‘He’s always asking,’ she said. ‘And the hotel is on our way.’

They played music through their portable speaker as the trees flashed past like a beat. A family car overtook, with children staring out, squashed against the back window. The mother, glimpsed, was changing a baby, wipes and hands and the tiny feet waving, shouting at her husband.

Alex was seven years older than Bea. She had last seen him at the Priory, when he’d checked himself in. He’d stayed three months that time. Alex hadn’t said in his emails whose idea it was to buy a hotel in Burgundy, his or their father’s, or Liv’s, but it was bizarre. Neither he nor their parents knew anything about the catering industry, and Alex had only been clean six months when he left London to go and run it. She and Dan had googled the Hotel Paligny, but apart from a fancy logo the website said it was under construction.

‘Do you think there’ll be an industrial kitchen in Alex’s hotel,’ she asked, ‘like in The Shining?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Dan, examining playlists on his phone.

She was sick of managing his mood. He had been like this since they arrived in France, fractious about staying with Alex. Add up all the times we’ve visited your mother, she’d say, that’s how long we’ll stay with my brother. She was trying to overlook it, but it didn’t feel romantic, it wasn’t like the start of an adventure.

Soon after Dijon they came off the autoroute, and through the tolls again. Dan took over the driving. Brown ‘ville historique’ signs instructed them they were somewhere beautiful, but it was still just a motorway. Alex had sent directions but they were different to the satnav.

‘Beaune,’ said Bea, map-reading, as they shot past signs. ‘No, sorry – Dole, no, Le Creusot. Fuck. Autun. Definitely Autun.’

Several miles along a dual carriageway they saw the sign for Autun and Beaune, and turned off. Then, suddenly, there were vineyards. The hills were striped with them, like graph paper. Dan slowed the car to a calmer eighty kilometres per hour and Bea looked out of the window.

‘It’s not far now,’ she said. ‘This is pretty.’

‘It’s not Milan,’ said Dan. ‘It’s not Rome.’

‘A few days, then it’s done.’

They came to the outskirts of a village.

‘There’s a sign,’ said Bea. ‘Slow down –’

‘I am!’

‘Arnay-sur-Ouche, three kilometres.’ She checked the directions.

They passed flat-fronted stucco houses with shutters and window boxes of red flowers that looked vaguely Tyrolean. Vineyards gave way to pastures, woodlands broke the view, and steep hills and bare rock.

‘Satnav?’ asked Dan.

‘It’s in and out. Just carry on.’

She texted Alex to say they were nearly there, but the text turned green and she didn’t know if he’d received it. They could see a church spire.

‘Here we are,’ she said, ‘Arnay-sur-Ouche’

They followed the one-way system to an irregular square.

‘Café de la Place,’ said Bea, peering out.