The morning after Nathan’s fall from grace, I was up with the larks – or more accurately, with the chickens. I hadn’t thought to close the wooden shutters before I went to bed, and as dawn crept through the voile curtains, I reckoned if sleep hadn’t come during the night, it was unlikely to come now.

Painfully aware of the empty pillow beside me in the bed, I sat up, glancing across at Nathan’s shirt and jeans folded on the small upholstered tub chair in the corner of the room, his wallet and watch neatly laid out on the beautifully grained surface of the antique dressing table. A large matching wardrobe dominated the wall across from the foot of the bed, but the room was spacious enough to accommodate it. The soft blues of the bedlinen and cushions, and of the rugs on the polished wooden floorboards, added a cool, calming contrast to the warm honey tone of the wood.

Pulling on a sweatshirt, I crept downstairs and out to the patio where the chickens and I could commune in peace. The morning was still chilly, so I grabbed a throw from inside and lay on a dew-damp lounger with the warm wool pulled up to my chin like an old lady on a cruise. I stared at the expanse of lawn, its length broken by colourful flower beds and small ornamental trees, old flagstones sunk into the grass leading off to little hideaway corners and arbours amongst the denser shrubs and trees lining the edges of the garden... But I took little pleasure in what should have been a beautiful view.

No matter how lovely this place was, it was clear to me that moving to different accommodation had to be our number one priority. Nathan had strayed. I was entitled to be upset, but things like this happened to couples all the time. Gloria couldn’t possibly mean anything to him. We’d been together too long to throw it all away over a lapse of judgment on his part. And we couldn’t make any progress with the evidence of Nathan’s infidelity under our noses.

I moved on to worrying about Rupert for a nice change of scene. I’d grown quite fond of him over the past few days, although I suspected he was an acquired taste. Nathan hadn’t taken to him at all. Whereas Nathan was quiet (morose at times, now I came to think of it), Rupert was the exact opposite – loud and bumptious, sometimes outrageous. I would have put Nathan’s instant dislike of him down to a simple personality clash if it hadn’t been for the unnerving conversation we’d had the morning after we arrived.

We had been sitting in the garden recovering from our journey, and as I’d blissfully taken in the glory that surrounded us – neat lawns, late spring flowers, lush trees – I had been foolish enough to open my big mouth and voice my thoughts.

‘Glorious here, isn’t it?’ I’d murmured.

Nathan scanned his surroundings, quietly assessing. ‘Hmm. Wonder how much it cost him?’

I propped myself up on one elbow and looked across at him. Ever the accountant. If I put it down to professional curiosity, I could forgive him comments such as these.

‘No idea,’ I said dismissively.

‘Last night at dinner, he said it was a wreck when they bought it, so he probably got it cheaply enough. But it must’ve cost him a fortune to do up.’ Nathan craned his neck to look back at the house where deep green foliage crept up the grey stone walls. The stone looked older, almost crumbling, in some places, and patched in others – but red roof tiles added colour to the façade, and the blue-painted shutters which stood sentry at each window were smart and welcoming. Nathan swept his eyes across the newer whitewashed wing that was Rupert and Gloria’s living quarters, built on the side of the house, with what was left of an old orchard separating it from the road. ‘The renovation of the farmhouse itself. That extension,’ he muttered. ‘The gîtes across the way. Can’t be cheap, converting an old barn like that. And the grounds were a wasteland when they moved in, apparently.’

I glanced over at the rows of lavender lining the courtyard between the house and the gîtes, a long building with a rough exterior of cream-and-grey stone and three wooden doorways, each surrounded by clambering grapevines. ‘Well, they made a good job of it,’ I said admiringly.

Nathan gave a cursory nod. ‘Yes, but where did he get the money, Emmy, eh? He never said what he did for a living before they came out here.’

‘Not our business, though, is it?’

Nathan curled his lip in an unpleasant sneer. ‘Posh accent. Probably born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Doesn’t look like the type who’s ever had to work for a living.’

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. This was a side to Nathan I wasn’t familiar with, and I wasn’t at all sure I liked it.

‘They must have worked pretty hard to create this,’ I defended them, sweeping my arm to encompass our home for the next two weeks.

‘I doubt he knows the meaning of hard work,’ Nathan grumbled. ‘I bet he paid other people to do it all while he just lounged around and watched. Jammy bastard.’

I frowned at him. ‘Why does it matter? You’d be complaining if we were paying all this money and it wasn’t nice here. Can’t we just enjoy it?’

Nathan flopped down on his lounger in a sulk and I lay back too, my good mood dissipated.

I wondered if we would have been better off in one of the gîtes, thereby minimising Nathan’s exposure to Rupert, but that thought didn’t last long. I knew from bitter experience that Nathan’s idea of self-catering was to grumble his way around the supermarket glaring at all the foreign brands, then stay out of the way while I did all the cooking and clearing up. Self-catering was the operative word. The first time it had happened, in Spain, I’d been so smug and self-satisfied with my newly-caught man that I hadn’t noticed the one-sidedness of the arrangement. Not so in Greece, where we had a studio apartment so small, it would have been lucky to be classed as a bathroom in most hotels. After a fortnight of tripping over Nathan’s feet as he lounged on the sofa bed while I cooked in a kitchen the size of a cupboard, I’d sworn I’d never put myself through it again. Here at the guesthouse, our booking included daily breakfast and three dinners a week, leaving us free to discover the local restaurants the rest of the time, and I thought that a happy medium.

Rupert did all the cooking at La Cour des Roses, and as I lay in my stupor the morning after his collapse, I wondered what would happen now. We were the only house guests at the moment, but more were imminent. Would Gloria take over? Casting my mind back over the past few days, I began to wonder what Gloria actually did – other than seduce other people’s boyfriends. She was more your meeter-and-greeter than your do-er, looking decorative in a tight-jeaned, low-topped sort of way, fluttering and faffing. I suspected she was more skilful at the appearance of being busy than the real thing.

At least they had a cleaner. She was a tiny, elderly, weather-beaten woman who worked like a demon and chattered continuously at you, incapable of understanding that your French hadn’t been used for years and had been inadequate in the first place.

Sounds began to drift across the courtyard from the gîtes – a toddler crying, a car door opening, a woman calling for her husband to bring in the map, the coffee was ready – and I felt a stab of envy. That should be Nathan and me, relaxed and ready to explore.

Heaving a sigh of self-pity, I levered myself up. That disembodied mention of coffee had woken my caffeine alarm. Like a sleep-deprived zombie, I ventured inside in search of a fix.

Gloria, all full make-up and backcombed bleached blonde hair, put in an appearance as I fumbled with the shiny technical wizardry that was the coffee machine.

‘Here, let me,’ she said, shoving me aside. She pushed buttons and twiddled knobs until jets of steam plumed up to the raftered ceiling, then handed me a cup. It was sludgy and tasted like something scraped from the bottom of the chicken house. Rupert was clearly the coffee whizz – another downside to his absence.

Squaring my shoulders, I prepared to tackle her over her coupling with Nathan. Such a time-honoured confrontation should have taken place the night before, of course, but Rupert’s inconsiderate medical emergency had scuppered that.

It would have been nice if Gloria had made the first move and proffered an apology. After all, if she’d broken my necklace or insulted my favourite aunt or even trodden on my toes, I imagine she would have said sorry. Yet there she stood after having had rampant sex with my boyfriend, and not a sniff of one. Unbelievable.

Even so, I couldn’t ignore the fact that the woman’s husband was in a hospital bed. I reined myself in. First things first.

‘How’s Rupert?’

There was a flicker in her eyes, something icy and cold, but it was gone before I could decipher it. ‘I phoned the hospital,’ she said. ‘They’re discharging him this morning.’

‘Did they say what was wrong?’

‘It wasn’t a heart attack.’ Gloria shot me an accusing look, as if to criticise my incorrect diagnosis that had so rudely interrupted her extramarital activities last night. ‘It’s angina. They’ve given him some medication. He’ll have to be more careful about what he eats and drinks.’

Rupert wasn’t a light drinker, and I had a feeling this would be a bone of contention between them.

‘Will he have to rest?’

‘Apparently so. They think he damaged a ligament in his leg when he fell. He can barely walk.’ Again, that hint of accusation, as though I’d somehow let everyone down by not throwing myself across the kitchen to catch a six-foot, fourteen-stone bloke all by myself.

‘Well, I’m glad he’s alright,’ I said truthfully. And now on to the main attraction... ‘Time for you and me to have a little chat, then, don’t you think?’

The hint of shock in her eyes suggested she thought she’d got away without a confrontation. ‘Oh?’

I found her brazen attitude astonishing. ‘Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?’

She shrugged as though she couldn’t care less, but there was a wariness in her eyes. ‘Shit happens, Emmy. You weren’t supposed to see what you saw, but you did. I’m not sure what you want me to say.’

Flabbergasted, I slapped the undrinkable coffee down on the granite counter with so much force, I heard the cup crack.

‘Maybe you could start by apologising for sleeping with my boyfriend?’

She folded her arms across her chest, a gesture which had the unfortunate effect of wrinkling the tanned skin above her cleavage so it looked like leather.

‘There were two of us, Emmy – you saw that for yourself. Yes, I had sex with Nathan. And he had sex with me. Maybe you should look to him for an apology.’

‘Nathan and I have already had words, thanks, which is more than I can say for you and Rupert. I presume you’re going to tell him when he comes home?’

‘Then you presume wrong.’ Her eyes narrowed in threat. ‘Nor do I expect you to tell him.’

I was impressed by her nerve. ‘Don’t you think you should discuss this vow of silence with all relevant parties first, rather than assume it?’

‘I would have thought that even you would agree it won’t do him much good to find out something like that. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for a relapse, would you?’

She had me there. No matter how furious I was, I couldn’t risk Rupert’s fragile health just to get my revenge on Gloria. But being backed into a corner by her made me see red.

‘You didn’t seem so bothered about Rupert’s health and well-being last night!’

‘Are you suggesting I don’t care about my husband?’

I barked out a strangled laugh. ‘Let’s just say that sleeping with the guests is a funny way of showing it.’

‘Sleeping with a guest, Emmy. One guest. Get your facts straight.’

‘You want me to get my facts straight?’ I counted off on my fingers. ‘You’re married. You slept with my boyfriend. You’re nearly old enough to be his teenage mother. There. Is that straight enough for you?’

Her mouth twisted in contempt. ‘If your relationship is so solid and I’m so geriatric, then why did your boyfriend rip off all my clothes like a wild animal while you enjoyed your middle-aged reminiscences with my husband downstairs?’

I had no answer to that. Fortunately, I didn’t have to find one. As I desperately searched my besieged brain for a biting riposte, the phone rang in the hall and Gloria shot past me to answer it.

I remained standing in the kitchen, dazed. Gloria’s parting shot had hit its mark. Was our sex life really so deep in the doldrums that Nathan had felt the need to do this? Up until yesterday, I wouldn’t have said so. I would have said we were probably the same as any other hardworking couple. We were often too tired, too busy, too stressed – but we still made love. Not as regularly as we used to. Not as passionately as we used to. But surely not many relationships could sustain the passion of a couple first getting together? I suddenly realised that I had assumed a gradual decline like that was normal. Even acceptable.

It seemed Nathan hadn’t felt the same way.

Nathan made himself scarce the first half of the morning by pretending to sleep in, then moving all his stuff to his new room – something I only discovered when I went upstairs to see where he’d got to. The sheets and blanket I’d thrust at him last night were back on my bed, and when I peeped into his new accommodation, I saw that he had a full new set of bedlinen – which meant a) he had to have spoken to Gloria already and b) he didn’t seem to be thinking along the same lines as me with regard to us moving somewhere else.

I couldn’t say I was happy about either of those things, but with Herculean effort, I curbed my temper and impatience until we could be alone. Gloria had already had intimate knowledge of my boyfriend last night. What was left of my pride didn’t want her walking in on a heart-to-heart and getting intimate knowledge of our relationship’s failings as well.

The minute she drove off to the hospital, I collared Nathan at the bottom of the garden, where he appeared to be studying the habits of the chickens in minute detail.

‘Nathan. We need to talk.’

He turned. ‘We talked last night.’

I suppressed a sigh. ‘No, we didn’t. I talked. You said you didn’t want to. It was a bit one-sided.’

‘I’d say you shouted more than talked.’

I took a deep breath and counted to five. I really couldn’t make it to ten.

‘Of course I shouted!’ I shouted. ‘What did you expect? I found you having sex with another woman. What was I supposed to do, burst into song? I think under the circumstances I showed incredible restraint, what with Rupert and everything.’

Nathan nodded, conceding me that point at least.

‘Do I get an explanation for last night’s shenanigans or not?’ I asked.

‘I already gave you one.’

I choked out a laugh. ‘“Too much to drink”?’

He nodded.

‘Pathetic.’

Nathan’s jaw set in a stubborn line. It highlighted his resemblance to his mother. ‘You really want to discuss this?’

‘No, I don’t want to, Nathan. Believe it or not, I’m just as reluctant to deal with what happened last night as you are. But I can’t see how we’re going to move forward until we do.’

‘Okay. Fine.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The fact is, things haven’t been right between us for a while, Em. We don’t talk much any more. We don’t do stuff together any more. I just don’t think you’ve noticed.’

And with that one statement, the cold blood dripping through my veins turned into a red-hot, furious torrent.

I took a shaky breath. ‘How can you have the gall to stand there and tell me I haven’t noticed how crappy things have been lately? If you’re so bloody observant, then why didn’t you do something about it? Oh. No, wait. You did. You slept with Gloria. Very constructive, you faithless prick!’

Nathan paled at the onslaught. ‘For God’s sake, Emmy, keep your voice down. There might be people sitting outside the gîtes.’

‘I will not keep my voice down. Don’t you dare tell me to keep my voice down! I have spent the past year worrying myself sick about us, while you carried on in your smug little world. Not once have you said anything about being unhappy, while I’ve agonised and wondered whether it was normal to barely speak two words to each other. This holiday was my idea, remember? I’d hoped it would give us the chance to get to know each other again, to get away from work and stress and see if we could be like we used to be.’ At that, my voice broke.

‘Yes, well, we’re not like we used to be, are we?’ he said quietly.

‘I should say not, after last night!’

He shook his head. ‘You’re not going to forget that, are you?’

My eyes widened. ‘Do you honestly expect me to?’

‘I’m not sure what I expect any more. I need to think. I’m going for a walk.’ He stormed off in the direction of the lane.

Incensed, I stomped back inside. As I fought to bring my blood pressure into a safer zone, I looked around the kitchen with dismay. A huge room, it usually conveyed a sense of space and order, with its warm pine units and smart granite worktops fitted across the back half, and its large farmhouse table where guest meals were eaten set under the sloping roof of some kind of porch extension, well away from the cooking area. Now, the morning’s dirty dishes were carelessly piled up next to last night’s by the sink, Rupert’s superlative sauce fit only for the flies gathering on the plates and pans, which stretched halfway around the kitchen. Naively, I’d assumed Gloria would do something about them before Rupert got back – something other than stack them in towering piles, that is. There was a rancid smell. Under the rubble, I discovered its source to be the leftover crème brûlée.

Mindful of how distressing the mess might be for Rupert on his return and desperate for something to take my mind off the fact that my relationship was now officially in intensive care, I filled the gigantic butler sink with steaming lemon-scented bubbles and took my frustration out on the dishes.

God knows, things hadn’t been brilliant between Nathan and me, and I knew deep down that it takes two to allow a relationship to slide – but even so, you didn’t go on holiday to mend bridges and expect your live-in lover to jump onto the first available life raft. We’d been together five years and lived together for three of them. Buying a flat had been a commitment. I didn’t think it was unreasonable to expect fidelity and the occasional honest conversation.

Worst of all, I’d been so blindsided by his admission and accusations – and my own temper – that I hadn’t even got onto the main topic for discussion: getting away from this place.

Two smashed plates, a cracked glass and a chipped cup later, I still had a fair amount of pent-up frustration to release on other household objects, so I looked around for more chores. I didn’t have to look far. Either Gloria was so distraught about her husband that she couldn’t bring herself to deal with mundane things, or it was as I suspected – that she left domestic matters to Rupert and Madame What’s-Her-Name the cleaner, who must have been having a day off, judging by the state of things.

I’d located a broom and was about to brandish it when I heard a car outside. Assuming it must be Gloria returning with Rupert, I glanced out of the window, but didn’t recognise the blue hatchback. As the driver unfolded his tall frame from the small car, I wondered how he could get in or out without doing himself some sort of injury. He must have been well over six foot.

He wasn’t a gîte guest. Vacancy enquiry for the guesthouse? Maybe. He reached into the passenger side and brought out a laptop case, which he flung over one broad shoulder, then a file folder. Hmm. Insurance salesman? He wasn’t wearing a suit, just chinos and a short-sleeved shirt.

He headed across the courtyard towards the house with long strides. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with visitors or unsolicited callers, so when I opened the door, it was with a scowl – although that faltered a little as I took in the short brown hair and matching eyes in a rather handsome face.

‘Yes? Can I help?’ It came out sharper than I’d intended, but then my holiday – indeed, my life – wasn’t turning out how I’d intended either, so he would have to lump it.

My appearance at the door seemed to have unnerved him. His brow furrowed. ‘Hi. Er. Is Rupert in?’

I shook my head. ‘No, sorry.’

He frowned. ‘Gloria?’ It could have been my imagination, but I thought he said her name with an element of distaste.

‘No. Can I help?’

‘And... You are?’

I didn’t like the tone of inquisition in his voice. ‘Emmy. I’m a guest here,’ I snapped.

He stared at the broom in my hand in some consternation. ‘Ah. I see.’ Although clearly he didn’t. ‘Do you know when Rupert will be back?’

I could play the interrogation game myself. I didn’t know this bloke from Adam, and I wasn’t sure how much Rupert would want me to tell him. ‘May I ask why you need to know?’

‘I have an appointment with him. I’m Alain.’ I was momentarily confused. Was he French, then? Because he spoke perfect English – although now I thought about it, there was the very slightest hint of an accent there. He held out his hand for me to shake, and I automatically took it as he added, ‘I’m Rupert’s accountant.’

I dropped his hand like it was poison. Accountants weren’t currently my favourite kind of people.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but Rupert’s in hospital,’ I told him. When obvious concern crossed his features, I softened my tone. ‘He’s fine and he’s coming home later today, but he’ll need to rest.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Do you know what’s wrong?’

I hesitated. ‘Yes, but I don’t think I should say.’ When his expression turned to alarm, I hastened to reassure him. ‘Please don’t worry, it’s nothing too serious. But I don’t know you, and I don’t know if Rupert would want me blabbing all his medical details.’

Rather than take offence as I expected, he said, ‘I understand. Thank you. I’ll let you go back to’ – he glanced in puzzlement at the broom – ‘whatever you were doing.’ He held out his hand again, which I took with the briefest of touches. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said as he turned to go – although as he went down the steps, I thought I heard him mutter, ‘I think.’

When Nathan skulked back in, I was sweeping the kitchen floor. Staring at the brush and dustpan in my hands, he raised his eyebrows. ‘I hardly think that’s your job.’

‘Someone has to do it, since Gloria’s incapable of endangering her fingernails,’ I snapped. ‘I could hardly let Rupert come back to a pigsty in his state, could I?’

As if conjured by my words, Gloria’s sports convertible swung up to the house. Rupert couldn’t climb out of the low vehicle because of his injured leg. Glancing across the courtyard at his sensible estate car, I was exasperated by Gloria’s lack of consideration. I shot Nathan a look of disgust at his lack of gallantry and went down to the car, waiting patiently until Rupert managed to swivel on his seat enough for me and Gloria to pull him out.

Huffing, we helped the invalid up the couple of steps to the kitchen and lowered him into an old easy chair by the window. I fetched a footstool from the lounge for him to raise his leg. Usually cheery and ruddy-complexioned from the sun, Rupert looked pale with all the effort, and I was shocked at how much older he suddenly seemed, his face unshaven, his wavy silver-grey hair straggly and uncombed.

Unsure what to do next, I turned to put the kettle on, but Rupert caught my hand.

‘Emmy, dear girl,’ he said, his voice shaky. ‘I’m so sorry for what I put you through last night. You must have been terrified. Bet you thought I was a goner.’ He winked.

‘I’m just glad you’re alright, Rupert.’

‘Thanks to you.’

Aware that Nathan and Gloria were watching intently, I blustered, ‘I didn’t do much.’

‘You did your best, and I’m grateful, love.’

He kissed my hand. I was so touched by the gratitude in this old-fashioned gesture that I felt an unexpected tear prickle, but Gloria’s eyes were boring into me over Rupert’s shoulder like drills. How she had the cheek to give me a look like that, I don’t know. If she’d been where she should have been last night, he wouldn’t have had to thank me at all.

Straightening up, I shot the look right back. ‘Tea, anyone?’ I asked.

Gloria shook her head. ‘I have to get the Hendersons’ room ready.’ She turned to click her way upstairs.

I offered a cup to Nathan, but he looked so uncomfortable, I thought he might drop it, so I left it on the table for him. Had he found a conscience now Rupert was home?

Apparently not.

‘I’d better help Gloria,’ he declared and shot off after her, leaving me with an excess of tea, a wan invalid, and the instant resolve that I would be following him in precisely three minutes to make sure helping her was all he did do.