The photos were almost finished when suddenly, without any warning, balls of frozen water began to thunder down from the sky, banging loudly on the car roofs in the parking area, in one of the freak hailstorms that were a curious feature of the region even in high summer. Guests started shrieking, feather fascinators drooped and men of the old school took their jackets off and draped them protectively round their partners’ shoulders.

Jean-Christophe, knowing exactly what to do as a native of the area, herded all the guests into the grand salon and shouted at his assistants to cover up the tables on the terrace.

Jo tried to find Liam, but he had already disappeared down towards the vineyard.

The last of the guests to run for the salon were Mark and Amanda. He stopped dead, hailstones beating a tattoo on his shoulders, staring at her as if she were a ghost. ‘Joanna! What on earth are you doing here?’

Jo realized she really didn’t care what Mark or his silly wife thought of her. All she wanted was to follow Liam, and see if there was anything she could do to protect his crop.

‘I’ll tell you later. I’ve got to find someone first.’

Ignoring Mark’s outraged expression, she ran down the steps at the edge of the terrace and headed for the vineyard without even bothering to look for a mac or an umbrella. It would hardly protect against hail this size anyway.

Liam was standing not far from the riverbank and surveying the neat rows loaded with almost-ripe fruit, his face etched with something close to desperation. ‘You can lose a whole year’s crop in ten minutes when you get a hailstorm like this,’ he stated, his voice devoid of any emotion. ‘It depends how long this one is going to last.’

They were suddenly aware of a lone figure with long white hair and a beard standing right in the middle of the vines, waving what appeared to be a crutch towards the sky and shouting up at the heavens. He looked for all the world like Prospero conjuring up the weather with his staff.

The guests thought so too. A crowd stood watching him from the long windows of the salon as if he had been laid on for their entertainment.

‘Jean-Christophe,’ Meredith whispered urgently. ‘Call your father. Your grandfather is in the middle of the vineyard, shouting at the sky. He must be soaking wet. I’ll take him down a coat till Philippe gets here.’

As she passed the drinks table she grabbed a bottle of cognac destined for the cocktails and headed off across the terrace, ignoring the hail, which soaked her hair and made her dress almost transparent.

By the time she reached Antoine, the hailstones had stopped as dramatically as they had started and the skies were once more a deep, almost Mediterranean blue.