Meredith got out her phone. ‘Here, I’ll take the official photograph, shall I?’

Jean-Christophe stood proudly holding his prize carp as the fish obligingly sat in his arms, its round O of a mouth moving as it took in deep breaths of air, its small black eye fixed on its watery home.

Meredith took a whole selection, just in case. ‘Come on, Philippe. One with the proud father!’

Philippe laughed and joined his son and the pair stood side by side, arms round each other with the fish in the middle, bathed in pride and sunshine. Then, just as suddenly, they both ran to the bank and tossed the gargantuan fish back in the river with a jubilant cry.

Oh well, thought Meredith, better than ending up on the menu, I suppose.

She glanced at Nelly, still looking up adoringly at her new hero. ‘And you’re no better than any other silly female. A sexy French smile and you’ll follow him anywhere!’

She looked up to find Philippe’s eyes on her. She dipped down to fondle Nelly’s ears as she smiled back.

‘So how are you getting on with that vigneron of ours?’ Margot enquired. ‘Sorry, of course, he’s your vigneron now, silly me.’

Jo wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but Margot was sitting in their cosy kitchen drinking a cup of coffee.

The truth was, she had no idea. She and Liam always seemed to get on well, but he had never brought up his dinner invitation again. She had found herself watching him from her bedroom window that morning as he tended the vines.

Jo ducked the question and asked instead what was happening in the vineyard at the moment.

‘My dear,’ almost giggled Margot, ‘I have no idea. I left all that to Liam. You must ask him. I’m sure he’d be only too happy to explain it to you. From that, I deduce that your relationship has not been flowering along with the almond trees outside in the garden. I love it when they blossom. It tells me spring is finally here.’ She smiled out at the garden, imagining she still owned it rather than the tiny patch of grass in front of her new home. ‘My dear, you will have to be more direct with him. You can flirt with a Frenchman, play a game of hide and seek that is very sexy and exciting –’ she emphasized this with a rather scary wink – ‘but with a New Zealander, no. You must make your intentions clear.’ She paused as if considering whether to go on. ‘Perhaps losing his wife has made him more nervous of playing his hand. But remember this.’ She leaned forward. ‘I have often noticed widowers who have had a happy marriage make the best husbands! They know what real happiness is, you see.’