By morning, the headache had eased a little and the queasiness was gone, but I still felt hot. And cold. I reached for the mirror on the bedside table and stuck my tongue out to peer at it, but all it told me was that I had no idea why people did that.

I lay inert, staring at the ceiling. The lining paper had a fault and there was a ridge right down the middle of the room. I was surprised I’d never noticed it before.

When my internal caffeine alarm jangled at my nerves, I toddled blearily through to the kitchen, rejecting coffee in case my stomach rebelled and settling for tea instead. Back in bed, I sat with my knees pulled up to my chest and checked my phone for texts and e-mails.

There was no reply from Nathan... But there was an e-mail from Alain. I almost spilled my tea.

I closed my eyes. It was hard not to be influenced by the knowledge that Alain was so keen on a relationship – but if I went to France, it had to be because I wanted to experience life in a new country, take up new challenges, make new friends... Not because there was a delicious half-Frenchman keen to help me settle in.

Idly flicking back to the photos Rupert sent me for the website, I stared at one taken from the bottom of the garden looking back towards the house. Knowledge of what lay behind each blue-shuttered window in its handsome façade was imprinted on my brain, the plants and shrubs in the foreground still so familiar. It was probably only the lack of proper food over the past twenty-four hours, but suddenly I felt light-headed, as though I was being drawn down a tunnel into a 3D memory of sights and sounds and smells and sensations. They felt so good. So right.

When the doorbell interrupted this psychedelic experience, I ignored it, but it kept on sounding at twenty-second intervals until I crawled out of bed, pulled on my robe and dragged myself to the door.

Mum and Dad. Great.

Mum pushed her way inside. ‘Why didn’t you answer? Were you still asleep? You look awful. Are you poorly?’

I nodded.

She put a hand on my brow and frowned. ‘Hmm. Hot. What else?’

Meekly, I listed my symptoms.

‘Right. Dennis. Sofa,’ she commanded before storming off to the kitchen.

Dad dutifully plunked me on the sofa, propped my head with cushions, fetched the duvet from the bedroom and covered me up like a five-year-old, while Mum bustled back in with mugs of tea and a pot of out-of-date vitamins she’d found at the back of a cupboard.

‘You’re run down, Emmy,’ she declared with a mother’s conviction. ‘You’re tired and you haven’t been eating properly. It’s not surprising you’re coming down with something.’

I marvelled at the way she could sound so sympathetic and so cross with me at the same time.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, warming my hands on the mug she handed me. ‘Why are you here? You can’t tell me you knew I was ill.’

‘We’re on the way to Aunt Jeanie’s for Sunday lunch,’ Dad put in. ‘Your mother wanted to see if you were alright.’

I plastered on a smile. ‘I’m fine.’ To distract Mum from fussing over me, I told them about Nathan’s visit.

‘To think he had the nerve to waltz in like that!’ Mum declared when I’d finished.

Dad set his empty mug down on the coffee table. ‘But unfortunately, he has every right.’

Mum gasped at her husband’s perfidy. ‘Dennis, how can you say that? He left our daughter for another woman. He moved to London, for God’s sake!’

Dad laid a hand on her arm to shush her. ‘We’re not talking about morals here, Flo, or Nathan’s lack of them. We’re talking about legality. The fact is, the flat and mortgage are in joint names.’ He turned to me. ‘Did you speak to him about that?’

I shook my head. ‘We were too busy yelling at each other. I e-mailed him yesterday about renting the flat out. He hasn’t replied yet.’

‘But Emmy,’ Mum cut in, ‘Where will you live?’

I chewed my lip. Wasn’t it time I told my own parents that I’d been asked to move to France?

I started to tell them, hesitantly at first, but it soon came gushing out – Rupert’s drunken offer of a life in France, my cynicism, his e-mail yesterday. In the interest of full disclosure, I threw in Carl’s offer of promotion while I was at it. I was too delirious to pick and choose – I just dumped the lot for them to sift through themselves.

When I’d finished, for once Mum was at a loss for words. I’d expected a flood of questions and a very vocal opinion of Rupert’s sanity or mine or both... But no. She simply sat staring at me for a while and then looked to Dad for his reaction.

He smiled. ‘It’s down to me, is it, ladies? In that case, do I get to see Rupert’s figures, or do I have to rely on my crystal ball?’

I scurried off to fetch my laptop. He scrolled through the document without looking up once, whilst Mum and I waited with disguised impatience for our oracle to speak.

Well, my impatience was disguised. Mum didn’t have time for that crap.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Dennis. Would it work or not?’ she demanded.

He carefully placed the laptop to one side and steepled his fingers together in business mode. ‘Have you checked any of this, Emmy?’

I nodded. ‘It’s about right.’

‘Well, then. I’m afraid I wouldn’t feel qualified to comment about building a business in France, but as for the rest... If I were to trust Rupert’s judgement – which I’m inclined to – I would say it was feasible, if it’s what you want to do.’ He glanced at my mother, who was still surprisingly quiet. ‘No comment, Flo, love?’

‘Only that I’m proud of you, Emmy, for even thinking about such a brave move. If you do go, we’ll miss you so much. But I’m worried you’re only considering this to get away from everything that’s going wrong here. It’s an awfully big thing to do for the wrong reasons.’

‘I know.’ I gave her a small smile. ‘But I think it’s time for me to do something, don’t you?’

She nodded. ‘Whatever you choose, we’ll back you all the way, you know we will.’ She batted my father on the arm. ‘Come on, Dennis. Jeanie’s roast will be drying out.’

With a peck on the cheek, they were gone, and I honestly felt much better – whether from the moral support or the expired vitamins, I had no idea.

The vitamins obviously weren’t potent enough, because when I woke on Monday morning, I knew there was no way I was going to work. I phoned Carl, who was predictably unimpressed, but my voice was croaky enough for him to admit I sounded awful. That done, I made myself a large mug of tea. By the time I’d finished it, my voice was back to normal. Oops.

At nine o’clock on the dot, I phoned two letting agents and arranged for them to come early that afternoon, keeping fingers crossed that I could remain upright long enough to show them around. I slept the rest of the morning away, crawling out of bed just in time to get dressed before they landed.

Both told me the flat was a desirable rental property due to its position on a commuter route into the city and its decor. No clutter or personal touches. People didn’t like to feel they were intruding in someone else’s home.

Nathan and I had spent over three years in this flat, yet apparently we’d left no mark on it at all. Our first home, our pride and joy, reflected so little of our personalities that it was ready for strangers to move in at a moment’s notice.

I thought of La Cour des Roses and its clutter. The mish-mash of modern gadgetry, expensive antiques and tasteful old tat. Rupert making pastry at the scrubbed pine table. The glorious, shiny coffee machine. Wandering down to the chicken run, clutching a strong espresso and breathing in the scent of the flowers, the dewy grass between my toes. The den with its antique desk and squishy cushions and eclectic selection of books. La Cour des Roses was a home. It could be my home.

Still, it was all very well getting the thumbs-up from the letting agents. What I needed was a thumbs-up from Nathan. I checked my e-mails – and found one from Ryan.

I smiled. Ryan was a good friend, giving me the news as it was, not how he thought I would want it to be.

As for Rupert, the cheeky bastard was already sorting out a room for me! I didn’t know whether to be touched by his faith or pissed off with him for being so sodding presumptuous and stubborn.

Nathan phoned that evening, waking me from a fitful doze.

‘I got your e-mail about the flat,’ he said, by way of a greeting. ‘I took the weekend to consider.’

I tried to think of something pleasant to say that might heal the hurtful rift of Friday night, but my mind was a blank. ‘Thanks for phoning back,’ was the best I could do.

‘If we did let it out, when were you thinking of?’ he asked.

‘As soon as possible.’

‘You don’t waste time, do you? Got another boyfriend already?’

I imagined his sneer at the other end of the line, and it made me sad.

‘No, Nathan, but I do have a life to lead and I want to get on with it. What do you think, then?’

‘It makes sense. I can’t afford to buy you out. Especially now I’m in London. You wouldn’t believe the cost of living down here.’

Perhaps Gloria was already leading him a merry dance on the expenses front. I sincerely hoped so.

‘What about the furniture?’ I asked awkwardly.

‘I don’t have any use for it at the moment. How about you?’

I couldn’t stand the stuff. ‘No.’

Nathan’s tone was brisk. ‘We could let it out furnished, then. Are you happy to sort out the agents if I deal with the legal side?’

This took me by surprise. How could he be so calm and business-like just a few scant days after asking me to take him back?

‘Er – okay. Thanks.’ I failed to hide the puzzlement in my voice.

Nathan sighed. ‘I’m not stupid, Emmy. You made yourself clear on Friday. I thought it was worth a shot and I lost. You said you want to get on with your life. That’s fine. I have a life to get on with, too.’

With Gloria. The words floated unspoken between us.

‘What about the car?’

‘You keep it for now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a company car.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ I wasn’t going to argue.

There was an awkward pause. ‘Where will you move to?’ he asked. ‘Somewhere smaller, nearer work?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly. Then, for devilment mainly, ‘I might move to France.’

‘To France? Are you mad?’

‘No, Nathan, I am not mad.’ My tone was icy steel. ‘You’ve seen fit to leave me, give up a good job without a reference, move to London to shack up with an older woman...’

‘Oh, and I suppose moving to France to shack up with Rupert is no different?’ His voice was ugly and bitter.

‘Actually, it’s very different. If I do go, I’ll give proper notice at work, retain the right to a reference and put my life in order. And I would not be shacking up with Rupert. I would be working for him whilst setting up my own business – but I would not be sleeping with him. It’s called friendship. You might like to try it sometime.’ I clicked off the phone and let my aching head fall back onto the cool pillow.

Drugged up to the eyeballs with painkillers and still sporting an exciting fever, I drifted in and out of sleep.

What if I went to France and it turned out that Rupert had written the whole thing while drunk and it was a load of twaddle and I ended up penniless and homeless?

At one in the morning, I was sweating so much that the wet sheets were making me cold. I got up to change the bedding.

Running off to France wasn’t my only option. I would soon be rid of the flat, and then I could find somewhere that suited me here. If I accepted the promotion, I might get my passion back. I could even use my contacts to start freelancing in my spare time.

At three o’clock, I only just made it to the bathroom in time to throw up.

Mum and Dad could come out for holidays. Nick could bring his latest conquest over. I would miss Kate terribly, but she could come to stay, too. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know anybody in France. Rupert and Sophie. Ryan. Jonathan and Madame Dupont. And then there was Alain. Mmmm... Alain.

At four o’clock, I threw up again. Twice.

When the alarm shrilled at seven, I jolted out of a deep, dreamless sleep. My headache was gone. My temperature was down. I felt hungry. And everything was clear.

I lay staring at the ridge in the ceiling, knowing I should get up for work but making no move to do so.

The text alert on my phone jolted me out of limbo. I plucked it up from the bedside table, expecting it to be my mother making sure my virus hadn’t turned into pneumonia.

It was from Rupert, and I opened it in a panic. Perhaps his leg was worse or his angina had been playing up or one of the girls helping had mucked something up or he was cross with me for not acknowledging his e-mail.

Three little words. Come home, Emmy.

I thought of my once-loved job with its trendy offices. Working alongside people like Carl. The exhausting commute to work. This flat with its cold sleek lines and no heart.

I didn’t want a minimalist life any more. I wanted warmth and noise and clutter and colour and friendly chatter and pleasant aggravation.

I wanted to live again.