‘And with that he sweeps hundreds of years of wars between us under the carpet,’ teased Philippe.

Jean-Christophe grinned. ‘Best place for them in the twenty-first century. I was going to say we’re all Europeans now, and then I remembered – they decided they’re not!’

‘Le Géneral would be outraged at the British stupidity!’ suddenly piped up Antoine, taking them by surprise.

‘He does that,’ murmured Philippe. ‘Has sudden moments when he’s the old Dad, rational and argumentative.’

He hugged his father, then went to get his coat. ‘See you later. Give my love to Amélie and tell her I’ll try and be back by eleven.’

‘Papa,’ Jean-Christophe reminded him. ‘It’s Saturday night. You won’t.’

‘Amélie won’t mind. Dad will have fallen asleep and she will have got him to bed and be deep into one of those Miladi books she loves, full of buccaneering pirates kidnapping French ladies in silken dresses and dragging them off to their cabins.’

Meredith had to go and take a phone call from the title expert she’d employed and Steph suddenly remembered that although Jean-Christophe might be coming to her rescue she still had twelve people to feed tonight and had better get on with it, so no one noticed Jo quietly slip up to her room.

She felt so bloody stupid. Worse, she felt a failure. Mark might be behaving like a shit and Amanda a silly and gullible young woman, but she was still younger and more attractive than Jo, and he had rejected Jo and chosen her. And now she was divorced. It was such a horrible word, conjuring up fast blondes in Noël Coward plays, and despite the statistics proving how common it had become, it still made her feel that she was on the scrapheap, no matter how many times she told herself she was a strong, independent woman. It was so exhausting filling your life with activity to stave off loneliness when as a couple you could just lie around, do nothing and enjoy each other’s company. When she was half of a couple she had actually looked forward to weekends when they had nothing to do. Now she dreaded them.

She was standing at the window watching the early evening mist settle over the river, which was bathed in intense pink light from the sunset, when her phone rang.

‘Hi, Ma, it’s me! Just thought I’d let you know we’ve wrapped up the exhibition and it all went brilliantly!’ A wave of guilt rippled through Jo at how, yet again, she’d all but forgotten about the exhibition and her life at home. ‘They’ve paid us already, which must be a first, and I’ve settled with the caterers and the wine people for the private view. So it’s all done and dusted, and I’m arriving at Bratenac on Monday morning courtesy of Ryanair!’