Idly she began to browse on her phone and, although she wouldn’t have liked to explain quite how, came across an online article outlining the seven defining characteristics of the New Zealand male. These ranged from being stoical and blokey to independent and easy-going; a love of sport and loyalty to their friends; with their most defining characteristic being that they were ‘bonded to the land’. Liam seemed to fit the Kiwi bill in most ways. But why, if he was bonded to the land, had he stayed here in France?

Stepping out of the taxi, she paid the driver and put her phone away to look out for Sophie. There was no chance of missing her because the airport was so tiny. In fact, it didn’t even have a carousel for the suitcases; they were simply piled in a large and untidy heap in a semi-derelict hangar that looked as if it had been previously used as a cattle barn. Which is exactly what it had been, till the advent of cheap airlines. Neither was there a cafe, only a stall on wheels, and the loos were about half a mile away and consisted of that French speciality, the hole in the ground, where you took aim and hoped for the best then got your feet plunged into freezing water when you flushed, while the lights instantly went out to save on electricity.

She bought herself a cappuccino from the stall and sat down with it on a cool stone bench to wait.

Once the plane landed she didn’t have to wait much longer. With her usual efficiency Sophie had paid for a seat in the first row and was therefore first off; and since her belongings were stowed in a smart leather backpack, she was able to stride past the trailer loaded with luggage and fling herself into her mum’s arms.

‘I have a good feeling about this,’ she announced. ‘A change will be good for you. For both of us. I can’t wait to see the place. What’s it like?’

‘Your basic fairy-tale castle,’ Jo grinned. ‘Gorgeous golden stone, four turrets with pointy roofs like witches’ hats – even a moat, for God’s sake. And right on the riverbank. All it needs is a princess waiting to be set free.’

‘Could she be you?’ Sophie asked with a smile.

‘Oh God, I’m too old for that sort of thing. A wicked stepmother, more like.’

‘Oh, Mum.’ Sophie hugged her. ‘You could never be a wicked stepmother. You’re much too nice.’

‘Life has brought me to the conclusion that being nice is my problem. If I’d been tougher—’

‘If you’d been tougher, you wouldn’t have been you,’ Sophie insisted.

‘It is lovely to have you here. I’ve got lots of exciting plans.’