Marc hated the town but Sofia was always her happiest when we made the trip in and, besides, he needed to pick up his car. By the time Sofia had conceded and finally left the dance floor the night before, it had been late and Marc was far too drunk to drive. We had made the journey on foot and, naturally, Sofia had stumbled across ten new recruits to bring back to the villa who she assured us we would adore. Safe to say I remember none of their names. 

Watching her in the town, I could see why Sofia loved it so much - she had grown up speaking French and felt at home here. The difference between Marc and her was that Sofia's parents, like mine, had not been born into money and as a result, she had a way of communicating with people that was alien to him. A sense of understanding of the everyday struggles that they had endured. I loved her for it and I was distinctly aware that it was something Marc could never understand.

Marc and I hung back talking like we used to, discussing jazz and the war and what we supposed Eisenhower was going to do about it, pretending all the while that things were as they used to be and that we weren't both desperately in love with the same girl. 

I longed for Sofia to give me something - some sign that she remembered the sentiments we had expressed the night before. Nothing came. 

‘This is the one,' she said, pointing to a tiny café on the corner.