After driving Madame Dupont back to Jonathan’s, I joined Rupert in the kitchen for what would be our final ‘official’ guest meal for a while. The two sets we still had in were due to leave tomorrow, ready for Nick arriving on Monday and Kate on Tuesday.

Rupert pushed a fresh pineapple towards me. A year ago, I would have looked at it as if it were an alien from outer space, knowing what it was but having no idea what to do with it. Now, I didn’t think twice.

While I set about coring and de-spiking it, I told him what Madame Dupont had said.

‘Don’t like the sound of that.’ He wound string around the pork loin he’d stuffed and tied it off, while I watched in admiration. Rupert’s deftness in the kitchen never ceased to amaze me. ‘I can’t say I like the idea of her going back to a nomadic existence amongst her family.’

‘Me either. Jonathan has the space, and he seems happy to have her there.’

When the pork was nestled in its stoneware dish in the oven, Rupert poured us both a glass of wine.

‘It’s a generational thing, Emmy. She’s a proud old woman, and she’ll see it as one thing putting upon family, quite another relying on the kindness of acquaintances.’ He sighed. ‘We’ll speak to Jonathan about it on Monday, shall we?’

As Rupert put the finishing touches on his starters, one couple came downstairs, but there was no sign of Marcus and James.

‘They said they were tired when they came back mid-afternoon,’ Rupert supplied helpfully. ‘Maybe they fell asleep. Could you check?’

They’d fallen asleep, alright, but not in their rooms. I finally found them up on the roof terrace, stretched out on sunbeds, fast asleep and turning rather pink. It seemed a shame to wake them.

Then again, it would be a shame for them to miss out on Rupert’s mushrooms Provençale, stuffed pork loin with fresh pineapple, and tarte tatin.

When Alain phoned the next morning, I’d had a restless night with a series of unsettling dreams centred on varying wedding disasters, and I felt disoriented.

‘Any chance of you coming round this morning for a little … exercise?’ he asked.

‘Ha! Er. Mum and Dad and Jeanie arrive mid-afternoon, so I ought to …’

‘You know, once family arrive, we’ll barely be alone until we get on that plane?’

He was right. I said a fond goodbye to Marcus and James, got straight in the car and drove to Alain’s.

He touched his lips to mine. ‘Coffee or sex?’

‘Hmm. That’s a hard one.’

Alain’s lips twitched. ‘I could make a crass joke, but I’ll refrain.’ Instead, he cupped his hand around the back of my neck and dragged me closer, deepening the kiss.

I broke off. ‘Okay. Sex wins.’

Alain laughed. ‘I’m flattered. It takes quite something to waylay you from your caffeine.’

He led me upstairs and we made the most of our last quiet Sunday morning together before we would be married.

And I got my coffee afterwards.

Back at La Cour des Roses, there was no sign of Rupert. That wouldn’t usually worry me, but with the impending family invasion, I wanted to make sure he wasn’t feeling overwhelmed.

I found him in the den. It was Rupert’s thinking room, and when I peeped in, that was what he was deeply involved in. There were papers scattered across the leather-topped desk, but he was staring at the teetering bookshelves, his fingers steepled at his chin.

His faithful canine companion was sprawled across the small leather sofa, from which she was strictly forbidden.

‘Hi. Are you okay?’

He jolted. ‘Hmmm?’

‘I thought the prospect of my family and in-laws-to-be might be too much.’

‘No. Everything’s fine, Emmy. Bordering on hunky-dory. Possibly even peachy.’

‘Really?’ I perched on the arm of the sofa, earning myself a baleful glare from its main resident.

‘Gloria’s been in touch.’

‘And that’s good because …?’

‘It’s good, Emmy, because the woman has finally decided to see sense. She’s accepting the offer our solicitors currently have on the table.’

‘But she usually quibbles and throws a spanner in the works.’

‘Not this time.’

‘Why the sudden change of attitude?’

‘Maybe she’s as tired of the merry-go-round as I am.’

‘And?’ There was something else, I could tell.

‘And I sent her a note last week,’ he admitted.

‘You mean an e-mail?’

‘No, I mean a handwritten letter. People still do that occasionally, you know.’

‘Not to their ex-wives, they don’t. I thought you were leaving everything to the solicitors, so you couldn’t argue.’

‘I decided it was worth a try. She could read it or not. Chuck it or not. I figured I didn’t have anything to lose.’ He wafted at the papers in front of him detailing what he was actually going to lose. ‘Not much more, anyway.’

I was intrigued. ‘What did you say in this note?’

For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t tell me, but he was in a sharing mood today.

‘I said it was a shame that ten years together had to end like this. That I’m willing to give her her fair due and plenty more, but surely she must be as tired as I am with the process. Couldn’t we let go now? I said I didn’t regret marrying her, the years I spent with her, but I do regret how tainted it’s all become. I regret that any good memories are being eroded by all these bad ones. That I’d like to be at peace, as I’m sure she must.’

I stared at him, open-mouthed. Even the dog gave him a look of disbelief.

‘Before you say anything, Emmy, all that was genuine. I know Gloria behaved badly, but we did have some good times, and I was at fault, too.’

‘She took it to heart, then?’

‘Must’ve done. Her solicitor has instructed my solicitor to go ahead.’

‘You haven’t had a personal response from her?’

He smiled sadly. ‘I got an e-mail. Three little words.’

‘Oh? What three words?’ Knowing Gloria, they could have been anything.

‘“What you said”.’

I smiled. ‘Could’ve been worse.’

‘It certainly could.’

‘Are you okay, Rupert?’

‘Yes. All this …’ He waved at the papers on his desk. ‘It was inevitable, but I need it to be over now. It’s exhausting.’

‘I know. I’m glad it worked out.’

He stood, indicating an end to the subject. ‘Lunchtime. Tomato and basil soup?’

Since I knew it had been made with basil from the garden and fresh tomatoes – no tinned stuff here – I happily followed him to the kitchen.

While the soup heated, he took a bottle of chilled white from the fridge and waggled it at me.

‘One glass to shore yourself up before your mother descends? ’Cause I know I need one.’

I took a gulp from the glass he handed me. ‘Nope. It’s going to take more than this.’

‘I am not medicating you with hard liquor at lunchtime, Emmy.’ Rupert poured the soup into bowls and carried them to the table. ‘It’s not like your parents haven’t been here before. What’s so different about this time?’

‘My mother on turbo-charge is what’s wrong this time,’ I grumbled. ‘I got through everything on the sodding list from the last time she came, but she’s never satisfied.’ I tasted the soup. It was, as tomato soup always is, immensely comforting.

‘Your mum just wants you to have a great day.’

‘I know. But the way she’s going about everything, she’ll have the opposite effect at this rate.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Try to see it this way. You have the perfect wedding planned. Everything’s done, whatever your mother says, from the florist to the cake to whatever. That hotel is fantastic, and I hear the food is superb there. You have the photographer you want. You kept the numbers down, so you’ll spend the day with people you want to spend it with. Surely there’s a limit to what your mother can come up with between now and Friday?’ When I gave him a doubtful look, he said, ‘And if not? Let it wash over you and remember the end result – being married to the love of your life.’ He reached across and took my hand. ‘With regard to your mother, Emmy, you only have to get through the wedding. Then you’ll be off on your honeymoon, your parents will be back in the UK, and without the wedding to plan any more, your mother will calm down and you’ll be back to a manageable number of visits a year.’

I tried to keep his wise words in mind when my parents arrived mid-afternoon, their car full of white and lilac wedding favours and boxes of newspaper-wrapped antique china crockery, Aunt Jeanie hidden somewhere amongst them.

‘Emmy, how exciting!’ Jeanie gave me a tight hug as soon as she fought her way out of the car, beating my mother to it, much to my mother’s annoyance, while Dad looked on with his usual benign patience. It was this lifelong brotherly indulgence that had allowed his younger sister to be too much of a free spirit in my mother’s eyes. Jeanie’s brunette-heading-for-grey hair, flowing down her back, currently sported vibrant purple stripes, and her enviably slim figure was clad in dungarees to match. Hand-painted canvas pumps completed the ensemble.

Rupert came out to greet his guests, as did his canine companion.

Jeanie put the dog first, greeting her effusively, her natural rapport with animals shining through, before moving on to Rupert.

‘So you’re the infamous Rupert,’ she exclaimed, taking the hand he offered. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘I’d say “All good, I hope”, but I suspect that’s not the case.’

‘Oooh, no, not at all,’ Jeanie said cryptically, while Rupert accustomed himself to her hair. She tugged at it. ‘Do you like it? I thought I’d fit in with Emmy’s colour scheme for the wedding.’

I glanced at Dad, and we both hid a smirk. There was not one item planned for the wedding that Aunt Jeanie’s hair would match.

‘It’s … lovely,’ Rupert said politely. ‘Let me help with your bags and show you to your room. Flo, you and Dennis are in your usual. Like a second home to you now, eh?’

When they were sorted, we sat out on the patio.

‘Oh, this is so glorious.’ Aunt Jeanie drank in her surroundings. ‘No wonder you wanted to live here, Emmy.’ Her face fell. ‘Won’t you miss it when you move to Alain’s?’

‘She’ll still be here all day every day, Jeanie,’ Rupert pointed out. ‘And I suspect Alain’s holds its own attractions.’

Jeanie giggled. ‘I can imagine! I couldn’t believe it when Emmy brought him over for New Year. So handsome! If I were ten years younger …’

‘Twenty. At least,’ Mum corrected tersely, making everyone laugh. ‘Now then, Emmy.’

I knew that tone. Getting down to business already. Rupert knew it, too, and hurriedly offered to make a pot of tea for everyone.

‘When are Alain’s family arriving?’ Mum wafted a hand towards the gîtes. ‘They must have formulated a plan by now, surely?’

Heaven forbid that anyone might not have their plan formulated.

‘They arrive tomorrow afternoon,’ I told her confidently.

‘And the third gîte? A relative of Mireille’s, is it?’

‘Mireille’s sister and brother-in-law. But he had a minor heart attack and needs a stent, so they’ve had to cancel.’

‘Oh dear, what a shame.’

This last-minute dent in the guest list didn’t seem to worry her as much as I thought it would, and I eyed her carefully. There was something skittish in her manner. Dad was distracted, too, fiddling with his shirt buttons.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, get the girl told, Dennis,’ Aunt Jeanie said impatiently.

‘Tell me what?’ I asked Dad, but he batted the ball back to my mother.

‘Tell me what?’

‘Your dad’s retiring, Emmy,’ Mum announced.

My jaw dropped. ‘When?’

‘Next month.’

I gawped at Dad. ‘I thought you were carrying on for another year or so?’

‘I changed my mind,’ he said mildly, closing his eyes and lifting his face to the sun.

‘But what will you do with yourself?’ I asked, surprised that he would drop from forty years of working to nothing quite so suddenly.

He opened his eyes again. ‘If your mother has her way, I’ll be swapping one form of slave labour for another. Apparently, the whole house needs decorating.’

Mum slapped him playfully on the arm. ‘Your father’s exaggerating. I don’t want him to wear himself out, but he needs to keep active.’

I gave my father a sympathetic look. ‘She’ll have you on a regime of tai chi, Sudoku and ginkgo biloba by the end of the first week.’

‘Don’t I know it. Can’t say I mind, though.’ He took my mother’s hand and stroked it affectionately. ‘We deserve a bit more time together.’

The realisation crept upon me that we were about to enter a whole new phase of family dynamics. I wasn’t sure how I felt about my father being old enough to retire.

‘Anyway, the decorating would depend,’ Mum went on. ‘We need to get the house valued first.’

‘You’re selling the house?’

‘Of course. We’ve been rattling around in there for far too long, since you and Nick left. It’s a family house.’

My head reeled. They’d lived in that house all my life. It was my childhood home.

Mum read my mind. ‘Don’t be sad, Emmy. We want you to be pleased for us.’

‘I am.’ I pulled myself together. ‘It’s a surprise, that’s all.’

‘Oddly enough,’ Dad said, ‘It’s you and Nathan we have to thank. And Rupert.’

‘Nathan?’

‘If your ex-boyfriend hadn’t run off with Rupert’s wife,’ Jeanie explained, ‘you never would have ended up staying over here, and Dennis and Flo never would have seen La Cour des Roses and Pierre-la-Fontaine and realised what they were missing.’

‘Huh?’

‘Your dad likes it out here, Emmy,’ Mum said.

The penny dropped. ‘You’re moving to France?’

‘Not moving here,’ Dad qualified. ‘We’ll buy a small flat in Birmingham and a small house here. If we like it here, hopefully we’ll spend more time here than back home.’

I fought to keep the mixed emotions out of my expression. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I was pleased that Dad was going to retire. But the idea of them owning a holiday home nearby … I liked being with them, a week or so at a time. But if they took to France like ducks to water, would they be breathing down my neck all the time?

Jeanie shot me a sympathetic look. She knew exactly what was going through my mind.

I thought about the way Mum had been over the past few months, obsessed with the wedding, nattering about every last detail. The only thing that had kept me sane was the fact that it had been mostly from a distance, with the odd visit that I’d just about coped with. The idea that soon she might be more … available … really didn’t appeal.

I remembered what Rupert had said this lunchtime, about getting through the wedding and then everything settling back down to the way it was. Looked like his crystal ball was on the blink. And sure enough …

‘Just think, Emmy,’ Mum said. ‘We’ll be able to see each other so much more often.’

Rupert came out with a tray of tea and homemade lemon drop scones. ‘Lovely to have you all here,’ he said equably.

‘You’ll be seeing a great deal more of us soon, Rupert,’ Mum said. ‘Dennis is retiring, and we’re hoping to buy a little holiday home out here.’

Rupert fought hard to keep his expression neutral. I might have imagined it, but I would swear his hand shook lightly as he poured the tea. In merriment at my impending doom? Or in fear?

‘That’s wonderful news,’ he blustered. ‘Have you spoken to Ellie Fielding about it?’

‘No point yet,’ Dad said mildly. ‘We need to get our house valued. Until we’ve done that, we won’t know how much we’ve got left to spend over here.’

‘It’d be nice if you could get sorted by early next year, though. It’d be a shame to miss spring and summer out here.’

Dad sighed with contentment at the prospect, and my heart did a see-saw action, my desire to see my parents happy in their retirement warring with concern that they might crowd my hard-won new life here in France.

What I wouldn’t have given for a quiet evening at Alain’s. But no – we went out to a restaurant to celebrate my family’s arrival. It seemed that Alain might have been right about us not getting a moment alone once my parents arrived. We probably wouldn’t until after the wedding, now. For a brief moment, it occurred to me that I couldn’t wait till it was all over … and then I felt terrible for even thinking that, with such a lovely day planned.

Rupert ducked out of the meal, playing the ‘I’m not strictly family’ card. Coward. He had plans with Ellie, to go over the paperwork for the Mallorcan property.

‘What time will Nick arrive tomorrow?’ Alain asked my parents.

‘Late,’ Mum said sniffily. ‘He’s working all day. ‘I don’t know why he couldn’t have finished on Friday and travelled over with us.’

Because he didn’t fancy spending hours in a car with his parents and aunt, surrounded by wrapped china and being asphyxiated by dried lavender?

Alain suppressed a smile. ‘He wouldn’t have fitted in your car with all those boxes,’ he pointed out more tactfully than I would have.

‘That’s true,’ Mum mused. ‘I was hoping he’d bring someone with him, but he never sees one girl for more than a few weeks. He’ll never settle down at this rate.’ She tapped a finger against her wine glass. ‘Although, when he sees how lovely your wedding is, Emmy, you never know. It might give him ideas of his own, mightn’t it?’

Alain made the mistake of catching my dad’s eye, and they both cracked up laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ Mum demanded.

But they were laughing too much to reply, exchanging glances to sober each other up but only ending up in further fits of merriment.

It was left to Aunt Jeanie to voice everybody’s thoughts. ‘The only ideas this wedding is likely to give Nick, Flo, is that living in sin or a swift elopement are both excellent options!’

The evening was pleasant enough. My mother managed not to discuss the wedding arrangements for the gazillionth time – Dad must have had a quiet word – and Alain managed not to choke when my parents told him their plans to buy a holiday house on his home turf. I hadn’t had the chance to pre-warn him, but it was good fun, seeing his reaction.

I went home with Alain, and when he’d come up for air from a heartfelt kiss, I discovered that his feelings about my parents’ latest news were much the same as mine. I knew we were soulmates.

‘It’ll be good for them, having a holiday home here,’ he said diplomatically. ‘And it means we won’t have to travel to Birmingham to visit, if we don’t want to. It’ll be nice, seeing them more often.’

My lips twitched. ‘But not too often?’

He gave me a sheepish smile. ‘Exactement.’

I blew out a sigh. ‘I’m pretty worried about it, Alain. Mum doesn’t have the same boundaries as me. Just because I’m living in France doesn’t mean I’m not working hard. I don’t want her coming round all the time, interfering, dominating our time.’

‘Don’t jump ahead too far, Emmy. They haven’t done anything yet – they’re only talking about it. Let’s cross each bridge when we come to it.’

‘Okay.’ I puffed out a frustrated breath. ‘I was telling Sophie the other day, I’m beginning to feel like a teenager again. All those times I dug my heels in, and Mum dug hers in …’ I shuddered. ‘We used to shout ourselves hoarse. I remember the first time I tried to go out with black eyeliner on. You’d think I’d had it tattooed on, the fuss she made!’

‘How old were you?’

‘Thirteen.’

He grinned. ‘Did you give in?’

‘Ha! Not on your life! We nearly blew the roof off, arguing! She made me clean it off, so I went out without it, then put it back on at Kate’s.’ My shoulders slumped. ‘But I forgot to take it off again before I came home.’

Alain chuckled. ‘She was furious?’

I shook my head. ‘She just led me to the mirror in the bathroom, under the harshest light, and made me look at myself for five solid minutes.’ I rolled my eyes at the memory. ‘Of course, I’d put it on far too thick, just to spite her, and it had smudged while I was out. It looked pretty dire.’

‘So she was kind of right?’

‘Yeah. I hated that! Trouble is, I still feel exactly the same way, every time I argue with her about something, putting my foot down but knowing she might have a point.’

Alain nodded in sympathy. ‘Tense?’ He moved his hands to my neck and shoulders and kneaded with long fingers.

‘Ow. That hurts.’

‘That’s because you have rocks in there,’ he grumbled. ‘Your muscles are so tight, they’re hurting my hands.’ He slapped my backside. ‘Upstairs and find the massage oil, and I’ll see what I can do.’

I knew what Alain could do already, and I was usually up for the experience. But tonight? Tonight, I realised, all I wanted was comfort and reassurance.

I caught his hands before they strayed. ‘Would you mind if I said I’d rather just curl up for a cuddle and try to get a good night’s sleep?’

For a brief moment, he looked disappointed, but he quickly hid it with an accommodating smile. ‘Of course not. If that’s what you need.’

I knew Aunt Jeanie would love Pierre-la-Fontaine, especially on market day, so I figured if I could get my parents to show her around, that would distract my mother long enough for Rupert and me to stock up on fresh stuff and have a quick chat with Jonathan. I was still worried about what Madame Dupont had said on Saturday, and I wanted to find out how the land lay from the other half of the arrangement.

My parents could then join us for coffee so Mum could interrog—, er, I mean, discuss the wedding photographs with Bob. I resented having to put him through this, but he’d said he was willing to speak to her for mine and Alain’s sake.

At the café, Jonathan looked glum.

‘Everything alright?’ Rupert asked his old friend. ‘You seem a little down.’

Jonathan mumbled into his coffee, ‘It’s that Dupont woman. She’s driving me mad.’

Rupert cast a worried look at me. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, old chum. Emmy and I have enough on with the wedding. Bob here needs to save his patience for Emmy’s mother, due any minute. We can’t work out your cryptic comments. Spit it out, there’s a good lad.’

Jonathan harrumphed. ‘She’s threatening to move out soon, even though it’ll be months before that house of hers is sorted.’

‘You didn’t criticise her cooking, did you?’

‘Hardly.’ Jonathan smoothed a hand across his stomach. ‘Haven’t been as well fed since before Matthew got poorly. No, she says it isn’t right to abuse my hospitality for too long, blah blah blah. I can’t talk any sense into her.’

I sighed. ‘I’d hoped she didn’t mean it.’

Jonathan glared at me. ‘You knew?’

‘She mentioned it on Saturday.’

‘I don’t see why my hospitality’s a problem,’ Jonathan grumbled.

‘It’s made her realise how difficult her old house was and how convenient it would be to live in town – something she can’t afford,’ I explained. ‘She wants to move out before she gets too settled.’

‘That’s daft,’ Jonathan said. ‘She’s welcome chez moi for as long as it takes.’ He held his hands out, palm up. ‘I get fed properly, the house is the cleanest it’s ever been, I have company when I want it, but she understands when I don’t. I feel safer, knowing there’s someone around if I’m not well.’ He sighed. ‘Fact is, I’d be sorry to see her go.’

Rupert, Bob and I exchanged glances, and I detected a slight shake of Rupert’s head. Don’t push the old duffer. Let him come to his own conclusions.

When my parents and Aunt Jeanie arrived, more coffees were ordered and introductions made.

Aunt Jeanie and Dad greeted Bob warmly – no doubt Jeanie saw in him a kindred spirit, a fellow ageing hippie – but Mum had that air of reserve she specialised in. I was well-versed in that slight flare of nostrils and downturn at the corners of her mouth, and they annoyed me. She knew Bob wasn’t a professional wedding photographer, so she shouldn’t expect him to look like one.

But Bob, comfortable in his own skin, remained unruffled.

‘I’ve studied your website, Bob.’ Mum adopted a strident tone. ‘But as it’s landscapes, I can’t get a feel for the people pictures you take.’

Bob was prepared. ‘Mrs Jamieson.’

‘Please, call me Flo.’

‘Flo, then. Emmy’s given me a clear brief.’ He emphasised Emmy, allowing the subtext, I answer to her, not you. Taking a tablet out of his backpack, he flicked across the screen. ‘She wants casual shots – small groups and individuals. Some candid and unawares. I’ve put together a selection of the kind of thing she envisages.’

He handed the tablet to Mum, and Jeanie and I moved in closer, Aunt Jeanie’s patchouli oil perfume wafting around us.

As Mum scrolled through, I smiled at photos of Jonathan, Rupert, Ellie and her business partner Philippe, taken in cafés or bars or at home. Many, Bob had caught off guard, and the picture captured the essence of that person. Where someone was conscious of his presence, they still smiled naturally, at ease with his unobtrusive manner. He had a photo of Ellie rolling her eyes at him in annoyance – and it was perfect.

‘Oooh, these are just the kind of thing I want.’

Bob winked. He knew that. We were playing out this charade for my mother.

Mum pursed her lips. ‘Surely we need formal shots, too? The bride and groom. Parents of the bride and groom. Bridesmaids and flower girl. Each side of the families. All the ladies, all the gents – the traditional shots.’

‘If that’s what Emmy wants, Flo.’ Again, the emphasis on Emmy. ‘But traditional group photos are time-consuming. You need numerous shots for one that works. Every single person must be smiling and not blinking and not moving. Then there are the little things, like making sure nobody has their hand in their pocket – it ruins the line of their suit – or stands with their feet unevenly planted, so their shoulder line is crooked.’

Mum stared at him. ‘I had no idea.’

‘The château and its gardens are a beautiful backdrop,’ Bob went on. ‘But consider how long you want people standing around in the heat. And children get bored quickly.’

At this, Dad piped up, ‘That’s a fair point, Flo.’

Bob pressed his advantage home. ‘I bet if you ask any married couple to pick out their favourite wedding photos twenty years later, it won’t be those large group ones. They’re fraught with difficulty: so-and-so died; the Browns are divorced; we fell out with Kathy, I wish she wasn’t on the photo. No. People inevitably pick a photo of the two of them that reminds them how much in love they were on the day. And then there’ll be that unposed photo of Grandpa Joe, long gone, teaching coin tricks to little Emily, or the bridesmaids laughing as someone’s headdress flies off in the wind.’

Oh, I could have hugged that man right now. My mother wavered … and crumbled. Yessss.

‘You’re right, Bob,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Having people stand around when the sun’s beating down, making everyone sweat and wilt? No. We’ll have a quick bash but not spend too long on it.’

Aunt Jeanie had kept out of it, but now she delivered the coup de grâce. ‘What’s your favourite wedding photo, Flo?’

Mum’s face softened. ‘That one of me, Dennis and Great-Aunt Ivy.’ She turned to Bob. ‘It was only a quick snap taken by my uncle outside the church. We didn’t even know he was taking it. It captures my great-aunt’s gentle face in the soft afternoon light, and she was beaming at me, so proud. Gosh, I treasure that one.’

Bob looked over at me and grinned. We’d done it.

And yet as we drove back to La Cour des Roses, the victory felt hollow, somehow, and it dawned on me that I shouldn’t have to feel victorious – I shouldn’t even have had to fight the battle. All I’d done was choose my own bloody wedding photographer, then stick by my choice. Hardly a major achievement. It was only the thousand-and-one ‘discussions’ with my mother that made it feel like a hard-won cause. And so many discussions shouldn’t have been necessary, let alone that practised performance with Bob back there at the café.

But over lunch, Mum’s brain had already moved on to other aspects of the wedding she still wasn’t satisfied with.

‘You know, it might not be too late to arrange some sort of blessing at the château.’

‘Mum, we’ve been through this. Neither Alain nor I are religious. And it’s awkward, with Alain being divorced.’

‘I know you didn’t want a church ceremony, but surely, a little blessing at the reception?’

‘A blessing would be performed by a person of the church. We don’t attend church.’

‘What about reading vows to each other, at least? We could make a little ceremony out of that.’

The tension in my shoulders tightened. Ever since Alain had explained to my mother many months ago (or possibly many lifetimes ago – it felt like it, anyway) that the only ceremony legally recognised in France was performed at the mairie – town hall to you and me – she’d sulked big-time, more so after she read on the internet (thank you, technology) about how perfunctory it was, and that people often had a church ceremony afterwards.

‘Mum, neither of us wants to announce our innermost feelings for each other in front of all our friends and relatives.’

She harrumphed. ‘It could be a damp squib, if you ask me. A quick whizz-through at the town hall, then straight to the reception.’

‘It won’t be,’ I reassured her. ‘The mayor is a friend of Alain’s and Rupert’s, so it won’t be too impersonal. It’ll be in French, so that’s a novelty for the British guests. Then our lovely reception at the château. It’ll be fabulous.’

But at this point, I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to convince my mother or myself of that.