The drive to Alain’s parents wasn’t too onerous, although his little hatchback was more suited to zipping around town than travelling with a ‘family’ of four. But the kids happily squashed into the back, listening to the CDs that Mireille had lent us and laughing at my deliberately rubbish attempts to sing along to the French songs, allowing Alain to concentrate on the drive.

Alain’s parents’ house in the suburbs was large, surrounded by lawn and rockeries. Christopher had done well for himself in the engineering industry and was still adjusting to retirement. I wondered if they would think about downsizing soon, but I supposed they needed enough rooms to accommodate family coming to stay.

Adrien opened the door and the children threw themselves at him, jabbering about lions and caves and nettles.

‘Sounds like you’ve had quite a time of it.’ Adrien raised an eyebrow at Alain, his brown eyes matching the colour of his brother’s. The main difference between them was height – Alain was a good six inches taller. ‘Come on in.’

I’d thought maybe I imagined the reserve between the two brothers at Christmas – but if you looked for it hard enough, it was still there now, in the slight stiffness of their movements and speech. No doubt it had lessened over the years and would continue to do so.

We went into the lounge, where Chloe and Gabriel clamoured for their mother’s attention. Sabine, tall and slim in skinny jeans and a cotton shirt, her short brunette hair the epitome of French chic, hugged them close.

‘I got a nettle rash,’ Gabriel told her proudly.

‘Oh, my poor boy. Did it hurt?’

‘It hurt this much!’ Gabriel stretched her arms wide, making everyone laugh. ‘But Uncle Alain put some white gooey stuff on and made it better.’

‘Clever Uncle Alain.’

‘And we walked a dog.’ Chloe tugged at her mother’s sleeve. ‘A big, black dog. And we went in some caves where people used to live.’

Sabine raised an eyebrow at her ex-husband. ‘You did have an exciting time!’

‘We had a great time,’ Alain said, smiling.

Christopher came through from the lounge, tall and trim like his sons, his grey hair thinning. He greeted the children with a broad smile and hugs. ‘Mireille says lunch is ready, if you’d like to come through.’

The kids raced into the kitchen, leaving the adults to follow at a more sedate pace.

Mireille had set everything out on the large table on the patio, a selection of anything and everything for us to help ourselves – with a little guidance towards sensible choices for Gabriel and Chloe.

Christopher poured wine and we relaxed in the shade from the overhead pergola, twined with vines and honeysuckle. Mmmm. There was no doubt the French knew how to enjoy a leisurely lunch. Fresh air, a glorious garden, great food, a glass of wine, good company. Couldn’t beat it.

While Gabriel and Chloe vied to tell everyone about their adventures, Sabine watched them indulgently, but she looked tired, the lines at her eyes noticeable against her tan, her mouth slightly downturned.

‘Did you and Adrien have a good week away together?’ I asked her.

‘Er. Yes, thank you.’

‘Whereabouts did you go?’

‘We drove to the coast – St-Malo, Dinan, that area. A little sea air, a couple of nice hotels.’

‘Must’ve been great to get away, just the two of you. Spend some proper time together.’

Another hesitation. ‘Yes. We needed to. And it was good of you both to help with the children.’

‘No problem. We had fun. It was a chance for me to get to know them better.’ I turned to Mireille. ‘How was your meet-up with your friends in Honfleur?’

Mireille beamed. ‘Lovely. We haven’t seen them for a few years, so it was nice to catch up. Have you ever been to Honfleur, Emmy?’

‘No.’

‘You must take her, Alain. Shops, galleries, cafés, seafood at the restaurants in the harbour. What’s not to love?’

‘Er. The prices?’ Christopher muttered, making everyone laugh.

I absorbed the good-natured laughter and the children chattering with a happy smile. In-laws could be a nightmare, but I’d landed on my feet with this family.

As we drove home, I was tired, but in a good way. I’d had a lovely time with the children, enjoyed lunch with the family – and I’d thoroughly enjoyed the few days’ respite from wedding arrangements. Apart from the brief mention of it by the children and my dress fitting, the subject hadn’t come up. My mother had managed four whole days without an e-mail or text, and Alain’s family had only brushed over the topic at lunch.

I wasn’t complaining.

‘So, Emie, how did it go with Alain’s niece and nephew?’ Madame Dupont asked the next day over our habitual thé au citron break in our favourite quiet spot at the back of the gîtes, next to floppy yellow roses climbing up the trellis and wafting their scent our way.

‘It was tiring, but we had a good time.’ I struggled to find the vocabulary I needed for nettles and rashes, but she got the gist.

‘You loved being with them, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did. They’re sweet children.’

‘What about you and Alain?’ She fixed me with a knowing look. ‘Are you thinking about a family?’

‘We’ve talked about it.’

Madame Dupont patted my hand. ‘Then I hope it will happen for you.’

I changed the subject. ‘How are the chickens? Any escaped lately?’

‘No. But they are a pain.’ When I gave her a quizzical look, she explained, ‘I started with them when I was younger and not so tired. It seemed a good idea when the children were small. But they grew and we had grandchildren, so the number of chickens grew to feed everyone …’

I frowned. Madame Dupont rarely complained of tiredness. ‘Couldn’t you cut down the size of the flock?’

‘Maybe.’ She smiled at my worried expression. ‘Do not worry about me, Emie. I am getting older, that is all. I am bound to be tired sometimes.’ She sighed. ‘That cottage seems so far from everything, nowadays. I am fine walking to La Cour des Roses, but it is difficult walking to the main road for the bus to town, and carrying my shopping back.’

‘You should have said, Madame Dupont. I can help.’

‘I don’t like to ask for favours. I am only saying that you cannot expect not to be tired at my age. I am seventy-three, you know.’

I bet nobody knew that but me. Madame Dupont’s age had always been a source of speculation – and admiration, due to her capacity for hard work.

‘You’re in good condition for seventy-three, Madame Dupont.’

‘Yes, I am lucky.’

‘Even so, you must tell me if you need a lift somewhere. Promise me?’

‘I promise.’

But I knew she was too proud and stubborn to do it.

I was looking forward to the arrival of the Hendersons about as much as I would a visit to the dentist for root canal treatment.

They always insisted on the room with the best view over the garden, and I’d already checked it for wayward specks of dust, miniscule dead flies on the window sill and fingerprints on the mirrors. An antique glass vase of cut flowers on the polished dark wood dressing table, scented drawer liners, a bunch of fresh lavender hanging from the wardrobe rail – a trick I’d learned from Madame Dupont – and that was me done.

When their shiny black saloon rolled into the courtyard soon after I’d taken Madame Dupont home, Rupert and I plastered smiles on our faces and went out to receive them, like a royal visit.

Mr Henderson got out and stretched his arms, his blazer opening to reveal a slight paunch I didn’t remember him having last year. As he crossed the gravel, I noticed a light stubble at his chin that he hadn’t sported before, either.

‘Hunter! Good to see you.’ He shook hands with Rupert. ‘And Emmy. I noticed on the website that you’d been promoted from guest lackey to manageress. Well done, you.’

He held his arms out wide, offering me no alternative but to go in for what I assumed would be a continental kiss-on-each-cheek thing but turned out to be more of an alarming hug. And I can tell you now, I didn’t like his technique. Not only was his aftershave unpleasantly overpowering, but as his arms came around me, they lightly brushed the sides of my breasts before reaching around my back.

He pulled away as though nothing had happened, while I tried to work out whether it was my imagination, an unfortunate coincidence or a deliberate grope. Hmmm.

Rupert looked past him to the car. ‘And Mrs Henderson?’ he asked politely, although it was obvious by now that the passenger seat was devoid of a snobby woman in a linen trouser suit.

Mr Henderson followed his glance as though he, too, needed to check the car was empty. ‘Not this year, Hunter. Came on my own.’

Rupert was quick to banish a puzzled frown. ‘Oh? Well, how about a cup of tea? I’ll fetch your bags.’

He went down to the car, leaving me to put the kettle on, and when he’d deposited our arrival’s bags upstairs, he suggested tea be taken outside. Off they both went, leaving me to load up a tray with Rupert’s heavenly crumbly shortbread and the brand of tea preferred by the Hendersons.

Carrying it out, I almost dropped the lot when I overheard the direction the conversation was taking.

‘I must say, Hunter, you’ve done alright for yourself since that wife of yours ran off. As if Gloria wasn’t young enough! But now you’ve gone and got yourself an even younger model, you old dog. Must tell me your secret. And the ring’s a nice touch. Keep ’em sweet, eh?’

‘I – er – hmmph.’ Rupert struggled to compose himself, but when he saw me coming through the patio doors with a thunderous expression on my face, he straightened his shoulders pretty smart-ish. ‘Oh no, Henderson, you’re under a misapprehension. Emmy and I are not … I mean, she …’

I thumped the tray down on the table, rattling every piece of china on it. ‘Rupert and I are not a couple.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Mr Henderson blustered. ‘What with Gloria running off with your boyfriend, I assumed you two had got together.’

‘Assumption can be a dangerous thing.’ I shot him a brittle smile, but the calm on the surface did not match the livid panic underneath. There were nearly thirty years between Rupert and me. We’d worded the website very clearly. We referred to ‘my room’ and ‘his quarters’ in front of the guests. And yet how many of them jumped to the same conclusion as Mr Henderson? Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t that this hadn’t occurred to me before – but it was the first time someone had openly referred to it as a done deal, and I was not a happy bunny.

‘My apologies, Emmy.’

‘Apology accepted.’ I poured him some tea.

‘Any chance of a brandy to pep this up, Hunter?’ he asked. ‘Been a fraught drive.’

As ‘Hunter’ rose obediently to his feet, I wondered if we had any arsenic hidden away at the back of a cupboard to ‘pep up’ his tea instead.

Mr Henderson jolted me out of my fantasy. ‘So, Emmy. That ring.’ He gestured at my hand. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

What? A pink hippo? A dead leaf? ‘If what you think it is, is an engagement ring, Mr Henderson, you would be correct.’

‘And may I ask who the lucky gentleman is?’

‘You may. The local accountant.’

‘Congratulations!’ He rose to his feet to give me another hug – and used the same technique. No accident, then.

I quickly sat down, so there could be no more of it.

‘Tell me all about your fiancé,’ he said, as if nothing had happened.

I caught his eye and held it firm. I’d like to catch his balls and hold them firm – perhaps with a sharp twist.

‘He’s tall,’ I told him. ‘Maybe six-four. Very fit – he runs and cycles. He’s not prone to violence, but he is loyal and defensive over his loved ones.’

Mr Henderson’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. ‘Sounds like a fine chap.’

‘Indeed.’

Rupert rescued me from further desire to commit violence on his guest by appearing with the brandy. It was three in the afternoon, for God’s sake. As Henderson sloshed some into his tea cup, I almost laughed at Rupert’s expression. That was his best brandy.

I was concocting a decent excuse to take myself off – although it didn’t have to be decent; any would do – but Rupert caught my eye, and the message was clear. Desert me and you’re fired.

I looked pointedly at my watch. I would give him ten minutes.

‘So, where is the lovely Mrs Henderson this year?’ Rupert asked when the first cup of tea was downed and the next was being concocted. Since his guest had shown so little tact over our relationship, he’d obviously decided he didn’t deserve any in return.

Mr Henderson sipped, shuddering as the brandy hit the spot. ‘Gone, Hunter. Upped and left. Last week.’

We both did our best to hide our surprise, and our murmurs of sympathy were genuine. Having gone through the same thing last year, neither of us would wish it on anyone, not even Mr Henderson.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Rupert said kindly.

‘So you bloody well should be, since it’s your fault.’

Rupert balked. ‘My fault? In what way?’

‘Not your fault directly, I suppose. More the fault of that flighty wife of yours.’

‘Gloria?’

‘It gave Anita ideas when Gloria shot off with Emmy’s fella last year, if you ask me. Hasn’t been the same since. Odd. Furtive. Awkward. The closer it got to coming away, the odder she got. She’s usually so meticulous with holiday planning – new dresses for Paris, cancelling the papers, having the car valeted. This year? Nothing.’

He took another large gulp of ‘tea’ while Rupert and I sat frozen to our seats, agog.

‘When I told her it was time to start packing, do you know what she said? She said, “It certainly is, Gavin,” and proceeded to pack every last thing in the house. And off she flounced. See? Just like your Gloria.’

Rupert and I exchanged a look. It could only be like Gloria if she …

‘Got herself another bloke,’ Mr Henderson confirmed with a sniff. ‘Builder chappie. I thought he made a meal out of that sodding extension. Turns out he was making a meal out of more than that! Ruddy disgrace. Tried to stop the cheque, but it’d already cleared. Bastard bank.’

I consciously closed my mouth before he could catch me gaping, and shot Rupert a look to do the same.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Henderson,’ Rupert said politely.

‘Oh, please. Call me Gavin. We’re both in the same boat now, old chap, aren’t we? Might as well be on first name terms, eh? Rupert, isn’t it?’

I turned laughter at Rupert’s expression into a cough, and when my phone beeped, I stood. ‘If you two will excuse me …’

It was a text from Kate, asking for a quick online chat.

It would have to be quick – I had a guest meal to deal with – but I would always make time for the one friend whose common sense had anchored my ever-shifting world since we were at primary school.

‘Hi, Kate. Do you have any sanity to spare?’

‘Hardly. I’ve just got back from your mother’s.’

‘That’s enough to unhinge anyone. Why did you go there?’

‘She’s been haranguing me on a daily basis about the dress. I decided it would be easier to go round there and show her what I got.’

‘You found one?’ I squealed, my relief just about outweighing annoyance at the idea that my mother had put my best friend under so much pressure.

Kate clapped her hands over her ears. ‘Yes. There’s no need to deafen me.’

‘There’s every need. Show me!’

She unzipped her baggy hoodie and stepped back from her laptop.

I clapped my hands in delight. ‘Oh, Kate. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.’

The dress was the perfect shade, somewhere between Sophie’s lilac and Ellie’s midnight purple, and it was mid-length, with soft folds of fabric draping over Kate’s bust and the rest clinging ever so slightly to her lovely waist and hips.

‘I don’t know about beautiful. But it fits, and I’m not going to fall out of it and give your relatives an eyeful.’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘I tried it on a while ago and liked it, but the size that fit my bust looked huge everywhere else. I was desperate, so I went back. The sales assistant said she had a friend who could alter it. She left the top half as it was and took in the rest, and voilà. Even your mother couldn’t find fault with it.’

‘Bonus points all round, then, I’d say. Can you send me a photo? I need it for the florist.’

After a quick catch-up, followed by a private sigh of relief – with three weeks to go, Kate had been cutting it fine – I went through to find Rupert.

He was mercifully free of Gavin, who must be unpacking, but our other new arrivals had just driven up.

Grace and Peter had told us they would be on their honeymoon, so we were fazed to see that they were perhaps in their early seventies. I’m not at all ageist, but if someone says they’re on their honeymoon, you do tend to expect a younger couple.

They were a wonderful antidote to anything and everything. Charmed by their drive through the Loire countryside, they enthused about La Cour des Roses, their room (with extra flowers and champagne) and the garden, then gratefully accepted the tea and homemade almond cookies that Rupert proffered, settling on the patio, Grace’s shiny new wedding ring glinting in the sunshine – although I noticed she had a duller gold band on a chain around her neck.

I glanced at my watch, but if Rupert felt we had time for a quick cup of tea with them, I would sit back and enjoy the unexpected break.

‘So. You’re on your honeymoon? Congratulations!’

Grace smiled. ‘Thank you. We got married a couple of days ago. Registry office, nothing fancy. A few family and friends.’

‘I hope you have a lovely honeymoon here,’ Rupert said. ‘We love to share in people’s special occasions. Where did you two meet?’

‘At school.’ When Rupert looked puzzled, Grace explained, ‘We dated for a year or so when we were fifteen. In those days, it was known as courting, I suppose. But then life got in the way. My family moved to the next town, the bus was a pain, and it fizzled out. I eventually married a boy from my new town. He died a couple of years ago.’

Peter took up the tale, ‘And I gave up on Grace and got married, too. My wife died three years ago. Then, last year, I was with friends in a café and saw Grace. I knew her immediately. How could I not?’ He took her hand. ‘I went over to say hello, and it was like the years dropped away and we were fifteen again.’

‘We’ve both had good lives, good marriages. I still miss Roland.’ Grace fingered the ring at her neck. ‘And Peter still misses Marjorie. But we have a good few years in us, we hope, so we decided to enjoy it while we could.’

‘Quite right,’ Rupert asserted, smiling. ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy.’

‘Thank you.’

I followed Rupert into the kitchen to start on the guest meal.

‘What a lovely couple,’ he commented. ‘We’d better live up to being the perfect idyll for them, hadn’t we?’

‘They like it here so far. If they enjoy the food and get on with the other guests, I reckon we’ll have done the trick.’

We stared at each other in dismay as we thought about Gavin Henderson and remembered we still had our one-man laughter factory in the form of Greg to contend with.

‘What are we going to do about Greg?’ I hissed.

Rupert ignored me, opening a couple of bottles of red wine to breathe. To my amazement, he proceeded to pour a third of one of them into a carafe, which he set on one side, and top the bottle up with water.

‘Rupert, what on earth are you doing?’

‘Needs must, Emmy. That man’s drinking is denting my brain as well as my wallet. I don’t want him denting my honeymooners’ brains, too.’

‘But how will you make sure he gets that bottle? If the other guests do, they won’t be happy.’

‘I’ll pour him his first glass from a normal bottle, then make sure this one is placed nearest to him. You’ve seen how he hogs a bottle.’

‘You’re a crafty old sod. But I’m not sure it’s ethical.’

‘It’s the only time I’ve ever done it. I can live with myself, just this once.’

Rupert’s ploy was successful. Greg didn’t notice, and his manner was mildly tempered by the lower alcohol content in his glass. When another bottle was required, Rupert went off to the other side of the kitchen, and I kept Greg distracted while Rupert performed his little trick. Only this time, I noticed from the corner of my eye, it was nearer half and half.

There was a tense moment when Malcolm, sitting next to Greg, reached for the doctored bottle and poured himself some. Rupert’s eyes went wide with panic. When Malcolm tasted it, his eyebrows shot up in surprise, then drew down in a frown. He looked at the bottle, worked out whose elbow it resided by, glanced across at Rupert – and grinned. Then he surreptitiously topped up his glass from a different bottle.

I went to bed that night tired but chipper. I’d got through all my chores; Peter and Grace were lovely; Greg’s drinking had been successfully managed, and he and his wife were due to leave on Monday; we only had one half of the Hendersons to contend with … and Kate had finally found a bridesmaid dress, thus appeasing my mother.

All in all, it had been a good day.