When my balance became impaired, I made the executive decision that the wine sloshing around our empty stomachs must be mopped up by French bread – an excellent sponge for alcohol – and put together a makeshift supper.

‘How did you and Gloria get together, then?’ I asked, as I stuffed some rather smelly cheese into my mouth. It wasn’t something I would have touched with a bargepole if I’d been sober – but I wasn’t sober.

Rupert’s eyes glassed over, as though he were transported back to his and Gloria’s heady days of romance. Or maybe it was the alcohol.

‘I was out at a restaurant with friends in London. Gloria was the manageress there. Asked her out. She was younger than me, but in those days the heart used to overrule the head more.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Ten years.’ He swirled the ruby-red healing waters around in his glass, watching the whirlpool. ‘Proposed to her after three months. Couldn’t believe my luck when she said yes. That place where she worked was full of City types. She could have had her pick.’

Privately, I thought Rupert wore rose-tinted glasses. Gloria’s airs and graces were a thin veneer, one those City types probably saw right through. They would have viewed her as a possible good time, not a marriageable commodity. Besides, she must have been at least mid-thirties by then. If she was that good a catch, why hadn’t somebody snapped her up before?

‘Gloria had already been married,’ Rupert answered my unspoken question. ‘Too young, and it didn’t last long. I’d never been married. Plenty of opportunities, of course.’ He winked. ‘But I always got cold feet when things got serious. Didn’t feel that way with Gloria, though. Maybe it was my age – nearly fifty and never married, and here was someone daft enough to have a go at it with me.’

‘You did okay, being married ten years,’ I comforted. ‘That’s not bad going nowadays.’

‘No, I suppose not. How long were you and Nathan together?’

Fleetingly, I noticed we were both talking about our relationships in the past tense.

‘Five years. We met at work and went out for a year or so, then Nathan saw a flat for sale that he liked, so we bought it and moved in together. We’ve been there just over three years.’

Rupert glanced at my left hand. ‘No engagement? No wedding plans?’

I glared at my ring finger as though it lacked something. ‘No, not really. We were busy with the flat and work’s always so hectic and we both work long hours and...’ I realised I was making a string of excuses. Perhaps if we were meant for each other, Nathan would have proposed by now. After everything that had happened, I could only be grateful he hadn’t.

‘No talk of babies? Starting a family?’

I shook my head. ‘We never really discussed that either. If it cropped up, Nathan would shrug it off and say we were a bit young – not ready yet. That we were happy enough as we were.’ God, I must be drunk. I was telling Rupert things I hadn’t even discussed with my mother. ‘I did wonder about it sometimes. I mean, I’m thirty-one. Nathan’s thirty-three. We’ve been together five years. How long were we going to wait?’

‘You didn’t try to persuade him?’

‘No – and I think that might be your answer right there.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean that whenever he evaded the subject, I took it personally. I thought: doesn’t he love me enough to want to raise a family with me? But I never pushed back very hard. I thought that was because I loved my job and wasn’t ready to settle down to that extent yet. But maybe it just meant that I didn’t love him enough, either.’ I shrugged. ‘Or that I didn’t want children enough.’

Rupert inclined his head to one side as he drunkenly pondered the implications. ‘Or maybe it means that you would like children one day, but subconsciously you knew Nathan wasn’t the right man to be their father?’

‘Perhaps,’ I mumbled.

Valiantly, Rupert tried to change the subject. ‘You said you met at work. Do you still work at the same place?’

‘Yes, but in different departments, obviously...’ Nausea hit me like a brick, the cheese and wine roiling in my stomach, as the implication hit home. ‘Oh God. What am I going to do when I go back?’ I jumped up from my chair and started pacing – well, weaving – around the kitchen table. ‘How is that going to work, with both of us at the same place? It’s going to be awful!’ A couple of big fat tears escaped and rolled down my cheeks.

Rupert shifted awkwardly in his chair. ‘Don’t cry, Emmy. It’ll be uncomfortable for a while, but you’ll find a way. Nathan has a great deal more to feel uncomfortable about than you. You have the moral high ground, and don’t you forget it!’

He fell silent for a moment while I swiped at my tears with a napkin, streaking my face with breadcrumbs. My legs weren’t too happy about keeping me upright, so I sat back down.

And then Rupert asked the question I’d been dreading. ‘Did you know about Nathan and Gloria? Before today?’

I toyed with the idea of lying to him, but we were both past that. What would be the point?

‘Yes.’ I tried to look him in the eye, as best I could after three large glasses of wine. ‘But not all of it.’ His questioning expression encouraged me to go on. ‘I knew they’d done it once, but I thought that was it. I never dreamed they’d leave us. I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘For knowing when you didn’t. The night I found out was the night you fell ill. I could hardly tell you then. Besides, Gloria didn’t want us to say anything.’

‘No, I bet.’ He patted my hand. ‘At least Nathan had the decency to fess up.’ He picked up on my discomfort. ‘That isn’t what happened, is it?’

‘Trust me, Rupert, you don’t want to know.’

‘Yes, I do. It’ll do you good to get it off your chest. Come on. Out with it.’

I spilled the beans. My race up to the roof terrace, the scene I found there (although I spared him the details), Nathan’s pathetic excuses, kicking him out into another room – the whole caboodle. My brain was too fuzzy to come up with an alternative version. When I’d finished, for a moment I thought I’d done the wrong thing. Then Rupert laughed, a sharp bark that made me jump.

‘Ha! It’s better than one of those dreadful soaps.’ He shot me a look of sympathy. ‘You poor girl. When I thanked you for doing your best when I collapsed, I had no idea how much more I had to thank you for. You did well, keeping your head like you did. A lesser woman would have gone to pieces over a discovery like that and forgotten all about me and my old ticker struggling away down in the kitchen.’

I grinned. ‘It was touch and go for a couple of minutes, believe me.’

The Hendersons made an appearance around ten, by which time Rupert and I were well and truly plastered. I thought we made a passable show of not slurring our words too much, but I couldn’t stay upright in my chair, and Rupert’s glazed eyes were as red as his cheeks. Their disapproving looks indicated that our attempts at sobriety were less than successful. After the required pleasantries, they headed for their room, but as we heaved a sigh of relief, Mr Henderson poked his head back around the door.

‘Dinner at seven tomorrow, Hunter?’

Rupert valiantly fought the stricken expression creeping across his face. ‘Seven. Absolutely.’ When the door closed again, he flopped his head back. ‘Oh, Emmy, what am I going to do?’

‘You’re going to bed. We’ll worry about it tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’s too late. There won’t be enough time for planning and doing. And we’ll be hung-over.’

‘Then we’ll make sure we get up early enough for a conference. If we feel crap, we feel crap. Can’t do anything about it tonight. We could solve world hunger right now and neither of us would remember it in the morning. C’mon.’

I helped him out of his chair. He was exhausted and his limp was severe as he headed to his room.

‘Night, Rupert. Don’t worry. It’ll work out somehow.’

‘Night, Emmy. Thanks, love. For your support. You’re a real trooper.’

I stumbled up the stairs, but as I swayed into our room – my room, now – I was grateful for the alcohol blurring the edges of stark reality that assaulted my senses everywhere I turned.

One suitcase on top of the wardrobe, one toiletry bag in the bathroom, one toothbrush by the sink.

Nathan had gone – and it felt like he’d taken all the good memories with him. The day he’d asked me out across the photocopier, when I’d punched my hand in the air in delight the minute he’d turned his back. Our first date in a candlelit restaurant, when he’d told me he’d fancied me from the minute he saw me. The summer he’d fallen in the river trying to climb into a rowing boat. Reading the Sunday papers in bed with a vatful of coffee. The evening he’d asked me to buy the flat with him. The day we’d moved in, when there were two toothbrushes by the sink, along with an implication of forever.

All those memories had been overwritten by images of Gloria’s legs wrapped around him; his sulky face as he told me he was leaving; him driving away in her sports car.

At that moment, in my drunken haze, I hated him for that.

When the alarm clock penetrated my fuzzy brain, I felt like death and pretty much looked like it. A whole bottle of wine? I should have known better. Still, it was the only thing to have done under the circumstances, and despite the nausea and pounding head, I didn’t regret it.

Crawling out of bed and into the shower, I hoped Rupert was in a fit mental – if not physical – state today. I needed his interpreting skills to help me communicate with Madame Dupont, and he would have to get his head around a menu for tonight – assuming I could find my way to the supermarket and back without ending up in Paris.

As I walked back into the bedroom and dropped my damp towel on the floor, I caught sight of my reflection in the ornate full-length gilt mirror and glared at it. I may have been on the untoned side (that gym membership was definitely a waste of money) and had a tendency to go pink and freckled before getting a tan, but I didn’t think I looked much worse than any other woman in her early thirties.

It’s easy to sympathise with fifty-something women whose husbands leave them for someone younger, traded in for a newer model. What sickened me was that my thirty-three-year-old man, somewhat on the young side for a midlife crisis, had left me for a woman at least a decade older than him – a woman who, although glamorous and well-preserved in an artificial sort of way, surely couldn’t compare to still-reasonably-fresh me.

I stared at the offending image in the mirror. Nathan hadn’t just slept with Gloria – he’d run off with her. What if it wasn’t only about looks or make-up or calorie-counting? What if it was just... me? I didn’t think I’d changed since we first met, but perhaps in his eyes I had. Was I more impatient? A tad grumpier? Less fun? Less caring? Less interesting?

Pulling on a long, baggy T-shirt, I let out a heavy sigh. There was a three-person, twelve-hour day ahead to share between an ancient cleaner, a novice and an invalid. I already had a headache and felt sick. Getting depressed wasn’t going to help.

Deciding coffee and breakfast might be of more practical use, I staggered downstairs, my hair still dripping from the shower. I’d guessed – correctly – that Rupert wouldn’t be up and about yet, but in my hung-over state, I’d completely forgotten about the Hendersons until I was in the kitchen. Belatedly remembering my state of dress, I glanced through the window in a panic, letting out a sigh of relief that their car wasn’t there. Presumably, they’d already left to forage for their own breakfast because their irresponsible host had failed to get up early enough to prepare one for them. Another black mark against Rupert.

I groped for the espresso machine, made a strong one and, clutching it in my hands as if my life depended on it, trundled to the patio doors to look out over the garden.

And there he was.

At least six feet tall, strong but not too beefy, over-long sun-streaked blonde hair, work jeans – and no shirt. As he chopped at the hedge with shears, his muscles rippled and a slight sheen of sweat covered his tanned torso. What a sight for sore eyes. After the last few dreary months, it was like stumbling onto an oasis in the desert of my suppressed senses.

Somehow aware of my arrival, the vision turned and smiled – and what a smile. White teeth, blue eyes, chiselled jaw... Okay, forget the “chiselled” because yes, I knew it, I was beginning to sound like a romance novel.

I smiled back, then remembered how little my T-shirt covered and how bedraggled my hair was.

He put down the shears and started towards the house. Uh-oh. Too late to run away and slip into something more suitable. Since he’d already seen what there was to see, I opened the patio door a fraction.

He held out a tanned, rather soily hand. ‘Morning. You must be Emmy. I’m Ryan.’

I shook his hand. My fingers went numb, and I wasn’t sure whether it was because he had a grip like a vice or because all the blood had rushed from my hands to other departments.

‘Er, yes. Hi. I – er – I’m sorry, I didn’t expect anyone to be here.’ I gestured apologetically at my sparsely-clad person and, to top off my embarrassment, blushed like a schoolgirl.

‘No, so I see.’ There was no way of knowing whether the amused tone in his voice stemmed from my looking cutely messy, as I hoped, or crappy messy, which I suspected was more likely.

‘Didn’t Rupert tell you about me?’ he asked.

My mind was a blank. ‘I don’t think so.’

Ryan gestured behind him. ‘I do the garden in the summer, except I missed last week because I was back in England. Rupert keeps it at bay himself in the winter.’

‘Oh, yes, he said something about the gardener being due back soon. Well, that’s good. One less thing for Rupert to worry about, what with his leg and everything.’ I floundered. ‘You do know about his leg and everything?’

‘Word gets around.’

I saw a trace of pity in his eyes and flinched. He knew all right, and not only about Rupert’s leg. Madame Dupont must have been clogging up the local telephone wires half the night after Rupert called her.

‘Ah, so that’s how you know my name. Local gossip.’

He pointed at my cup. ‘Smells good. Any chance of one?’ Deliberately or not, he was giving me a way out of the uncomfortable turn the conversation had taken.

I was grateful. ‘No problem. I’ll get dressed and bring you one out.’

‘Thanks.’ As he headed back to the hedge, he looked back, a cute smile on his handsome face. ‘By the way, no need to get dressed on my account.’

I couldn’t get to my room fast enough. Ten minutes later, I’d tousle-dried my hair, pulled on slimming denim crops and a low-cut T-shirt, ladled on nude lip gloss and made him his coffee, which I carried out onto the patio.

He came back up the garden when he saw me. ‘Thanks.’ Taking a sip, he let out an exaggerated sigh, as though he’d gone to coffee-shop heaven. ‘You make good coffee.’

‘Just one of my many talents,’ I trilled girlishly, then winced at how flirtatious it sounded. The boy could be ten years my junior, for goodness’ sake. Flirting was definitely out – life was far too complicated as it was. Making a fool of myself by fawning over a handsome youth could only add to my pain. Besides, I imagined he had girls throwing themselves at his feet wherever he went. I wouldn’t be surprised if good old Gloria had tried it on. Poor lad.

Thankfully, Ryan didn’t appear to notice my gaucheness. He was too busy savouring the sensory marvel that was my coffee. ‘Far superior to Gloria’s,’ he said. ‘Not that she offered too often. I was glad she didn’t, after tasting it. Awful stuff – sludgy and bitter.’ He made a face.

‘I know. I think she bought the cheapest she could find. I’m using Rupert’s secret stash of the good stuff now that she...’ I hesitated, then ploughed on. ‘Now that she’s gone. The grapevine announced to you that she left, I presume?’

‘Yep. Good riddance. Rupert’s better off without her.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry, that was an insensitive thing to say. I heard your boyfriend went, too. This must be a pretty crap time for you.’

‘Well, it’s not been much fun so far. But I’m okay. I’ve got so much to do helping Rupert today that I won’t have time to wallow.’

‘You’re not leaving?’ he asked in surprise.

I stared at him for a moment. The truth was, I was still processing the fact that Nathan had left me. The idea of cutting my losses and actually leaving hadn’t yet filtered into my beleaguered brain.

‘I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. I couldn’t do that to Rupert so soon after... Well.’ No need to go into detail. ‘The least I can do is stay until he’s a bit better and we can sort out some help around here.’ Because I feel so cripplingly guilty about what my boyfriend has done. Because I have nowhere else to go. Because I don’t want to drive across France all by myself and go home to an empty flat and face up to family and friends and colleagues and reality in general.

Ryan drained his cup. ‘That’s good of you, under the circumstances. If it makes it any easier for you, I’ll spread the word that you’re capable and coping and couldn’t give a hoot that your man ran off with the wicked witch.’ He smiled – a real full-on, handsome-guy smile that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. ‘I’ll see you around. I promised Rupert I’d do a couple of extra stints to make up for missing last week.’ He handed me his empty cup, started to walk down the garden, then turned back. ‘If you find yourself losing that stiff upper lip, come and see me. I don’t mind being a shoulder to cry on. Rupert’s not very good at that sort of thing.’

‘Thanks, Ryan. I’ll bear it in mind.’

Come and see me. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Still musing over gorgeous Ryan and his flirty manner, I went to rouse Rupert. When there was no response to my discreet knocks on the outer door of his quarters, I let myself in and rapped on his bedroom door. That didn’t wake him either, so I barged in to shake him out of his sleep. Strangely, I didn’t hesitate. A week ago I hadn’t even met the man, and already I had no qualms about invading his personal space. The way I saw it, there was no alternative. We were like two survivors shipwrecked on an island, thrown together to conquer impossible circumstances.

Even so, I was eternally grateful he wasn’t in the habit of sleeping naked on top of his sheets. There is a limit.

Ten minutes later, he was hung-over but showered and caffeined-up, and we sat at the table to draw up our battle plan.

‘Right. The guests in the gîtes aren’t obliged to vacate until ten, Emmy, but in reality they often take longer, so you need to use the time before that to shop for the new guests’ welcome baskets and the house guests’ evening meal.’

Rupert sounded decisive, but as he started scribbling a shopping list, I noticed his hand was shaking. Hangover? Nerves? Shock? I had no way of knowing – and no time to ask.

‘Madame Dupont can freshen up the empty third gîte if you get delayed.’ He spoke as he wrote. ‘There’s plenty of spare linen, so the laundry can wait until tomorrow.’

I took the shopping list with trepidation. The truth was, I didn’t like driving abroad. I could do it – I wasn’t a danger to the continental public or anything – but I certainly wasn’t as confident as at home.

But Rupert misunderstood my anxious expression. ‘Emmy.’ He reached across and patted my hand. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’

I straightened my spine. ‘I know. But you can’t manage by yourself.’

Rupert gave a small smile. ‘Then thank you.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you... Are you planning to stay the week?’

There was a hopeful note in his voice that I couldn’t ignore. I glanced at his fingers, still shaking lightly as he held the pen. His shoulders were slumped, his unshaven face ashen. Only a few short days ago, the man had been in the hospital with heart problems.

I thought back to what I’d said to Ryan, about waiting until Rupert was a little better and we could get help in. My ferry was booked for next weekend. If I left sooner, I’d have to mess about altering the booking, and since I had no idea what awaited me at home – if anything – I was more than happy to put off the inevitable. Besides, despite the events of the past few days, I liked it here. It was sunny and colourful and comfortable. Why head home to rain and explanations any sooner than necessary?

‘Yes, I’m staying,’ I said decisively. ‘I can’t be bothered to change all my plans, and I need to keep an eye on you or you’ll do too much.’

‘Well, I’m glad – but I do not want you slaving away on my behalf.’ A pained expression crept across his face. ‘I don’t want you to feel obliged, Emmy.’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of helping than slaving. At least it’ll give you time to sort something out. And it’ll keep my mind off Nathan.’ When he looked like he might argue, I added, ‘It’s my holiday and I shall do what I like with it.’

‘All right, if you insist.’ He looked too tired to argue. ‘But we’ll review it on a day-to-day basis, and if you don’t build in some me-time, as those ghastly life coach chaps call it, I shall have something to say about it. I’ll transfer what you paid for the holiday back into your bank account, and I expect to pay you for whatever you do for me this coming week.’ When I opened my mouth, he held up a hand to stop me. ‘I would have had to pay for local help anyway.’

I shook my head, adamant. ‘No way, Rupert. The holiday charge – okay. Wages – absolutely not.’ Seeing the mutinous look on his face, I pointed at the clock on the wall. ‘We can argue or I can shop. Which is it to be?’

I took myself utterly by surprise by driving the lanes past rolling fields and farmhouses to the outskirts of town, remembering Rupert’s directions to the supermarket, parking without crashing, finding everything we needed and arriving back safely by ten-thirty. The rest of the day was a blur of sweat and hard labour, but since it meant I had no time to brood over Nathan’s perfidy or Gloria’s barefaced cheek or Rupert’s dismay, I didn’t mind. There was simply a job to be done with numerous deadlines – my speciality – along the way, and concentrating on the tasks at hand kept me from self-pity.

By the time I got back from the supermarket, Madame Dupont had already sorted out the unoccupied gîte, so we got to work on the other two, waiting politely until the occupants drove away and then piling in.

I might have been mortified last night that Rupert had told Madame Dupont everything on the phone, but today I was grateful. It meant no explanations were necessary.

Her face was brown and wrinkled from the sun and her old-fashioned floral dress, support stockings and black lace-up shoes gave me the impression of a strict grandmother. Her stern demeanour made me a little nervous about the day ahead – but as we muscled our way into the first gîte, she gave me a semi-toothless smile, patted my arm, pointed at the basket of cleaning accoutrements in my arms and said a simple ‘Merci,’ rather loudly, as if I were deaf.

I smiled. We may not have understood each other linguistically, but it seemed she knew I was doing my best for Rupert. Heaven knew I had to be preferable to Gloria, who had probably let the poor old woman do the lion’s share of the work while she rearranged the potpourri or trimmed stray cotton strands off the curtains.

Getting access to the gîtes brought out the nosiness in me. I’d seen photos on the website when I’d considered booking one for myself and Nathan, but they hadn’t fully conveyed the delightfully rustic interiors. Rough whitewashed walls, stone fireplaces, wooden bed frames, beautiful patchwork quilts and soft woollen throws – they all exuded carefully-thought-out charm. Paperbacks and a smattering of board games on the shelves added a nice touch.

Curious, I went through the back door to where each gîte had its own outdoor space with a table, chairs and parasol, separated from its neighbours by trellises wound with climbing plants not quite yet in flower. A gate led to a communal lawned area which, screened from the courtyard and therefore from the danger of cars by a tall hedge, curved back around towards Rupert’s garden – a lovely area to sunbathe or for kids to safely kick a ball around. I hadn’t even known that part of the garden existed. No wonder this place kept Ryan busy in the summer.

The grass here was newly mown, but I could hear a motor still running. Unable to help myself, I peeped through the hedge that divided the gîte garden from Rupert’s, to see Ryan pushing a large lawn mower, his muscles flexing as he swivelled around the flower beds. It took some effort to turn away. I strode quickly back to the gîtes before gawking could turn into stalking.

Limited to communicating with gestures and simple phrases, Madame Dupont and I got by, and I was surprised at how quickly my long-forgotten French seeped back into my consciousness as she chattered at me without expecting me to fully understand. While she dusted and swept, I mopped. She cleaned the oven while I cleaned the fridge. Since she knew where everything was kept, she checked the toiletry supplies while I scrubbed the bathroom.

As we changed the bedding together, my elbow knocked the shallow dish of potpourri on the bedside table, and I only just caught it before it scattered across the floor. Madame Dupont reached over and took it from me, then crooked her finger, beckoning me to follow. In the kitchen, she stood on the pedal of the bin and with a wink and a flourish, she poured the potpourri from a great height with a rapid-fire diatribe of which I only understood maybe every tenth word – but Gloria’s name featured prominently, and I gathered that this was a symbolic cleaning out of her toxic presence.

I grinned along with my new ally as we dragged the bin bags outside and headed for the next gîte.