When we got back to La Cour des Roses, Ryan was in the garden.

Rupert took out cold drinks, and they began to discuss plans for the flowerbeds, Ryan’s blond head bobbing while the dog fussed around him, nudging at his hands to be petted. She often accompanied him when he was working, and he enjoyed her company, unless she trampled delicate plants – and unless he was using any dangerous tools, when she was banished inside for safety.

I joined them, glancing at the nearest bed where nodding white daisies contrasted with bright orange nasturtiums.

‘They’re my favourite this year,’ I told Ryan, pointing at them.

‘I love them, too. Trouble is, they can take over. I think I’ll get rid of them from here after this season.’ He laughed when my face fell. ‘But I’ll put them in the borders instead, in front of the shrubs. Splashes of colour to break up the green. What do you reckon?’

‘Sounds good to me.’

Rupert may have originally hired Ryan as a seasonal gardener, but nowadays, he was landscaper, occasional odd-job man, friend – and mug, when one was required for heavy-lifting. For the latter, I had no sympathy. He shouldn’t flash all those muscles, if he didn’t want to be asked to use them.

Bored with the horticultural technicalities, the dog wandered off to lie down in the middle of a clump of ornamental grasses warmed by the sun, making a bed for herself by flattening the lot.

Ryan sighed. ‘I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t. So, Emmy, how’s it going?’

‘Depends what you mean by “it”.’

‘Work?’

‘Busy but good.’

‘Wedding?’

‘Fine, as long as I’m not arrested for matricide before the day. Mum and Dad are due at the weekend.’ I snatched his juice and drank the last dregs. ‘Mmm. Did you know I’m at Sophie’s tomorrow night?’

His face instantly lit up. Ryan had fallen for my hairdressing friend last autumn, and they’d had a few dates, but I’d worried – as had Sophie – that his annual return to the UK over the winter for work would scupper their growing romance. But when he came back in the spring, they took up right where they’d left off, and as far as I could see, they were as happy as pigs in … clover.

‘Will there be more wedding talk?’ Ryan enquired.

‘Probably. It’ll be the death of me.’

Rupert laughed. ‘It’ll be the death of Ellie, more like. Bridesmaids’ dresses? Flowers? Shoes? It goes against the grain for her.’

‘Shows what a good friend she is,’ Ryan commented. ‘I’d better get back to work. Enjoy tomorrow. You’re having pizza.’

Rupert might mock a woman’s instincts, but mine proved to be right on the button with regard to my appointment the following afternoon.

Mr Nightingale had e-mailed details and a couple of amateurish photos, but he was a bit shirty when I explained that I wouldn’t list a property without seeing it and preferred to use my own photographer.

I drove past detached houses with well-tended gardens, taking in my surroundings with a professional eye. It was suburban, but I could tout it as suitable for a family.

Then I found the address.

The yellow exterior was peeling, but it was the garden that I was worried about. ‘Garden’ in the loosest sense of the word – a wilderness of bald patches interspersed with weeds and a few forlorn shrubs.

Mr Nightingale pulled up before I had time to take the disapproval off my face.

Shaking my hand a little too vigorously, he jerked a thumb at the lawn. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll get it sorted. Won’t take long.’

Any gardener worth his salt would beg to differ. How quickly did he think he could re-turf and get flowers and plants to grow?

But he was already ushering me inside.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Old dogs. Possibly boiled cabbage. And fresh paint. Not an appealing combination.

I went further in with some trepidation. The décor wasn’t as awful as I expected, but it certainly wasn’t the tastefully decorated, pristine haven I was committed to providing for my customers. Everything was new – and cheap. Thin carpets, magnolia walls (an extra coat wouldn’t go amiss), and furniture from a low-end range. Bland, with no character.

Mr Nightingale interrupted my thoughts. ‘Great for a family holiday, isn’t it?’

I wanted to ask him why he would even think that. Instead, I sought for something neutral to let him down gently. ‘It’s too far to walk to the local village.’

He shrugged. ‘Whoever stays here will have a car.’

‘The garden won’t be useable this season.’

‘Like I said, it won’t take two minutes to neaten that up.’

Ostriches, heads and sand sprang to mind. ‘Have you had the property long, Mr Nightingale?’

‘Bought it a couple of months ago,’ he admitted. ‘Got it for a song.’

I bet you did.

He waved his hand at the newly painted walls. ‘Thought we’d best do it up right away. Get it listed. Might catch a few weeks of rental before the end of the season, don’t you think?’

No, I don’t think. Not with my company, anyway. ‘Have you listed with anybody else yet?’ I asked him, curious.

‘No. I did my homework, and you seemed the best bet. A lot of the others want a fee up front, don’t they? You only charge commission. Much more sensible way of going about things, if you ask me.’

Hmmm.

‘So, when can you get it onto your site?’ he pushed on, oblivious to my lack of enthusiasm. The man was as thick-skinned as a rhinoceros.

I had no option but to be honest. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Nightingale, but I can’t take your property on. Its situation isn’t appealing enough. I can’t advertise the garden in its current state, and it’ll take you longer to rectify than you think. As for the interior …’ I sought desperately for tact. ‘We advertise properties with character. Usually charming, well-converted older houses, but if they’re new, with high-quality interiors and furnishings.’

His face was thunderous. ‘You’re telling me this is a load of old tat, are you?’ He pointed at the flat-pack dining table as though it was antique solid oak. ‘I spent weeks doing this place up!’

‘I’m sure, but I’m afraid it’s not …’

‘Not up to your snobby standards? Pardon me for being an ordinary, hard-working bloke.’

‘Mr Nightingale, what you’ve done here is fine, but I run a specialised business, and it wouldn’t suit my clients.’

‘Rich bastards, no doubt. Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. There are plenty of other agencies around, Miss High-and-Mighty Jamieson.’

‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ I nodded curtly and left.

As I drove away, my hands were shaking on the steering wheel from the confrontation, but I knew this would happen from time to time – people who hadn’t read the company’s ethos properly before contacting me or were deluded about what constituted a quality property with character and position. As an estate agent, Ellie Fielding dealt with people like that all the time – she’d regaled me with all sorts of tales. Maybe I should ask her for some pointers.

By the time I arrived back at La Cour des Roses, I was calm again. Climbing out of the car, I looked over at the guesthouse, green foliage clinging to its grey stone walls, jaunty blue-painted shutters, roses around the doorway, then swept my gaze across the lavender-lined courtyard to where the gîte building stood, long and low in cream stone, its three wooden doorways framed by climbing grapevines.

La Cour des Roses was, in my mind, perfect. And I could put up with the occasional awkward meeting in order to stick to my guns and advertise properties like this.

That evening, I collapsed with relief on Sophie’s sofa in her tiny flat above her salon. It was a small but pretty space, with fairy lights and candles, and I immediately relaxed.

Pizza was in the oven, wine was chilled and Ellie was in the armchair, grumpy at Sophie for daring to comment on the parlous state of her love life – often non-existent, due to the fact that she was averse to romance in middle age, preferring companionship and sex without roses and candlelight.

I listened to them bicker with affection. When I’d walked into Sophie’s salon for a haircut last year, I’d never have guessed that we’d become such firm friends. As for Ellie, she’d frightened the life out of me at first, but nowadays I loved her no-nonsense attitude and vicious sense of humour.

Both were my designated bridesmaids, along with Kate, my best friend back in the UK. Since we were just having a civil ceremony followed by a reception, I didn’t officially need bridesmaids, only witnesses – but to pacify my mother (and probably, to be fair, our own subconscious desire to choose dresses we wouldn’t normally get the chance to), we were going the whole hog.

‘When did you last date someone properly?’ Sophie asked Ellie, her English excellent (due to time in England in her misspent youth), her accent sexy.

Ellie squinted as she thought about it. ‘Maybe five months ago? February time. Colin. Didn’t last. Three weeks at most.’

‘February?’ I smirked. ‘He didn’t dare give you a Valentine’s card, did he?’

Ellie curled her lip. ‘Hardly. He knew the rules.’

‘So what went wrong?’ Sophie asked.

Ellie sighed. ‘I think my age went wrong.’

Sophie and I greeted this with puzzled looks.

‘I’m fifty-four,’ Ellie told us. ‘Let’s face it, I’m unlikely to get together with anyone under fifty and probably wouldn’t want to. But you know, somewhere deep inside, I think I’m only thirty, tops. It’s not easy reconciling yourself to dating middle-aged, podgy blokes with a comb-over when what you really fancy is a slightly older version of Ryan.’

Sophie’s eyes widened, and I burst out laughing.

‘So it’s not easy, finding someone I’m attracted to,’ Ellie went on. ‘Oh, I’m practical about it. I’m only asking for someone who’s still reasonably fit. Someone with a sense of humour, who’ll respect my boundaries. But men like that are few and far between, and I won’t compromise. Why should I, at my age?’

Sophie nodded understanding. ‘So what happened with Colin?’

‘He was … okay. We slept together and it was okay. His conversation was okay. But I want something better. Or nothing at all. It’s not as if I’m not content with my own company most of the time.’

‘There is nobody at the moment?’ Sophie asked.

Ellie sipped her wine, a hesitation that made me wonder if she was keeping something back, but then gave a definitive shake of her head. ‘Nah. Not at the moment.’

‘What about you and Ryan?’ I asked Sophie, taking the opportunity to pry. ‘How’s that going?’

She smiled sweetly. ‘It is going very well.’

‘I told you he wouldn’t lose interest over the winter,’ Ellie reminded her. ‘Anyone could see that he was as keen as mustard.’

Sophie frowned. ‘What do you mean, mustard?’

I laughed. ‘A very British expression you have no need for. How long have you been seeing each other now?’

‘A few dates before he went back to the UK. And he came back to France in March, so … over four months now.’

Ellie raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘Sounds serious.’

Sophie’s cheeks went a little pink. ‘We like each other’s company. But he will have to go back to England for the winter again, so I would be sensible not to get too settled.’

Ellie’s lips twitched. ‘You’re already settled. Like the bride-to-be over here – disgustingly contented.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ I asked.

‘Nothing, if you like that kind of thing.’ Ellie looked back at Sophie. ‘You’re not going to start flashing an engagement ring, too, are you?’

‘It is far too soon for things like that,’ Sophie chided. ‘But …’ She hesitated. ‘He did buy me something.’

She disappeared into her bedroom, returning with a little jewellery box. Inside it lay a solid silver charm bracelet. She lifted it out and we peered closer.

‘You see?’ Sophie pointed to a couple of charms already attached. ‘A pair of scissors for my hairdressing and a daisy head for his gardening, to start it off. He will buy something for each birthday and Christmas, he said.’

Ellie and I exchanged looks over the top of the bracelet.

‘Sounds like he’s thinking long term to me, Sophie,’ Ellie said gently.

Sophie’s eyes were shining. ‘It sounded that way to me, too,’ she admitted. ‘Oh! The pizza!’

She rushed off to the tiny kitchenette, bringing back slightly burned pizza slices on plates.

We took hungry bites.

‘Mum and Dad are coming again at the weekend,’ I announced, now that I’d absorbed enough wine into my bloodstream to mention the unmentionable.

‘Heaven preserve us.’ Ellie rolled her eyes, but there was a smile at her lips. ‘What’s on the agenda this time? Surely everything’s in place by now?’

When Ellie and my mother had first met, I’d thought it would be a Clash of the Redheads, but they got on surprisingly well. Ever since, Ellie pretended to complain about my mother, but it was really the wedding fuss she was complaining about, due to the fact that she didn’t have a romantic bone in her body.

I wagged a finger at her. ‘According to my mother, just because everything’s in place doesn’t mean it can’t be checked, double-checked or tweaked more to one’s liking.’

‘She is not demanding to see us in our dresses again, is she?’ Sophie asked.

‘Like a general inspecting her troops,’ Ellie grumbled.

‘I think you’re safe,’ I reassured them. ‘You two are teacher’s pets at the moment, because you’re all sorted. Kate’s still in the doghouse.’

My choice of bridesmaids had been one of the heart and not of practicality.

Kate lived in the UK. Ellie and Sophie lived in France. Ellie was middle-aged, tall and thin, with short, bright red hair. Sophie was thirty, small and petite with a wavy blonde bob. Kate was a pretty blonde, too, but with impressive breasts that had most men struggling to concentrate on her face when they were talking to her.

When Kate came over in the spring to shop for dresses, we’d set off in high spirits, but it was soon apparent that my friends were so different in size and shape, no one style could do justice to them all.

After an exhausting day of trying every bridesmaid dress within a thirty-mile radius, we’d sat outside a café, pooped.

‘I’m too short,’ Sophie grumbled. ‘Everything drapes a metre past my feet.’

‘If it was big enough to fit my top half, the bottom half was the size of a tent,’ Kate complained. ‘Anything smaller was too clingy. That last one was ridiculous. The chances of these puppies staying in there were nil.’ She cupped her breasts with her hands, to help Sophie with translation.

‘At least you have something up top.’ Ellie peered down her own T-shirt. ‘I go straight up and down. That brown dress made me look like a twig. And there’s a limit to how much skin I want to expose at my age.’

We fell quiet, but then Ellie slapped the table, making us all jump.

‘We’re coming at this from the wrong angle,’ she said. ‘Finding something we can all wear – same style, same colour – is impossible. We should celebrate the fact that we’re different.’

Sophie looked at her hopefully. ‘What do you mean?’

‘We should pick a colour range. Emmy wants the flowers to include sprigs of lavender from La Cour des Roses, right? So we could agree, say, lilac through to purple, then each find something that suits us. If we’re careful, it’ll look great. Individual and unusual. We could send each other photos before we buy, to see what the others think. And Kate, you could take your time finding yours back in the UK.’

I planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re a genius! If we get it right, you’ll look beautiful and feel comfortable.’

Ellie grinned. ‘And if we get it wrong, we’ll look like an uncoordinated shambles.’

The rebel in me shrugged. ‘I like a touch of individuality about a wedding.’

Since then, Ellie and Sophie had both found gorgeous dresses – Ellie’s long and softly draping in a deep purple satin; Sophie’s lilac in a 1950s-style, with a sweetheart neckline, cinched waste and flared taffeta skirt – and had moved on to a prolonged hunt for shoes and other accessories, Sophie loving every minute and Ellie grumbling in her wake.

I couldn’t wait to see how they looked in everything at the wedding, and to see everyone’s reactions.

But poor Kate was still at the starter’s gate.

‘She’s scoured every shop in Birmingham,’ I told them now. ‘She even tried dieting.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ Ellie spluttered. ‘Kate’s not overweight.’

‘That’s what I told her. I had to point out that she can’t expect to lose weight from only her boobs, so she’d still have the same proportions.’

They both laughed. And despite knowing that Kate was panicking, I joined in. I would be proud to have Kate by my side at my wedding, no matter what she wore.

I allowed my mind to drift to the idea of standing outside the town hall, married to my man and surrounded by friends and family, the fuss all worth it, and smiled.

‘Oooh!’ Sophie bounced up from her chair. ‘I brought the colour charts up from the salon.’ She placed them across our knees, her face suggesting she was hoping to experiment.

But Ellie jabbed at her regular colour on the chart with a midnight-blue nail. ‘I’ll have the usual, thank you.’

Sophie frowned. ‘But you were worried it might clash with your dress.’

Ellie curled her lip. ‘If you think I’m dying my hair purple for Emmy’s wedding …’

‘It could look stunning,’ Sophie mused. ‘But no. I was only going to tone it down, so it’s a little darker, a little less …’

‘Obtrusive?’

‘I love your hair, you know I do. It would only be this once.’

Ellie smiled at Sophie fondly. ‘I trust you.’

Satisfied, Sophie turned to me. ‘Emmy?’

‘I’ll go with the usual, too.’ My hair had been perfect ever since Sophie had got her hands on it – no longer mousy brown, but highlighted with blondes and golds.

Sophie tutted. ‘You are both so unadventurous.’ She fingered my hair. ‘I think more gold and less blonde this time, or you will look pale in your dress.’

‘Makes sense. Go for it.’

‘I hate weddings,’ Ellie muttered good-naturedly.

I laughed. ‘Then why the hell did you agree to be my bridesmaid?’

‘I was scared your mother might beat me up if I refused.’

‘Emmy. Have you heard from Kate lately?’

My mother the next morning, on a mission. Was she psychic? Had she somehow sensed me talking to Ellie and Sophie about Kate last night? I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

I suppressed a groan. ‘I spoke to her a few days ago.’

‘Has she found a dress yet?’

‘No, but she spends every weekend looking. She’s having trouble finding anything, Mum. I feel really sorry for her.’ For good measure, I added, ‘So do Ellie and Sophie,’ in the hope my mother might take the hint and feel sorry for Kate, too.

She only harrumphed. ‘It’s all very well everybody sympathising with her, Emmy, but that isn’t solving the problem, is it? It isn’t just a question of the dress. I hope Kate hasn’t underestimated the time it’ll take to find shoes and other accessories.’

‘I’m sure she hasn’t.’

‘Will you chase her?’

‘If you like.’ As if we don’t talk about it every time we chat.

‘Fine. Don’t forget, mind. I’ll see you on Friday, and you can give me a progress report.’

I ended the call with a sigh – and with no intention of nagging poor Kate to death.

My resolve wavered, however, when the florist phoned, asking when I could confirm the flowers.

‘All I know is that you want lavender from La Cour des Roses and white roses,’ Madame Pascal said gently. ‘The other colours? You do not know yet? They must be ordered especially.’

‘I know. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.’ I could sense my mother’s I told you so from across the Channel. ‘But only two of the three bridesmaids have their dresses.’

‘Oh dear. With four weeks to go?’

‘Yes. It’s complicated.’

‘Hmm. Could you bring the two dresses into the shop, at least? It will give me a starting point, and you said you want simple bouquets, so we do not want too many colours anyway.’

‘Yes, I can do that.’

‘And could you bring a sprig of lavender with you, so I can identify it? There are many different types, you know, all with a different shade.’

‘No problem. Thank you for phoning. I appreciate it.’

Urgh. With a heavy heart, I texted Kate. Any luck on the dress front yet?

Her reply came back almost immediately. No, but not through lack of trying. I’ll keep at it.

That was all I could ask.

The florist’s call galvanised me into further action, and I brought up my to-do list on my laptop, cobbled together from Mum’s frequent missives.

Hmm. The pâtisserie could wait till I was next in town. But I phoned the château to make an appointment for an evening the following week, texted Alain to let him know I expected him to accompany me, then texted Mum to let her know I’d done it.

Did I get any praise in return? No. What I got was, Have you booked the final fitting for your dress yet?

I texted back, Yes. Next Wednesday. And figured I still had a darned sight more to get through before I could expect a pat on the head for my efforts.

Our guest Diane’s enthusiasm for board games knew no bounds. Even on non-meal nights, she collared people when they got in from a restaurant and only wanted to relax in a squishy armchair to allow their digestion to recover in peace.

‘You and your ideas. Why you thought putting those games in the lounge was a good idea, I don’t know,’ Rupert grumbled as we cooked Thursday night’s guest meal.

‘I was only copying what you did in the gîtes.’ I wafted my wooden spoon at him. ‘They’re a good idea for rainy and low-season days. It’s a gesture.’

‘I’ll give you a gesture.’ He did, and it wasn’t polite. ‘You watch the exodus tonight when we suggest coffee in the lounge.’

‘Then we’ll go outside, so she isn’t reminded about the games.’

Reaching for my phone, I took photos of the baked brie that Rupert took out of the oven. I would do the same with each course. It was a habit that drove him mad.

‘Do you have to do that?’

I checked the photo wasn’t blurry before Rupert whisked the food to the table. ‘I don’t see you complaining about the result – people spotting all this fab grub on social media and booking for the food alone.’

‘I hate social media.’

‘I’m not a fan myself, but it does the trick.’

‘I notice you don’t take photos of any breakfast eggs you’ve cooked.’

‘Duh. The idea is to tempt people, not put them off.’

When dinner was over, Rupert poked his head hopefully outside, but a light summer drizzle precluded coffee on the patio. Replete with baked brie, chicken in cider sauce and homemade meringues with summer berries, our guests didn’t comment when we served coffee at the table instead of the lounge.

Except for Diane.

‘Oh, what a good idea!’ she exclaimed. ‘There’s far more room on here for that big war game.’

Abigail and Brian looked at the other guests in panic, and Abigail hastily piped up, ‘How about good old-fashioned charades instead? Who’s up for that?’

Sighs of relief, acceptance of brandy by a couple of the blokes to shore themselves up before making idiots of themselves, and we repaired to the lounge to scribble out movie titles on scraps of paper.

I hadn’t played charades for years, but I’d imbibed enough wine to decide it was fun.

Not that I was any good at it. You try miming Jean de Florette at eleven at night after three glasses of wine, and see how well you do.