‘He might have parked around the back or in a garage, Kaitlynn,’ Roy said. Then, trying to stay positive, he added, ‘Maybe it’ll look nicer in sunshine.’

‘Maybe it’ll look even worse,’ Cleo replied. ‘I vote we leave now.’

‘While we can!’ Bruno added in a sinister voice.

‘Darling,’ Roy said to Cleo. ‘It’s 4 p.m. and we’re in the middle of bloody nowhere. And we’ve paid everything in advance.’

‘I’d prefer to be at home rather than here!’

‘But Jack’s here!’ Kaitlynn said. ‘We can’t just leave him!’

‘Of course not, we’ll tell him to come with us,’ Cleo said.

Before Roy could comment, the front door opened wider and a dumpy, rather stern woman stood there. She looked in her late forties and she was dressed in a drab summer frock and plimsolls. Her face was tight and pinched, behind large glasses, and her mousy brown hair was pulled back into a bun. She reminded him of someone, but at that moment he couldn’t think who.

‘She looks happy to see us – not,’ Cleo said.

‘We are a bit late,’ Roy replied. ‘You know what the French are like about food. They probably had a lovely lunch ready – as we’d asked for – maybe that’s why she’s looking annoyed,’ he said. He was trying hard to be positive, not wanting to start their holiday on the wrong foot. Although it seemed they were pretty well on the wrong foot already. Both feet, actually.

‘Like, it’s our fault?’ she replied. ‘And you’re right, Kaitlynn, this place doesn’t look anything like the images we saw.’

‘Maybe the website pictures were taken a long time ago.’ Roy shrugged.

‘A very long time ago!’ Cleo exclaimed.

‘I’ll go and say sorry in my best French – and explain why we’re late. Hopefully they’ll be able to rustle something up for us.’

‘Otherwise we can eat the dog,’ Bruno said. ‘It looks like it’s on the way out.’

Ignoring him, Roy helped Cleo lift Noah from his child seat, and asked Kaitlynn and Bruno to grab some of their bags. Quietly, to Cleo, Roy said, ‘Let’s give it tonight, at least. If we don’t like it, we can leave first thing in the morning.’

‘If we’re still alive,’ Bruno hissed, overhearing them.

Roy, carrying two suitcases, and Cleo, holding Noah, hurried through the rain and up the steps, into the shelter of the porch, followed by Bruno.

‘Bonjour, Madame, we are Monsieur and Madame Grace,’ Roy said, pretty much using up all he could remember of his schoolboy French. ‘We have a booking with you, I think.’

‘I am sorry, my English is not so good. You speak French?’

Roy looked at Cleo, then back at the woman. ‘My wife – ma femme – can speak French.’