'Aw, I love Italy. But France is better for driving, it has to be said.'

She's going to keep talking as if this hypothetical holiday is a possibility, as if they're not winding down to a final goodbye, and soon. She's going to smile, and drink in the sight of him brooding over his wine, and etch every line of his face into her memory. She can't remember the last time she saw him smile at her with genuine affection. What she wouldn't give to see him look at her like that again.

'You sure we couldn't get a convertible?'