was slightly apprehensive about the seafood,’ he admits with a smile. ‘It can be a risk.’
    Aha! So he is human. I laugh. ‘True. Did you have an alternative?’
    ‘Take-away.’
    We smile at each other.
    ‘And dessert,’ he adds.
    ‘Ooh, what’s for dessert?’ I ask, unable to help myself.
    ‘Patience,’ he chides.
    By the time dessert comes around, the sun has long since set and there’s a clear, cloudless night sky above us, twinkling with stars.
    Our last course is indeed worth waiting for: a chocolate fondant, oozing chocolate from the middle, with cream. Lukas tops up my glass once more. I notice that he’s barely drinking, which is good, because he has to drive me home.
    ‘I can’t believe I’ve drunk over half a bottle of champagne,’ I say with a giggle. I’m feeling very tipsy now. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to drive.’
    ‘I don’t mind in the slightest,’ he says. ‘Let’s take our coffees over there.’
    He nods at a pile of oversized comfy cushions near the low wall at the back of the terrace. Hang on a minute. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to put out on the first date. A flurry of nerves passes through me, but I follow his suggestion while he goes to pour our coffees. He brings over two cups, and a small dish full of exquisite-looking truffles. I sit down on the soft cushions. It’s cooler away from the warmth of the outdoor heaters, even with my coat on. He passes me a blanket.
    ‘You’ve