Sophie suddenly noticed Jean-Christophe standing at the back of the crowd, nodding enthusiastically.

‘Thank you for creating a beautiful wedding for my daughter,’ Bill continued, ‘in a truly romantic location which I hope will be the first of many, many more!’ Suddenly realizing what he’d said, he added: ‘Though obviously not for my daughter!’

As the last firework fizzled into darkness, a full moon appeared from behind the clouds and illuminated the entire château.

Gazing skywards, Meredith found that Philippe had materialized from the darkness and was standing next to her.

‘Your father would have been very proud of you,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘for making his dream come true.’

Just below them, he spotted somebody approaching from between the vines. He stared down into the darkness.

‘Christ almighty, it’s Margot!’ he exclaimed in a low voice.

Laughter threatened to shake Meredith and she had to take a deep breath. ‘Margot!’ she shouted. ‘Come and have a glass of wine.’

Meredith looked up at the château. It had stood on this spot for six hundred years, enhanced by the light of the moon and the perfect natural beauty of the landscape. Everyone around her was relaxed and happy, and it truly was as romantic a location as anyone could possibly want for a wedding.

She felt Philippe’s arm around her, strong and reassuring. And Meredith decided that, although she’d never felt the lack of a partner, there were definite advantages to finding the right one.

With his usual sensitivity, Philippe guessed what she was feeling and turned her round to face him. ‘So, Mademoiselle Meredith Harding, the time has come for me to ask you, could you put up with a man in your life?’

‘Only if he was the right man.’

‘And am I the right man?’

Without waiting for an answer, he took her in his arms.

Suddenly, from the direction of the château, Nelly burst through the vineyard, gambolled up the steps and began to howl noisily at the moon.

‘I might be gaining Grand-père,’ Meredith remarked to Philippe, ‘but you’ll be inheriting eighteen kilos of British bulldog with a perennial slobber and a snoring problem.’

‘Nelly,’ Philippe enquired of the engaging heap of sinew and muscle that had decided to settle on his feet, ‘I hope you’re not going to take that lying down?’

From the terrace above, David and Steph stood watching them, each holding a glass of Liam’s prize crémant de Savarin. ‘It seems to be a night of declarations,’ said David wryly, ‘so why not another? I’ve missed you, Steph.’

‘I’ve missed you too,’ Steph admitted as he reached for her hand.

David raised his glass towards the moon. ‘To the triumph of love!’

From the darkness below, Nelly stopped howling and barked contentedly, as if this was the ending she’d always intended.

The Greek Holiday