Even Jackie wasn’t immune to that universal female cry – perhaps not even female, but definitely universal.

‘Absolutely!’ the others chorused, equally grateful they all had partners and making a mental note to be nicer to them, so they didn’t end up alone like Suzi.

‘So tell me about l’anglaise,’ enquired Antoine of his son when he came home a few days later, his leg in plaster with two new crutches on which he hobbled proudly round, waving them in the direction of anything he required and swearing noisily if he encountered any obstacles. ‘You two seemed to know each other pretty well. You should bring her home. I liked her. Time you settled down again, don’t you think?’ he added with a roguish look.

Philippe repressed a smile. No doubt Grand-père had heard about the reappearance of Lucille. He had never liked her, and the fact that she had simply disappeared without her ten-year-old had naturally reinforced his opinion. ‘She was only ever out for herself, that one,’ was his constant refrain on the subject whenever he found anyone who would listen.

Happily for Philippe, Jean-Christophe arrived before he had time to reply to his father’s question. ‘I’ll stay with him for a bit,’ he offered, seeing his father’s look of exhaustion. It was hard to decide which was more tiring: having Antoine at home on crutches, or chasing round the countryside looking for him.

Jean-Christophe glanced at his father, wondering if he were any nearer to resolving the much more crucial dilemma: did he want to give Lucille another chance, or continue his relationship with the lady from the château?

Sophie had been busy emailing Ronnie with a list of all the different uses for which flowers would be required: most importantly, the bridal bouquet, but also buttonholes for the ushers and bridegroom, table centrepieces and suitable blooms to deck the wedding pavilion where the happy couple would be exchanging their vows. At the moment the château garden was a riot of flowers that could be pressed into use, but by the date of the wedding they would be past their best. She suspected Ronnie would not be a reliable provider of the right flowers, but she could only do what she could.

Sophie closed her eyes and mentally decorated the château as if for her own wedding. A glorious vision appeared of Sophie dressed entirely in red, with a bouquet of blowsy red roses and a red rose arch to walk through on her way to the wedding pavilion. Red might be thought an unusual colour for a bride, but naturally Sophie looked sensational in it. Suddenly the tall figure of Jean-Christophe in a chic black suit introduced himself into Sophie’s fantasy. ‘Really, Soph,’ she told herself sternly, ‘pull yourself together. He hasn’t even asked you out!’