Our eyes were locked onto each other’s and I wondered if he was thinking what I was. It doesn’t matter, but just out of curiosity …

“I’m thirty-six, nearly thirty-seven,” I blurted.

“Fifty-two,” he said and I decided, right then, that fifty-two was the sexiest age ever. I saw the smile twitching the corner of his mouth and moments later, we were grinning at each other.

“And yes,” he said, as he topped up my bubbles.

“Yes?” I’d completely lost track of what question he was answering.

“Jimmy. Armando and I met when I was twentyish.”

I searched James’s face for a glimpse of twenty-year-old Jimmy, but James was such a man, it was futile.

“He’s the only person who calls me that, however.”

“Is that so, Mr Cartwright?” I lifted my chin, challenging him, even though I would never call him “Jimmy”.

“It is, Ms Parsons.” He tipped his head and finished his glass of bubbles. “Now, back to you. Did you enjoy touring? You didn’t say when we were at lunch last week. And I’ll be honest, it sounds like a difficult job.” He made himself another bite of bread and cheese and I took the moment to consider my response.

“It was a difficult job. I know a lot of people think it’s very exciting and glamorous to get paid to travel around Europe. And, of course, there were days when I had to pinch myself. We went to some incredible locations, did these amazing things, like paragliding in Greece, and all those tours of ancient sites and historical buildings. I loved that part. I could go to Rome a thousand times and never get sick of it. And I met people who’ve become treasured friends, like I said.

“But there were other facets, the stuff no one talked about, the difficult stuff. Twenty-hour days, hardly any sleep, borders and visas and lost passports and stolen credit cards, clients with hangovers, me with hangovers—just lots of hangovers. Anyway, with the long drives, subsisting on fast food, and never exercising, I often felt like rubbish.”

“So, not an ordinary job, then.”

“No, never ordinary. Probably the best and worst time of my life,” I said, then added, “So far, anyway.” I loved how attentive he was being, but it also made me a little self-conscious. “Sorry, I’m talking incessantly about myself.”

“No, not at all. I like hearing about you, about your life.”

“In any case, that was the long way around to answer your question, but I love Beaujolais, probably as much for the memories as for the wine.”

“Let’s switch, then,” he said, sitting upright and feeling around in the picnic basket. After a moment, he pulled out a wine opener and I clapped my hands together softly in anticipation.

I didn’t think there could possibly be anything left in the basket, but then he took out two red wine glasses—globe-shaped glasses, like I’d drunk from in France—and I squealed with unconcealed delight. “That picnic basket is like the Tardis. Anything else tucked away in there?”