Abigail and Brian Harris’ departure the next morning paved the way for Mum and Dad’s arrival later that afternoon.

My parents loved coming over to France for long weekends. I only wished my father could relax more when they were here, but there was always the wedding to discuss, a venue to see, a menu to peruse.

Rupert had taken it upon himself to rescue my dad at any opportunity, bless him, showing him around the garden (yet again) or taking him to the bar in town for a drink, under the guise of needing his advice on financial matters. Dad might have been an accounts manager for a large firm, but Rupert was savvy and didn’t need advice. Perhaps they talked about cricket.

While we waited for them to arrive, I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop, looking ahead at the bookings.

‘Urgh.’

Rupert came to my side to view the August spreadsheet. ‘What’s up?’

‘The Hendersons are up. In just over a week’s time.’

‘Urgh,’ he echoed.

I’d made the Hendersons’ acquaintance last summer in the midst of Nathan’s philandering and desertion with Gloria, and it wasn’t something I had fond memories of. You could argue that I was bound to have an unfavourable opinion, considering the surrounding circumstances – that it coloured my opinion of them somewhat. I would argue back that you couldn’t turn a stuck-up couple with as much empathy as a teabag into a delightful pair of guests overnight, and Rupert would agree with me.

It made no difference. They were Rupert’s longest-standing customers, came each year, recommended La Cour des Roses to everyone they knew, and much buttering-up was required.

‘And for almost a fortnight this time,’ I lamented. ‘A week was hard enough, last year.’

‘Look at it this way, Emmy. It’ll make you appreciate the other guests all the more, won’t it?’

He was saved from an interesting reply by my parents’ arrival.

When we’d greeted them, Mum and I settled on the patio while Dad took his usual garden tour, looking more enraptured by the minute as they wandered past roses and lilies, silvery weeping pears, delicate weeping willows. And since Ryan was working, that entailed even deeper discussions.

‘Gorgeous,’ Dad declared when he joined us, and Rupert went to make a pot of tea. ‘Ryan knows his stuff. I don’t know how you ever get anything done. I’d sit here all day!’

Dad needed a rest, not a weekend of wedding flurry.

Didn’t look like he was going to get it.

‘Now, Emmy, just four weeks to go,’ Mum reminded me, as if I didn’t already have the daily countdown built into my brain. ‘While we’re here, we need to—’

I placed a halting hand on her arm. ‘Mum, I appreciate all you’ve done with the wedding. I couldn’t have done it without you. But you are supposed to have a bit of a break while you’re here.’

Overhearing as he came out with a tray of tea and homemade lemon drizzle cake, but pretending he hadn’t, Rupert said, ‘You won’t believe what kind of a week I had going back to London to haggle with Gloria. Even the gendarmes got involved …’

And somehow, he managed to reroute the conversation by telling them all about his trip to London, his battles with Gloria and his subsequent brush with the law over his trailer.

I loved Rupert, I really did.

That evening, Alain joined us for a meal at a local restaurant.

Mum liked the place for its formal Frenchness, its white table linen and polite staff. Dad liked it for the superb food. Rupert liked it because it saved him from cooking, and Alain liked it because it saved him from my cooking.

As we sipped our wine, Rupert continued his mission to keep the conversation away from weddings by delving deep into his extensive library of anecdotes.

‘This restaurant’s a darned sight more civilised than the place Gloria and I once made the mistake of trying during a weekend in Carcassonne,’ he announced.

‘Why? Was the food awful?’ Mum asked.

‘Never got the chance to taste it. The service left something to be desired, though. There were three couples at the table next to us – French – getting a bit loud, a bit drunk. It all kicked off when the waiter reached across the table for a plate and knocked red wine over one of the women.’

Dad winced. ‘Red wine?’

‘Yup. Over white jeans and a pale top. One of the men jumped up and lambasted the waiter, whose apology, from what I could gather – bearing in mind this was all in rapid French and getting a bit heated – didn’t hold much conviction. I’m not sure what the waiter said, but whatever it was, the women took offence. There was a lot of shouting, and they got up to leave.’

‘Without paying?’ I asked.

‘Exactly. The waiter called across to a woman who must have been the owner, and they both followed the group outside, with everyone gesticulating and yelling insults at each other. Gloria and I felt more than uncomfortable by that stage, I can tell you.'

‘I should imagine so.’ Mum looked horrified. ‘Did you leave?’

‘We wanted to, but we didn’t dare because we’d already ordered. But when the rest of the staff stormed outside, too, we decided to call it quits and sidle off.’

‘Did you get caught?’ Dad wanted to know.

‘They didn’t even see us go. The owner of the restaurant and the woman who’d had the wine spilled over her had got into a cat fight – hair-pulling, rolling around on the ground, the whole works. The blokes and the waiters were cheering them on and shoving each other around. Never seen anything like it! I half-expected the cook to come out brandishing a cleaver!’

‘Tell me he didn’t,’ I begged.

Rupert shook his head sadly. ‘No. It’d make a much better story if he had, don’t you think?’

Our laughter was interrupted by the arrival of our starters. Bless Rupert for providing an opening for everyone to spend the rest of the meal exchanging tales of dubious restaurant experiences.

As we finished our main course, Alain’s mobile rang.

‘Excuse me.’ He took the call in French, and I gathered it was his mother, Mireille, sounding flustered. He went outside so as not to disturb the other diners in the restaurant.

‘Is everything okay?’ I asked him when he came back.

‘Yes and no. You know Mum and Dad are looking after Gabriel and Chloe for a week soon, while Adrien and Sabine go away together?’

I nodded. Alain’s parents were usually more than happy to look after their grandchildren for Alain’s brother and his wife. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Yeah. Mum had it down as next week. She’s positive that’s what Sabine told her. But Adrien rang up to confirm, and it’s this coming week. They arrive tomorrow.’

‘Eek.’

‘Double eek – Dad has old friends coming over from the UK, and they’re all booked into a hotel in Honfleur for a mid-week break together. It can’t be changed now.’

‘Crap.’

‘That about sums it up.’

My mind raced across the possibilities. ‘So they can take the children for some of the time?’ When Alain nodded, I said, ‘Could you – we – take them for the rest of the time?’

He hesitated as the idea sank in. ‘I guess so. They’ve never stayed down here with me, though – I always go up to Mum and Dad’s when Adrien and Sabine come over from Kent.’

That was understandable. It was one thing playing happy families at his parents’ place on the outskirts of Paris. Quite another to host his adulterous ex-wife, the brother she ran off with and their offspring in his own home – the home he bought with Sabine.

‘What about your work?’ I asked him. ‘Would it be too difficult?’

He closed his eyes as he mentally went through his diary and workload, then opened them again. ‘I’d have to rearrange a few things, then catch up next weekend. I don’t want to get too behind before the wedding. But yes, it would be great to have them.’ He reached out a hand. ‘I could do with some help entertaining them whenever you’re free, though.’

I smiled, perfectly happy with the idea of borrowing someone else’s children, enjoying myself for a few days, then handing them back to their rightful owners.

‘I’m sure we can carve Emmy some extra free time out next week,’ Rupert said jovially.

‘And it’ll give you a chance to get to know them better before the wedding,’ Mum chipped in.

Alain’s four-year-old niece and almost-six-year-old nephew were to be our flower girl and page boy – something that had caused a great deal of excitement with Chloe. We’d asked them the one time I’d met them so far, at Christmas, when we’d stayed at Alain’s parents with the whole family.

Mum frowned. ‘Isn’t your appointment at the château one evening next week?’

Damn. I was hoping she wouldn’t remember that.

‘Yes, but we won’t be able to go if we have the children, Mum, will we?’ Shame.

‘Make sure you rearrange it,’ Mum said firmly. ‘And what about your dress fitting on Wednesday?’ That woman had a memory like a computer chip. ‘You can’t miss that. If any alterations are needed, we’ll run out of time. Only four weeks to go, remember.’

How could I forget?

‘Okay,’ I capitulated. One out of two ain’t bad.

I turned to Alain. ‘Call your mum back and tell her we can take them.’

I welcomed gîte changeover day when my parents were staying, because it meant a reprieve from wedding talk.

Mum understood that my Saturdays were spoken for and allowed Dad to take her out for the day, to explore local towns or châteaux, enjoy the scenery and lunch out. At the guest meal, she knew she was implicitly banned from wedding talk in front of the other guests, for fear of boring them to death. Dad would ply her with wine, and she would relax and enjoy the others’ company – we hoped.

Since Rupert had managed to deflect her from her favourite subject yesterday, too, I knew we were in for it tomorrow, but that was fair enough. The wedding was one of the reasons for their visit, after all.

Game-mad Diane and John were leaving today, thank goodness. I hoped that their replacements, Kerry and Malcolm, would be a better bet.

‘How are the wedding preparations?’ Madame Dupont asked as we began to clean out the first vacated gîte, our routine like a well-oiled machine.

I would have said ‘like a steamroller’, but I didn’t know the word in French. ‘I’m sure we’ll discuss it in great detail tomorrow when Alain comes round.’

Madame Dupont tutted. ‘All this fuss nowadays. When I got married, we simply put on our best clothes and got married. Tea and cake afterwards, and that was that.’

‘You didn’t have a wedding dress?’

‘We had no money for things like that. Some people did, but not us.’ There was a trace of self-pity on her face, but it was quickly banished. Madame Dupont didn’t believe in self-pity. ‘I am sure you will look beautiful, Emie. Show me the photo of your dress again.’

I dug my phone out of my pocket, and when she squinted, her eyes not good enough to pick up the details, I did my best to find the vocabulary to describe the white satin dress with spaghetti straps and fitted bodice, the skirt flaring gently down to beyond my toes. The satin was overlaid with fine lace, and that lace outer layer went above the neckline – enough to hide any imperfections but still showing my suntanned skin – then stretched over my shoulders to form lacy capped sleeves over the thin ribbon straps.

Madame Dupont ran a bony finger across the screen. ‘It is so pretty. And your mother approves?’

‘Yes, thankfully.’

I smiled at the memory of the subterfuge employed to keep Mum happy. She’d wanted me to shop for my dress in England, but that was impractical. Instead, Sophie and Ellie and I had narrowed it down to three dresses, so Mum could come over and help me choose. The truth was, I’d known which one I wanted from the moment I’d tried it on, so we’d made sure the other two contenders weren’t right – one too clingy, the other high-necked and trussed-up.

My mother had gasped the moment I came out of the changing room in my favourite one. ‘Emmy, you look so beautiful.’

I’d gazed in the mirror, and for once I could believe it.

I made a hash of explaining all this to Madame Dupont now, but she got the gist.

‘You are a good girl, Emie, doing all that to keep your mother happy.’

‘I’ve learned that if my mother is happy, Madame Dupont, then so is everyone else.’

She cackled at the wisdom of that. ‘As for your wedding favours, I have finished my part, and with time to spare. When you take me home, perhaps you should take photographs and send them to your mother for her approval?’

‘I’d love to see them. You are so kind to do that for me.’

Discussions of wedding favours had not gone well at the start. I couldn’t see the point of them, and in my effort to keep the wedding on this side of lavish, I’d told my mother I thought they were an unnecessary extra.

But she’d been reading too many magazines, had found out they were de rigueur, and she was insistent – although she did waver momentarily when her research led her to the likely cost, causing her to purse her lips and tighten her purse.

‘Ridiculous. Have you seen the price of these? All for a little something that nobody wants!’

I should have known better than to think that would be an end to the matter.

‘Although people sometimes make them themselves to keep costs down, apparently,’ she went on. ‘I bet something like this would be right up your Aunt Jeanie’s street. She has a creative streak, doesn’t she? Likes to think outside the box.’

That’s the kindest term for it.

Sure enough, the minute Mum mentioned it to Jeanie, she was off and running. Knowing I wanted lavender from La Cour des Roses in my bouquet, she came up with the idea of pouches of dried lavender for the ladies, tied with ribbon and nestled in antique china cups and saucers sourced from jumble sales and flea markets, and pouches of sweets for the men.

When I’d told Madame Dupont many weeks ago, her eyes had lit up.

‘I can save your aunt a little time and money,’ she’d said. ‘I have a few pieces of antique china at home that I never use, for your aunt to add to her collection. Those cupboards are far too cluttered. As for the lavender pouches, do you know what your aunt will make them from?’

I’d admitted I had no idea – crafts were not my forte – but she’d said, ‘I have just the thing. I will show you when I come next time.’

The next day, she’d brought with her an example – a small, delicate, plain white handkerchief.

‘Feel it. You see? It is so soft because it is silk. I have a whole drawer full at home.’ When I’d raised an eyebrow, she’d explained, ‘My grandparents ran a haberdashery store many decades ago, and these were left when they sold up. I have at least forty, and no use for them, so there would be enough for the ladies. I could embroider the corners with yours and Alain’s initials, and you could use them to wrap the lavender. What do you think?’

I had hugged her tightly and said they would be admired and treasured, which made her beam with pleasure.

Now, she looked pleased that I was still enthusiastic. When we got to her cottage, she opened the glass door of her dresser to show me the dozen cups and saucers she’d promised, then pulled at a stiff drawer where the handkerchiefs were neatly laid flat, and lifted one out.

Taking it, I examined the neat purple embroidery in the corner – a cursive E and A intertwined.

I felt tears well, that she would do this for me, but held them back. Madame Dupont didn’t approve of too much sentiment.

‘Oh, Madame Dupont, they’re perfect. They must have taken you hours!’

She shrugged. ‘It gave me something to do, here on my own in the evenings.’

Her words gave me a jolt as I realised I’d never thought too much about how isolated Madame Dupont must feel out here. I took the fact that I could drive and had a car for granted, zipping to Alain’s or Ellie’s or Sophie’s whenever I wanted. I knew Madame Dupont’s family visited when they could, that she spent a night at her sister’s each week … She came across as so capable and self-sufficient, it hadn’t occurred to me that perhaps she was also lonely.

As I took photographs to send to my mother, I resolved to bear Madame Dupont’s situation in mind more in the future.

Sunday morning was laundry morning – shoving load after load of bedding from the gîtes into the washer, then pegging them out to dry at the bottom of the garden, as far from view of the guests as possible. The aesthetic downside of this was made up for by fresh-smelling linen that dried ridiculously quickly in the hot summer sunshine, and of course it was environmentally friendly. Madame Dupont would set to with Rupert’s fancy pressing machine on Monday. It looked dangerous to me, so I never went near it – I had visions of pressing my arm flat by mistake.

With a couple of loads out and another in the machine, I sat out on the patio with Rupert, my parents and the dog. Gloria always gravitated towards my dad, and he was happy to indulge her, stroking her velvet ears as she rested her chin on his knees. Other guests had dotted themselves about the grounds on chairs and benches hidden away down little paths amongst the flowers and shrubs.

‘Now, about the wedding,’ Mum began, unable to delay her favourite subject any longer.

Rupert circumspectly offered to put some lunch together and scuttled off into the kitchen.

‘First and foremost, you need to get Kate sorted with her dress, Emmy.’

I remembered the florist’s phone call mid-week, and that I still hadn’t taken her the dresses. I mentally moved it to the top of my list.

‘I texted Kate. She’s doing her best, Mum. It’s not easy for her.’

‘Easy or not, tell her to get a move on, otherwise I’ll make her wear some tie-dye kaftan monstrosity of Aunt Jeanie’s.’

I laughed. The epitome of the hippie who wouldn’t let go, Aunt Jeanie was not famed for her conformity in fashion – or in any other area of her life, come to that – and my mother disapproved of the way her sister-in-law combined obscure items in her wardrobe and ever-changing hair colours with total abandon.

To change the subject, I updated Mum on the rings and gift list, and promised I’d double-check the cake soon.

‘Alain’s dealing with the cars and the band,’ I told her confidently, with no idea whether he’d made any inroads or not, thereby throwing him to the wolves.

I could almost see her making a mental note to ask him when he got here. Oops.

She fished in her bag and handed me a printed spreadsheet of the guest list, showing where numbers stood.

I dutifully cast my eye down it. ‘Not too many refusals.’

Mum smiled smugly. ‘The temptation of a weekend at a château might have played a part in that, don’t you think?’

I mentally rolled my eyes at her insistence on calling the hotel a château. I would owe Alain his ten euros, at this rate.

‘And we made the right decision, choosing a Friday,’ Mum went on. ‘Quite a few people said they preferred it. Gives them a chance to recover on the Saturday before heading home on the Sunday.’

Talk about selective memory. That wasn’t a decision; it was a necessity. I opened my mouth to remind her that the town hall was already booked up on the Saturday, as was the château, but I decided life was too short.

Rupert brought out a tray of white wine and glasses along with cheese, cold meats, bread and tomatoes for lunch – gently pushing the dog’s hopeful nose away – and I grabbed a glass and filled it, earning a look of mild disapproval from my dad. I gave him a Hey, don’t deny me my anaesthetic look back.

When Mum excused herself and went off to the loo, my audible sigh of relief made Dad and Rupert burst out laughing.

‘If it’s any consolation, Emmy, I get this all the time at home,’ Dad said mildly.

‘It’s no consolation at all.’

Dad sipped his wine, allowing it to potter around his taste buds. ‘Mmm. That’s good.’ Picking up the bottle, he studied the label. ‘Might take some of that home. Where did you get it?’

‘Supermarket,’ Rupert told him. ‘Nothing fancy, but nice and light for afternoon drinking.’

‘Definitely.’ Dad smiled across at me. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that there is at least one thing regarding the wedding over which you will have no battles with your mother, Emmy.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘Your eschewing of stag and hen nights. Your mother can’t bear them.’ He turned to Rupert. ‘Can you imagine Flo approving of strippers?’

Rupert snorted, sending wine down the wrong way and making him cough. ‘As best man, I’m grateful not to get embroiled in any of that. Too old. Too worried about being un-PC. Too scared of what Flo would do to me if she found out.’

Dad laughed. ‘Those hordes of young women who wander around Birmingham city centre on a Saturday afternoon in pink tutus and tiaras make Flo apoplectic. “Undignified” is the kindest word she comes up with. Good decision, Emmy, love.’

‘It would be nice to be credited with the moral high ground and a sense of dignity and maturity, Dad, but I’m afraid our motives were more practical than anything else. It’s hard enough getting everyone here for the wedding. Hen and stag nights would be impossible.’

‘Has Alain’s family confirmed when they’ll come down to La Cour des Roses before the wedding yet?’ Mum asked as she came back out.

I shrugged. ‘They’re taking the gîtes, so they can come any time from the Saturday before the wedding. Alain’s mum’s waiting for Adrien and Sabine to decide when they’ll travel over from Kent.’

‘Hmmph.’ Mum didn’t like such dilly-dallying. ‘I must say, Sabine has some audacity, coming to her ex-husband’s wedding – and with the man she left him for. It’s all rather awkward, if you ask me.’

‘Mum, we went through all this when we sent out the invitations. We could hardly invite Adrien and the children without Sabine, could we? I’m sure Sabine would have liked to skip it, but she could hardly do that, with Chloe and Gabriel’s roles at the wedding. The children will already be staying somewhere new and meeting a bunch of people they don’t know. Their mum should be here for them, and she will be. I admire her for not ducking out.’

Mum nodded, resigned. ‘I do, too, Emmy. Putting your children above your own feelings is right and proper.’

Of course, Mum was right – a family situation like that could be awkward, but only for people on the outside. The principal players could deal with it. Alain had adjusted to his family situation as far as could be expected over the years, and although he and his brother were understandably less close than they once were, and relations with Sabine were on the strained side, the family dynamic was functioning at the best level anyone could realistically expect. Gabriel and Chloe had helped with that – they were so loveable, and it was important to the adults that they were kept oblivious of any undercurrents.

When I’d met them at Christmas, I’d found Adrien relaxed and easy-going, and despite feeling that I should dislike Sabine, she was friendly and made an effort to ask me about La Cour des Roses, my business and how I was finding my new life in France. If she hadn’t been my fiancé’s ex-wife who’d left him for his brother, perhaps we could have become good friends. As it was, I was happy to let bygones be bygones as far as possible. What was between her and Alain had taken place long before I was on the scene, and it wasn’t in anyone’s interests for us not to get along together.

My world brightened as Alain came around the side of the house.

‘Sorry I’m late. Call from a client.’

I narrowed my eyes at him, although they were twinkling. Call from a client, my arse.

‘Did I miss anything?’ he asked innocently.

Rupert passed him a large glass of wine.

‘We’ve covered Kate’s dress and the guest list so far.’ Mum kissed him and handed him the sheet of paper.

Alain reached into his shirt pocket, took out his reading glasses and slipped them on.

My stomach flipped. I had no idea why it still did that after all this time, but seeing him in his reading glasses never failed to turn me on. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t need them, to be turned on – but they did add a certain something. Unfortunately, the ensuing tingles were hardly appropriate, with my parents breathing down our necks.

‘You’re sure there won’t be any problems with Emmy’s documents?’ Mum asked him.

‘Alain spends his working life buried in French red tape,’ I chided gently. ‘It’s all been dealt with.’ I shuddered as I remembered the to-ing and fro-ing of my documents to get this certified and that translated and the other legalised.

‘I spoke to Patrice – the mayor – and he agreed everything’s in order,’ Alain reassured her patiently.

‘Emmy said you’re dealing with the cars and the band?’

Alain shot me a look, and I pasted an innocent expression on my face.

‘I spoke to one of the guys in the band yesterday,’ he told her. ‘They’re all set. I haven’t talked to the car company yet, but I’ll make it a priority this week.’

‘What about Gabriel and Chloe? Has Sabine sorted their outfits out yet?’

‘She had to leave it till the last minute, because they’re growing so quickly.’

Mum backed off a little. ‘Oh, yes, well, children do have a habit of doing that, don’t they? As long as it’s all in hand.’

Knowing she needed more to feed her endless appetite for wedding details, Alain kindly elaborated. ‘Gabriel will be in trousers, shirt and tie. No jacket – he’ll only get hot and take it off. They couldn’t get Chloe’s dress in the right colour range, so it’ll be white, but Sabine’s having a purple sash made, and a matching tie for Gabriel.’

Mum reached out to take his hand. ‘I’m sorry I’m nagging. I know it’s difficult for you, Alain, with the history between you all.’

‘Don’t worry, Flo. I know you need to know these things.’

‘So. About the seating plan …’

Alain’s smile was a tad forced as Mum went inside to retrieve it from her room.

Dad topped up Alain’s wine. ‘Don’t worry, son, we’ll get there in the end, and it’ll all be worth it. You’ll see.’