Jeremy and I have made up.

For the past fifteen years I've spent a good part of each summer in the south of France. While making arrangements for this year's trip I began to reflect on how these annual sojourns have evolved. I arrived in Nice by train one sweltering July day having left my flat in Paris with the intention of being gloriously idle for a couple of months. I had packed in my small valise only the barest essentials- swimsuits and a few shirts, and had with me nothing more formal than my travelling outfit which consisted of cut-off jean shorts, a white linen shirt and suede Gucci loafers. By chance I happened upon a small family-owned hotel that seemed to evoke a primitive charm. Although it lacked many conveniences it was centrally located and extremely cheap. So there I stayed. For six weeks. I made many friendships that first summer and they have endured. I also fell in love with the Nicois. They stretched out their arms to me and led me through the maze of their history, customs and cuisine. They took me for weekends at Cap d'Antibes, and nights in Monaco; on drives along the Corniche to beaches, chateaux, and village after village drenched in beauty.

I was timid about speaking French. By that time I had been living in Paris for nearly a year but I'd never really used the language. In that city it is quite easy to get by on just a few phrases. In Nice, however, only the tourists and establishments that catered to them spoke English. If I really wanted to know the region and the people I would have to penetrate their speech, wouldn't I? I needn't have worried. After a few tentative phrases, and the patient encouragement of those around me, I was able to string along sentences and even whole paragraphs. The French that I had unwittingly absorbed in Paris came pouring out with surprising fluency. I left Nice at summer's end buoyed by my experiences there, vowing to return.

Today I fly from New York in great comfort and taxi straight to that same hotel. Over the years the owners have prospered and the once gently fading building has been renovated and modernised; two more stars twinkle brightly next to the listing in hotel guide books. I can always depend on an exuberant welcome from the family and staff who run the place so well, no matter how popular the hotel has become. But my stay here is only for a few days, time enough to renew and review. We raise a glass to Nice, and all of la Cote d'Azur, while we're at it. We gaze down a long road and remember humbler times.

I am a guest each summer at a friend's villa and so head off in my journey further south to a tiny village bordered on one side by the gulf and on the other a jolly port crowded with the yachts of the superrich. My host is a man who knows everyone and always manages to assemble an interesting and varied crowd. It is no longer a surprise to me to be greeted upon my arrival by a half-naked, slightly sunburnt, and decidedly drunk prince- the longtime friend of my host. Our party usually consists of a few celebrated giants, often without their significant others; one or two notorious characters anxious to denounce or promote their latest front page scandal; and a few innocent bystanders (the group in which I plant myself firmly). There are, I think, a dozen or so guest rooms in the main house and four little cottages so there is always plenty of room. My usual and favourite room is low-ceilinged and square, dominated by an ancient carved four-poster bed. The balcony overlooks the shingled rooftops that dot the valley below.

Our days are spent simply though somewhat hedonistically, sprawled around the pool, our every desire catered to by the household staff, or along the golden stretches of exquisite beach. In the evenings in groups small or large we might head into the village centre- a convoy of sleek sportscars blazing over cobbled roads. The shops and restaurants and discotheques seem to exist only for the likes of us- the 'summer ones' (we can't really be called tourists) often engaging the world's greatest chefs and deejays. What a group we are. Photographs show us as a bronzed and expensively-dressed, multi-national, long-limbed gaggle of gazelles. Some of us are incredibly beautiful. Some of us are world-weary and a bit jaded. Together we unite, a world clique of champagne drinkers.

Some things never change however, and I know that at one point I shall leave the sybaritic life of the villa and go off on my own for a day or a week. There are other friends to see in the neighbouring villages. There is the scent of bougainvillea to inhale in deep draughts, and sunsets to contemplate. There is a world of wonder and love and adventure round every corner.

My Love,
For you were then and still remain. What joy I felt at seeing you again after so many years. What bliss to trip down our shared path of rosy youth. But my, how we've changed! I only hope I didn't prove too much of a disappointment to you.
I must thank you for that hour in the restaurant where you pointed out in love and compassion, one or two aspects of my nature that wanted improvement. I do not, it's true, share your need to announce my political beliefs on a t-shirt and I wish I had your spirit of humanity and could stop with the waiters to educate them on their workers' rights. I grant you that life as a vegetarian is an honourable one, replete with the vim of healthfulness and the pride of doing what is right, but I hope you understand that it can never be the life for me. I could also see that my cigarettes, though untouched in your presence offended you, as well as the glasses of wine that became ever more necessary as dinner played on. Your little nose would wrinkle at my every sip. I remembered how I once sighed at the gesture and would often kiss those wrinkles.
And now you've gone back to your life and left me mine. It may be another fifteen years before we see each other again but I will always have my memories. I will also have the emails you now send regularly entreating me to add my name to worthy petitions and to apprise me of new horrific legislation that must be overturned.
Farewell my love

Still seething over Jeremy's messages. I can't sleep. He tried to sound contrite today when he rang but then kept on demanding to know why I didn't show up, and where I went instead. Is it me? Should I just tell him I couldn't be bothered to go to yet another party? He just didn't seem to get it and our conversation ended with me saying that in my friendships there must be a mutual respect, and that since I don't speak to him in that manner he should not do so with me. Still not getting it. I finally said, "Listen Jeremy, don't ever leave messages like that on my phone again- I'll not have it". I fear I've made it worse.

Dear Jeremy,

I regret that I was unable to attend your 4th of July party last night, and hope that you and your guests had a lovely time, despite the fact that you apparently left their genial company in order to leave me the two incredibly immature and impolite messages I later discovered on my voicemail, which I should not have erased, oh no, I should have saved those little gems.

Shall I tell you a secret? Yours is not the first party I failed to make and by jove, it won't be the last either, but to be reprimanded at my age is frankly intolerable, not to mention bad form on your part. As a host of a large informal gathering it is indeed permissable to be disappointed when an invited guest goes AWOL, it is not permissable however, to phone that guest to inquire tersely, "Where the hell are you?" And it is downright insulting to phone again an hour later to chastise the no-show, "I can't believe this! I am so fucking pissed off, you have no idea!" Trust me, that is something better left unsaid. But I must ask you, what is it you have achieved by leaving those two messages? I imagine your other guests suffered neglect while you stepped into the other room to make those shouting calls, and in what state you returned I have no idea. You've also effectively killed any desire I ever had to attend any gathering of yours.

As it happens, one or two personal matters cropped up that warranted my immediate attention. By the way, that is an acceptable excuse for missing a party. Had your event been a dinner, even an informal one, your sentiment although certainly not your manner of expressing it, would have been justified. You'll probably ask what those personal matters were- you would. Friend or no, you must not ask that. And after those two messages you don't even deserve it.

Do you know what I would do if a guest failed to appear at a party I threw? I would tell him (when he would have phoned next day to offer his regrets and excuses) that he was missed, that we were disappointed but somehow managed to enjoy ourselves. As the plea of personal matters is untouchable I would not inquire further. Call me old-fashioned, but the most that I could do in this circumstance to signify my displeasure is to cross that person's name off any future guest lists. This is my advice, freely given- follow it and we should have no problems in future.

Cordially,
JHP

I suppose I am rather fortunate in that I have remained friends with almost all of my exes. Naturally over the years one or two minor jealousies have erupted like latent exzema, but nothing ever really serious. What is curious however, is that New York being the tiny town it is, these exes, a motley assortment from various nations and professions, often get to know each other and become friends themselves. When I lived in Milan (a brief period) I heard from one of them during our weekly telephone chat that at a recent New York dinner my name was on everyone's lips. Who would not be horrified at the thought of three former lovers sat round a table cooly sharing certain reminiscences over a nice Mersault? I relaxed when he went on to say that the talk was most favourable. I guess that's all right, slightly weird but tolerable, but I never imagined that I would one day feel the stirrings of anything like amity toward some new lover of theirs.

This one man in particular, he of the weekly chats ('Monsieur Ex' will suffice for our purposes), is probably the most dear to me. We met in NY in '97 and spent little more than a year together. The break-up was stormy with both of us eventually having to leave the city to escape the lingering memories of 'us-here-then' that seemed to haunt the streets and cling to the air. I washed up on the shores of Los Angeles, perhaps symbolically (or subconsiously) going in another direction and just sort of walked about aimlessly for six months while Monsieur Ex fled to his native Paris and stayed two years. But we weren't through. Another couple of years of criss-crossing the Atlantic was needed before we finally got each other out of our systems.

Today, both back in NY, we are simply good friends who have an unbreakable bond and have accepted that we will forever be in each others' lives. He has a new boyfriend and I, for one, am extremely pleased. Would you believe I actually like the guy? There were many reasons why I shouldn't. For instance, at our first meeting last year, by chance somewhere downtown, Mr. Ex and I were gleefully reuniting after a lapse of six months or so while Mr. New stood next to him, shiny and stiff and somewhat shy. He spoke very little and what he did say trickled out in the flat accents of the American South. We were introduced and I noticed he was wearing a grey wool sweater, a garment of mine long since forgotten and fitting him perfectly. Probably just picked it at random from the dresser of my ex- a dresser I helped him choose one fine August day. Now how would you feel?

Ah, but we all get on like old chums, we do. Summer house weekends, a night at the theatre- just the three of us (!), plans to meet during our holidays (them Spain, me France, and together Italy) and tonight a cozy dinner at home. His (theirs ?). My sister thinks it's all a bit strange, but what can I say, it feels right.