Nicky seemed to be in touch almost permanently with requests, reminders and demands that made Sophie fear she was already undergoing that unique wedding metamorphosis, from nice Nicola into Bridezilla. Could Sophie make sure there were sufficient options for veggies at the wedding feast (of course); could Sophie supply a non-allergenic pillow, as Nicky suffered from hay fever (no problem); could they have pale pink tablecloths on the round tables, as Nicky particularly liked that shade of faded pink they had in some restaurants (OK, although quite a challenge); would it be possible for Sophie to supply sleep-inducing tea, as Nicky could never sleep when she was nervous (OK . . . but couldn’t Nicky bring her own bloody teabags?).

Sophie had to give herself a lecture on remaining patient in the face of this transformation and be relieved it was she who was dealing with it rather than Meredith, who would probably have cancelled the entire nuptials. Lots of brides were a nightmare – if they were going to run a wedding château, they would just have to get used to that fact.

‘Tout ça va, madame?’ Marcelline enquired the next morning. Steph had been standing over a bowl of egg white waiting to be beaten into meringue for at least five minutes.

He’s got to make the first move, not you, she told herself for the hundredth time. She had found herself accidentally driving past the two hotels yesterday evening, convinced that it would be fate, and therefore OK, if David came out, but weak of her to actually go and enquire if he was staying there. Such was the crazy logic of the heart.

‘Sorry, Marcelline. In a bit of a daze.’

Marcelline, as it happened, knew exactly why this was, since her cousin worked on reception in the Hôtel Clos des Lilas and had reported that a Monsieur David Adams had just checked in, and wasn’t he Marcelline’s ex-employer? The one Marcelline had always said was so nice and considerate?

She also hoped for David’s return because when he was around the B&B had been better run in a hundred small ways you took for granted. Toilets were magically unblocked, drains didn’t smell and the swimming pool was never a suspicious green. And – better than anything else – Stephanie looked a lot happier.

As if in evidence of this, a Mademoiselle Signac, who was staying in the Oriental Room, their very best bedroom, burst dramatically into the kitchen.

‘There are ants everywhere!’ she screamed hysterically. ‘They are all over the bed and the pillows! I cannot stay another moment. I am allergic to ant bites and I may die!’

‘Oh my God,’ Steph murmured to Marcelline, sounding almost hysterical herself. ‘If only David were here. He’d know how to deal with this!’