‘I’ve been studying all our rivals’ websites about catering and florists,’ Sophie announced to her mother and Meredith as they all sat in the sunny orangery. ‘Plus made one or two innocent calls pretending to be a blushing bride,’ she confessed with a grin.

‘I’m sure you made a lovely bride,’ Jo teased her.

‘The usual package seems to offer a list of caterers and one or two favoured florists. Sometimes the bride has her own favourite florist and occasionally, God help us, someone in the family wants to do it. The woman at Be Mine in France said they strongly discourage it but you get the odd person who has a fit at the cost of the flowers. They are a bit eye-watering, but I think that’s the same at home.’

Jo nodded in agreement. ‘Liz next door told me her daughter spent more on the flowers than the honeymoon. Whatever happened to little posies of wildflowers?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘It’s all part of the production these days. Weddings are more like Hollywood musicals now, starring Scarlett O’Hara in Vera Wang. On the catering front, I’ve had three sample menus in: one classic French, one very regional and the third a bit more Middle Eastern. That’s all the vibe nowadays. Blame Ottolenghi. The fourth caterer decided he was too busy to pitch.’

‘Let’s see the menus, then,’ Meredith requested. Sophie handed them over. ‘Mmm. Scallops or lobster, followed by carré of lamb or pan-fried monkfish, crème brulee or mini pastries. That sounds nice. And rich. What’s the local one?’

‘Salade Périgourdine,’ Sophie produced another menu. ‘That’s duck salad with a bit of fruit and nuts, basically. Very fresh and delicious . . . Filet de boeuf sauce Périgueux, with truffles, wouldn’t you know? Then tarte aux noix or pastry with Mara des Bois strawberries. Have you tried them? They’re amazing. Small and deep red, like rubies. The hip one is hot meze followed by lamb with roasted aubergine spiced with cumin and sumac. Dessert of Turkish yogurt with walnuts and honey, or mini baklava things.’

‘What about the fourth?’

‘They’re the ones that dropped out. I did wonder . . .’ She paused a moment.

‘Yes?’ prompted Meredith.

Sophie took a deep breath. ‘Whether you might like to ask Philippe to pitch? It seems silly to have a famous chef on our doorstep and not ask him.’

‘Not a good idea,’ Meredith insisted, trying to move the conversation on.

‘Why is that?’ persisted Sophie, knowing perfectly well why. And if she didn’t, the kick under the table from her mother would have reminded her.

‘He’s far too busy already. He says he left Paris for an easier life. I doubt catering for demanding British brides was what he had in mind.’