There were no flights; none at all. Not to Montpellier, nor to Nîmes or Carcassonne or any of the cities nearby. Even the expensive ones had gone. She tried on the net, and then she rang round travel companies. ‘It is the summer, after all,’ said one to her, and another: ‘You should have booked before.’

‘If it’s so important, you’ll just have to drive there,’ said one.

Of course! She’d drive. Why hadn’t she thought of that? It wouldn’t take long, surely. How far was it? She’d spent holidays in France, but she’d never driven all the way through it. Anyway, it didn’t matter how long it took. Work was over for the term, the children were away. If it took the entire week to drive it didn’t matter. Indeed, it was like the answer to her need: this dash across France was how she would make her summer go by.

The ferries were full. She searched the net for Eurotunnel. It took less than a minute to find the site and within five minutes she had paid £123 by her credit card for a long-stay return trip, Folkestone to Calais Coquelles, going the day after tomorrow, Saturday, 2 August, in one of the last remaining slots, six minutes past four in the afternoon, arriving just thirty-five minutes later – twenty-five minutes earlier by clock time in France. She didn’t have to specify when she would return, and the trains went four times an hour throughout the day.

She wrote her list and followed it methodically, ticking off each task as she completed it. Go to the bank for euros before it closed for the day; £50-worth would do for the time being. Ring Jem and tell him her travel plans and ask him to e-mail instructions for the drive into the city. Ring Catherine to put off her violin lessons. Ask Sasha’s friend Kadija if she would look after the hamster for a couple of weeks or so. Cancel newspapers until further notice. Check road atlas to see approximately how long it will take to get to Folkestone. She could buy an atlas for France when she arrived there. Print out Jem’s instructions. Take a deep breath and call up her father in America, who was buoyantly and undiscriminatingly cheerful in the way he always was – a wallpaper of cheerfulness to spread across the fissures in their relationship. He behaved as if they’d met yesterday, called her ‘honey bun’ and asked her how her gorgeous children were doing and whether Adrian had come to his senses and returned, but he didn’t give her time to answer. He said he would arrive in Montpellier the day before the wedding, bringing with him wife number three and their two young children, who were about the same age as Sasha and Clem.