Jo smiled, realizing that her white t-shirt was sopping wet and moulded against her body. Liam was consciously not looking, but she knew he was aware of it all the same.

‘What happened to that glorious fresh weather of a few weeks ago?’

‘Well,’ he grinned, ‘if you will have your wedding in the hottest month of the year . . .’

She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better go and sort out these Portaloos.’

‘I have to say this about you Brits,’ Liam commented, only a slight softening of the mouth conveying the humour he saw in the situation, ‘you certainly know when to be romantic.’

Sophie decided that of the three of them, it was she who was most excited about the approach of Nicky’s wedding, maybe because she would be in charge of how the day unfolded. She had spent a long time yesterday evening lying on her bed watching recent Instagram and YouTube videos of weddings and scanning through their rivals’ websites. Fortunately, the world still seemed to love a wedding, and brides adored having them in France.

Her favourite was one where the entire château seemed to have been draped in white blossom. God only knew what that had cost. It made her think of Ronnie and the mysterious flowers. Being Sophie, she couldn’t even tell herself it wasn’t her problem.

Tomorrow she was going to start on making up the rooms. She sat for a moment gazing out at the valley, a little cooler now but still incredibly hot, and wondering when on earth it would be her turn to exchange ridiculously romantic vows and wear an outrageously expensive dress.

Not for a very long time, as far as she could tell.

To the relief of all, the weather broke in the night. All three of them were woken by the sound of thunder crashing so loudly overhead, it was more like an explosion in some war-torn Middle Eastern city than the gentle Savarin valley. They spontaneously gathered on the landing of the main staircase to watch the sheets of green, yellow and white flashing across the sky like some giant son et lumière.

‘I love our choice of nightwear!’ Sophie giggled. ‘Me in my crumpled camisole that barely covers my lady parts, Mum all cosy in her jimjams and Meredith in her Janet Reger silk nightdress with the shoestring straps! What does that say about our personalities?’

‘It’s Liliana Casanova, actually,’ grinned Meredith. ‘And I refuse to be summed up by my lingerie!’ She looked outside at the lightning-lit landscape. ‘At least it won’t be so hot for the wedding, thank God. Anyone for a cup of tea?’

Sophie started giggling and couldn’t stop.

‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ Meredith enquired.

‘It’s the idea of Meredith Harding, châtelaine of St Savarin, in her Liliana Casanova nightdress longing for a nice cuppa tea!’