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‘This is us,’ he says, pointing towards the one at the far end.
The cabin is built on stilts, so we have to climb up stairs to get to the front door. There’s a basic wooden balcony overlooking the sea, and a driftwood sign propped against the door that reads: ‘Écréhous Rules: Take only photos, leave only footprints.’ Jasper shows me around inside; there’s one main room with a gas-powered stove and fridge, a small kitchen table, and two green checked sofas around a driftwood coffee table. Upstairs in the eaves are two small bedrooms. There’s no log fire, but there is a wood burner. It’s rustic and charming, and I fall instantly in love with the place.
‘No running water or flushing loos, just a compost toilet around the back,’ Jasper says.
OK, maybe I’m not entirely in love with it. The words ‘compost’ and ‘toilet’ are not great first date words.
‘My grandfather built this place from scratch,’ Jasper explains. ‘Everything you see had to be brought out on a boat.’
‘I can see why you love it,’ I say.
‘Worth the effort of getting here then?’ he says with a wink.
‘Definitely.’
Jasper opens the cool box, unpacking all sorts of posh pâtés, sourdough biscuits in a rainbow of rustic hues, and a bottle of rosé. I’m impressed Jasper knows how to put together a decent picnic. I once went on a picnic date in Hyde Park and the guy brought a multi-pack of Monster Munch and six cans of lager.
Jasper opens a bag of truffle crisps and offers some to me. As I reach my hand in, he pretends to snap the bag shut, like a crocodile. I jump in surprise and then laugh. We look at each other and grin. I feel a glow of contentment. I’m genuinely enjoying myself, and I haven’t thought about Ted’s newly shaven face for at least five minutes.
I don’t even know why I’m thinking about Ted’s face at all. I mean, sure, he’s super-hot now, and he’s really lovely, and he isn’t fifty as I’d first assumed, but that shouldn’t make a difference. He’s still too old for me, still technically married, his life sounds immensely complicated, and he doesn’t even like Phil Collins. Plus, he made it pretty clear last night that he still loves his wife and he’s not in the market for anything like that. Then I have to stop thinking about not thinking about Ted, because it’s reminding me of the letter from Belinda sitting guiltily in my handbag. Why am I even having to rationalise this to myself? It’s ridiculous; I’m on a date with Jasper, perfect Jasper who ticks all the boxes.
Jasper pulls two sun loungers out onto the deck of the cabin and on a table between us lays out all the food he’s brought.
‘So, do you bring all your dates out here?’ I ask.
‘Hardly,’ Jasper says, wrinkling his nose. ‘I rarely meet anyone I want to meet for a drink, let alone bring to my favourite place.’
‘Well, aren’t I the lucky one,’ I say, and part of me feels like I’m reading lines from some flirtatious play.
‘A lot of people our age move away from the island,’ Jasper says. ‘Of the girls who are left, I went to school with most of them, and the rest I’m related to. Small pond.’
‘And you’re a big fish, are you?’ I say, pushing my tongue into my cheek.
Jasper reaches out to take my hand in his.
‘Well, I’m not a small fish,’ he says, raising his eyebrows up and down suggestively, and I can’t help but laugh. ‘Right, Laura, are you going to confess what this real cabin fantasy of yours is, or am I going to have to wrestle it out of you?’
