One glance in the mirror told her she didn’t look too bad. Her shoulder-length grey-blonde Helen Mirren hair needed a comb, but her skin was clear and healthy. All those facials had paid off. She touched up her natural lipstick and dusted her face with Dior powder. The beauty writers might claim shiny skin was fashionable, but in Meredith’s view, ladies of her age looked better flatteringly matte.

She patted her well-cut beige trousers and surveyed her silk top. She always travelled in silk – both light and warm – usually with a cosy pashmina to wrap herself in if it got cold. Her long cashmere cardigan was perfect too, both smart and comfortable.

‘Right then,’ she told herself with a smile. ‘They might all think you’ve lost your marbles at work, but what the hell. The adventure begins!’

And, for the first time in months, she felt a happy anticipation about what the next two weeks would hold.

Once she’d cleared immigration at Charles de Gaulle she would find the driver of the comfortable Mercedes she’d ordered and go straight to sleep in the back. It was a crazy extravagance, of course, when she could perfectly well get a high-speed train; but hell, she could afford it.

With a bit of luck and not too many traffic jams, she would be at Steph’s by early evening.

‘Where do you want to put Meredith?’ David asked.

‘In the Oriental Room,’ Steph replied at once. ‘She’s coming from Shanghai, so that should be appropriate.’

During their renovations Steph had found a gorgeously exotic length of fabric at her favourite brocante, the French version of an antique shop, which also sold superior junk. She had taken out her old sewing machine and run up floor-length curtains and a canopy to go above the bed. There had even been just enough left over to cover a stool, which she had put in front of a French dressing table she’d picked up and repainted. With a few oriental prints and a Japanese fan fixed to the wall, the effect might not be authentic, but it was good all the same – both inviting and exotic.

It was in the same brocante that she had found most of the treasures that gave the rooms their themes: the Flower Room, where a marvellous set of flower prints was ranged across the walls, and the Chandelier Room, named after a fabulous gilded chandelier she’d discovered that somehow took you straight back to the lost elegance of the eighteenth century.

Steph had always fancied sleeping in the Oriental Room herself, or at least having a bath in the en suite bathroom, which had a wonderful old tub with feet. One afternoon, after Meredith was gone, maybe she’d sneak up there with a glass of champagne . . .

She sighed. Not very likely.