Tuesday dawned bright and sunny. The days were rarely anything but. Rain tended to come at night, leaving the garden dewy and green and the days clear. Sitting up in bed for a few minutes to allow any unprocessed alcohol to drain away from my head, I could almost feel the weight of the bags under my eyes.

I remembered my conversation with Rupert the night before and groaned. In the odd patches of the night when I’d managed to sleep, one minute I’d dreamed of a glorious life of sunshine, fantastic food and coffee at pavement cafés and the next minute, I was buried under a mountain of king-size sheets that needed washing, being suffocated by a gigantic hound that sat on top of me and wouldn’t budge.

In the many waking moments in between, I had cursed Rupert and his tipsy, enthusiastic ramblings. What he’d suggested was nothing but a pipe dream. Of course it was tempting. That was why people went on holiday – for a taste of something different. But holidays were a brief respite, an escape that couldn’t be sustained in the real world. You couldn’t compare one with the other.

My life and what defined it – my home, my job, my family and friends – were in England. All Rupert had done was muddy the waters in an already difficult situation. God, he could be a pain.

Refusing to give his outrageous suggestions any more space in my brain, I staggered into the bathroom, and when I couldn’t stand the pounding of the shower on my aching head any more, I dried, dressed and made a beeline for my favourite kitchen appliance.

Taking my coffee outside, I padded around the garden in my bare feet, content to feel the wet grass between my toes and admire the explosion of colour everywhere I looked. The bleeding hearts dotted amongst the shrubs at the edge of the garden were out, their flowers dangling prettily, and the early June day was already beginning to warm up. The chickens, locked in the henhouse overnight for their own safety, were fussing to get out, so I entered the run to allow them their freedom and give them breakfast.

I backed out bottom first – into Ryan.

‘Oomph. Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’

Ryan laughed. ‘You’re becoming more domesticated by the minute. Bet you didn’t imagine you’d be feeding chickens when you came on holiday.’

‘I didn’t imagine ninety per cent of the rest of it, either. You’re early.’

‘I know. Rather busy at the moment. I have a lot of gardens to catch up with after my week back in England and... Well, my other clients were somewhat neglected last week.’ He gave me a cheeky grin.

‘Oh.’ I blushed. ‘Ryan...’

‘Don’t worry, Emmy. I’m still okay with what we agreed on Friday, if you are.’

I sighed with relief. ‘Yes.’

He removed any awkwardness by taking my cup from my hands and draining what was left of my coffee in one gulp.

‘Hey! Now I’ll have to make another!’ I yelped.

‘Make me one while you’re at it.’

I glanced sideways at him as we headed towards the house. There was something I’d wondered since the first day I’d met him. As his lover, it hadn’t seemed appropriate to ask – but now we were officially just friends, my curiosity won out.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?’

‘I’d say we’ve already been pretty personal. It’d be a bit odd for me to mind at this stage. Go ahead.’

‘Did Gloria ever... You know... Try it on with you?’

A delighted guffaw burst from his throat. ‘Now, what on earth would make you think that?’

I suspected it was a rhetorical question, but I answered anyway. ‘The woman was a flirt, Ryan. If she could go after Nathan, I can’t imagine for one minute she could ignore a sex god like you working in her garden!’

He grinned. ‘Sex god, eh? Is that how you see me?’

I slapped playfully at him as I blushed bright red. ‘I was seeing it from Gloria’s point of view.’

‘Uh-huh.’ His dimples winked as his mouth twitched. ‘Well, to answer your question – yes, she did suggest that she required... extra services. I turned her down flat. She didn’t like it.’

‘I bet.’ I pictured a thwarted Gloria forced to watch Ryan working in the garden without getting what she wanted, and I beamed – not only at the mental torture it must have caused her, but the fact that I’d had a taste of something she couldn’t have. And it had been as delicious as her tormented imagination must have told her it would be.

‘Weren’t you even tempted?’ I asked him.

He shook his head. ‘I’ve told you before, I’m only interested in women I feel comfortable with, and I felt about as comfortable with Gloria as I would with a boa constrictor. Besides, I respect Rupert too much. It was never going to happen.’

I smiled. It was good to know that old-fashioned values were still alive and well in the younger generation.

Ryan deftly changed the subject. ‘I hear you’re entertaining tonight.’

I gave a noncommittal grunt. ‘Rupert’s entertaining tonight. I’m the mug he’s roped into helping him.’

‘I’m sure that’s true, but don’t forget it’s all for your benefit.’

‘In what respect?’

‘Alain is coming, and I notice I haven’t been invited.’

We went into the kitchen and I tackled the coffee. ‘Maybe Rupert thought it would be too middle-aged for you.’

Ryan laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not offended. I don’t expect to be at every soirée Rupert arranges. You, on the other hand, need to be less naive if you’re going to keep Rupert as a close friend and ally. He’s trying to fix you up with a respectable accountant to make up for the last one, and he doesn’t want your part-time lover mucking up the works.’

I gave an irritated sigh. ‘I’m well aware of that, and believe me, I wish he wouldn’t interfere, but there doesn’t seem to be any stopping him. For God’s sake, I’ve been single less than a fortnight. It’s bad enough that I’ve slept with one man, without him trying to find me another.’

‘Thanks a lot!’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that... Well, I never really thought I was that kind of girl.’

His response was a loud laugh. ‘That kind of girl? Where did you get that expression from, your grandmother’s parenting manual?’ He reached across to touch my hand. ‘Don’t feel guilty about what we did, Emmy, or you’ll make me feel bad, too.’

I nodded unconvincingly. ‘Okay.’ I gave him a sullen look. ‘That still doesn’t mean Rupert should be fixing me up with the first man that comes along. I go home this weekend. What’s he going to achieve?’

‘He doesn’t want to lose you.’

I thought about Rupert’s schemes last night – and my rejection of them. ‘He won’t. We’ll stay in touch.’

Ryan put his empty cup in the sink. ‘Emmy. Rupert wants you to have as many reasons as possible to keep coming back here as often as possible. He’s worried that this place and his company won’t be enough once you get back to your old life. He won’t see any harm in throwing another temptation in your path.’ He shot me a sympathetic smile. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ Walking to the door, he turned back. ‘By the way. Is he?’

‘Is who what?’ My mind was still on Rupert and his machinations.

‘Alain. A temptation?’

‘I barely know him,’ I answered, as a perfect snapshot of Alain’s toffee eyes popped unbidden into my head. I might barely know him, but it seemed that hadn’t stopped me from memorising his face in perfect detail.

‘But?’

I thought about my harsh words at the café yesterday, the anger I’d felt when I thought he was bullying Rupert and the way his face had turned ashen when he found out the truth about his friend’s health. His anxiety to protect Rupert from the devastation that Gloria could wreak.

Ryan’s eyes were twinkling. I could see he wasn’t jealous, and we’d made our peace already.

‘Well, I don’t suppose I’d turn him down for a drink if I stuck around.’ If only to patch up yesterday’s misunderstandings. ‘But since I’m leaving, it’s not an issue.’

‘Enjoy tonight, then. I’m sorry I can’t be there. As a spectator, I mean.’

He waved, and as he headed off to his weeds, I tried hard not to be moved by the sight of his torso in a tight T-shirt.

Rupert and I would have to have words about him meddling with my love life, if not my life in general, but for now, since both the Kennedys and the Stewarts were leaving this morning, I had their rooms to clear and then Rupert to help with his blasted dinner party. The last thing I needed was for him to collapse with exhaustion before the meal and leave me with several strangers to amuse for an entire evening.

While I was busy upstairs, Madame Dupont did a cleaning stint downstairs. As was our habit now, we took a break together with a cup of thé au citron.

‘Madame Dupont, has Rupert asked you about help for La Cour des Roses?’ I asked her.

She shook her head, and I made a sound of pure frustration.

Somehow, between my earnest desire, her patience and an impromptu sketching session on the back of Rupert’s shopping list, I managed to get across my dilemma.

‘I leave on Saturday.’ I drew a boat on choppy waters. ‘Rupert needs help.’ I drew a stick lady with a pan in her hand that looked disconcertingly like an axe. Art was never my strong suit. ‘He needs lots of help.’ I drew another lady making a bed.

At this, Madame Dupont gave a decidedly dirty laugh for a sweet old dear, but when I realised she must have got the wrong end of the stick and scribbled it out to start again, she winked to indicate she’d been kidding.

‘Don’t worry, Emie,’ she said, and to my surprise, she pulled a tiny mobile phone from the depths of her skirt pocket and got to work. Several calls and a second lemon tea later, she’d written down a couple of names and phone numbers.

‘You must make Rupert phone them with the details of what he wants and when he wants it.’

‘Merci beaucoup.’ I heaved a sigh of relief as I took the piece of paper, and a tear rolled down my face before I could stop it.

Madame Dupont reached across to wipe it away and patted my cheek, releasing a string of impossible French, but I got the gist – I was a good, kind girl. Coming from this formidable little woman, that meant a lot to me, and the sincerity with which it was said made my heart sing.

I stayed in the kitchen after lunch under the guise of helping Rupert to cook, but in reality to have a go at him about his penchant for meddling – but he was adamant about not letting me help.

‘You’ve done enough unpaid slaving around here to last you a lifetime,’ he said. ‘It was me who decided to have people for dinner, so I shall be doing the work. I want you to relax for a change.’

I swallowed down the lecture I’d been about to deliver. Just because Rupert went about things in a bull-headed way didn’t mean I wasn’t touched by his motives, even if some of them were downright selfish.

‘I don’t want you overdoing it,’ I warned.

‘I won’t.’ When I still hovered, he relented a little. ‘I might need help clearing up later on, when I’ve finished the prep.’

‘Right. No problem.’

Feeling too restless to sit in the garden, instead I went for a stroll along the lanes. The temperature was just right, and it felt good to get some form of gentle exercise other than housework. There was a verge at the side of the road wide enough to protect me from speeding cars, and I enjoyed the bucolic views of fields and vines.

As I walked, I thought about the impending dinner party and sighed. If Rupert thought it would help Alain and I fall madly in love with each other, then he was sadly mistaken.

I felt awful about how I’d spoken to Alain yesterday. The way I’d rounded on him, even jabbed my finger at him. He hadn’t known about Rupert’s health. He’d only been looking out for his friend’s welfare the best way he knew how, and the look on his face when I’d told him about the angina had been one of shock and concern, bordering on panic.

How we were going to brush by tonight, I didn’t know. Even if I wanted to apologise – and I was beginning to think that I did – I might not get the opportunity in a room full of people.

I got back mildly sweaty from my exertions, and headed upstairs to shower and change. I needn’t have bothered. When I came back down looking more presentable, the kitchen looked as though Rupert had taken part in a competition to see who could use the most pots and pans.

By the time people began to arrive, I was nervous at the prospect of facing Alain and not in a frame of mind conducive to socialising with Rupert’s motley collection of guests.

First to arrive was Alain, who had been called upon to act as taxi driver to Jonathan, a favour Jonathan declared himself worthy of as his age meant he was unfit to drive on an evening out.

‘Reactions are slow enough as it is,’ he told me cheerfully. ‘Add in a heavy meal, and I’d be falling asleep at the wheel.’

I looked awkwardly at Alain and he gave me a half-smile back. I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes before the others were due. Just get on with it, Emmy.

‘Alain? Would you lend me a hand fetching napkins and... stuff?’

It was weak at best, pathetic at worst, but Rupert would just think it was a ploy for me to get Alain on his own – which it was – in order to seduce him, which I had no intention of.

Startled but politely compliant, Alain followed me into the guest lounge. ‘Do you really need napkins?’

I took a small pile of linen squares from the sideboard. ‘Yes – but I don’t think I need your help to carry them.’ I tried a smile. ‘Alain, we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, and I’d like to apologise. Even though I was upset about what you were doing, I was unnecessarily rude, and I certainly had no idea that Rupert hadn’t told you the full story about his hospital stay. I’m sorry.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sorry too. I thought a lot about what you said yesterday, and with hindsight, you were right. I hadn’t meant to be so negative or to panic Rupert, but I honestly had no idea how ill he’s been. It’s just... I know Gloria. I only wanted to make him more aware, before she hits him between the eyes.’

I smiled sadly. ‘I take it you mean financially-speaking. Because emotionally-speaking, she already did.’

‘I know.’ He closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them again, his expression was sincere. ‘Emmy, you and I want the same thing. We’re both concerned for Rupert. We’re just seeing it from different angles.’

I nodded, and there was an awkward pause. I waved the napkins at him and smiled. ‘How long can it take to get napkins? You’d better bring – er – a couple of cushions?’

Back in the kitchen, Rupert and Jonathan exchanged knowing looks. I could have cheerfully throttled the pair of them.

Next to arrive, on time to the minute – and once I’d met her, I doubted time would ever dare try to get one over on her – was Ellie Fielding, the estate agent Rupert had recommended to the Stewarts. Somewhere in her late forties to early fifties, tall and straight as a beanpole, with closely-cropped bright red hair and violently clashing fuchsia lipstick, she had an immediate presence and confidence I could only imagine possessing in my wildest dreams.

People settled on various perches around the kitchen. While Jonathan requisitioned the comfy chair by the window and Ellie Fielding plumped for one of the bar stools at the counter – which made her taller and therefore twice as formidable – Alain settled for the windowsill. I threw him a cushion, which he caught gratefully.

‘So, Rupert, what delights have you cooked up for us tonight?’ Jonathan enquired as Rupert handed out drinks.

Rupert laughed. ‘What difference does it make? You’ll eat the whole lot like a starving man, no matter what it is.’

Jonathan took no offence. ‘When you get to my age, the anticipation is often more fun than the actual pleasure,’ he muttered.

Rupert rolled his eyes. ‘We’ll assume you’re still talking about tonight’s menu, shall we?’

Further arrivals thankfully prevented any retorts. Philippe, Ellie’s partner-in-crime at the estate agency, was her exact opposite – short, round, conservatively dressed in a shirt and tie and soft-spoken to the point where I had to strain to hear him, even though his English was impeccable. When he stood next to Ellie, I tried not to laugh. I assumed they played “good cop, bad cop” with the customers. Philippe’s elegant wife, Martine, was even shorter and quieter than her husband.

Sophie arrived next, and I was immediately grateful for her company. We kissed on each cheek and I introduced her to everyone. She was already on nodding terms with Philippe and Ellie because they worked in town, she knew Martine as she did her hair, and it turned out that Alain was her accountant.

Roaring up on his motorbike, the last to arrive was Bob. As he greeted everyone, I wondered how on earth he fitted into this group. I knew he and Jonathan hung out in the same bar, but it turned out he was a freelance photographer who took Ellie and Philippe’s photos for them, Alain did his accounts, and Rupert... Who knows? Everyone knew everyone around here, it seemed. I didn’t even know the names of my neighbours back in Birmingham. Nathan and I referred to them as “that old bloke two doors down” or “the noisy bugger above” so this casual camaraderie was like another planet to me.

With all the guests ensconced on their various perches like mismatching birds, Rupert allowed us to sample his amazing canapés: tiny, crumbling pastries with slivers of smoked salmon and dollops of creamy cheese, miniature wraps rolled around something spicy, marinated olives – seventh heaven.

We moved to the table for Rupert’s homemade pâté. With half an ear on the conversation, I toyed with my starter. Rupert had made no secret of the fact that the dinner party was a cover for inviting Alain socially. But after his mad ideas about me living at La Cour des Roses last night, if I were to dig deeper... Did he want me to meet all his friends to show me that I wouldn’t be isolated if I was daft enough to move here?

‘So, will you do it, Emmy, do you think?’ Jonathan asked, jolting me out of my thoughts.

‘Huh?’ I asked intelligently. ‘Sorry. I was miles away. Do what?’

‘Rupert tells us you’re thinking of moving out here. Setting up your own business.’

How could I have missed that? I really needed to pay more attention where Rupert was concerned. Sophie was watching me intently from the corner of her eye. She looked as startled as me.

I shot Rupert a thunderous glare, but he was suddenly busy gathering up used plates to make room for the next course and wouldn’t catch my eye.

‘Rupert’s exaggerating.’ I tried to keep my voice light and even. ‘He asked me last night whether I would consider coming to live out here to help, and maybe to try to build up my own business.’

‘But?’ This from Bob.

I looked pointedly at Rupert as he limped back to the table with dishes of steaming vegetables. ‘But I have a secure job to go back to. I can’t see how Rupert’s idea would be practical in real terms.’

‘Depends on your perspective and how much you like what you’re going back to.’ Bob held his hands palm up like weighing scales. ‘Money and security? Or a change and a challenge – and possibly poverty.’ He nudged Jonathan. ‘Jonathan here would be desperate to pay you a minimal proportion of his pension to do all his running around for him, wouldn’t you, pal?’

Jonathan reached for a bread roll. ‘You wait another twenty years, young Robert, and see how much you’ll need an Emmy yourself by then.’

Everyone laughed, and I bit my lip as Rupert awkwardly ferried garlic potatoes and a fragrant roast chicken to the table, wafting scents of lemon and tarragon in his wake. He began to carve with a vicious-looking knife that I was glad I didn’t have a hold of right now. He had a nerve. It was one thing foisting his ideas on me when it was just the two of us, but it was quite another to announce them to all and sundry.

As Rupert passed out slices of succulent, buttery chicken, Sophie gave me a sympathetic smile.

‘So it is not something you would seriously consider?’ she asked.

I shrugged. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to give up a perfectly good job to live in a country I don’t know very well with a language I can only just get by in. Besides, I’d have the same problems as back home, wouldn’t I? I’d still have to get used to being single again. Earn a living. You French might have leisurely lunch hours and better haircuts, but at the end of the day, you still have to work and go on dodgy dates just the same as we Brits.’

She smiled. ‘I suppose that is certainly true.’

To my surprise, Philippe decided to put in his two euros’ worth. ‘It would not be impossible, you know, Emmy.’ His accent and quietness made him hard to follow, even though his English was fluent. ‘Rupert has a good business here. I am sure that if he says he can afford to pay you, then that is so.’

I was about to say that of the many things I doubted about Rupert, his ability to pay me a minimum wage wasn’t one of them. Whether I wanted to live off it was another matter. But before I could voice the thought, Philippe moved on.

‘With regard to a part-time business for you, that is possible. I do not know what business you would like, but there are a lot of British people here.’ He waved his arm around the room for emphasis, as though the group at the table represented the whole of the Loire. ‘The economy is not so good,’ he admitted. ‘Nobody knows that better than an estate agent. But those who already live here do not want to rush back to Britain, and there will always be more who want to come.’

He looked to his business partner for support, and Ellie gave a predatory smile.

‘What dear, unassuming Philippe isn’t telling you, Emmy, is that it never does our business any harm to be able to recommend someone like you to our clients. It’s a bit like those birds that feed off the hippos’ parasites. Often, the only thing that stands between us and a sale is the confidence of the buyer. The more worries they have, the more they’re put off from taking the plunge. Rupert says you’re in marketing?’

I nodded meekly. The woman scared me to death.

‘Well, I’m sure there would be a market for that – pardon the pun.’

Everyone chuckled politely. I think they were all scared of her as well.

‘If we can allay those worries by recommending reliable people like Ryan, Alain, or indeed you – whatever you choose to offer – then we have that much more chance of a sale.’ She turned to Rupert. ‘Which reminds me. Thanks for giving my number to those guests of yours. The Stewarts. They came to see me before they went home. Lovely people. Very amenable. Very keen. I’m sure they’ll be back.’ She licked her fuchsia lips, presumably at the thought of an impending commission. ‘See, Emmy? Back-scratching. Good for the soul. And for business.’

With that, she tucked into her chicken with more gusto than was quite feminine, a signal for everyone else to do the same.