None of the other diners knew, or cared, that she was in a state of utter wretchedness – and neither would Marc. Marie-Claire had to swallow hard to compose herself as a lump rose to her throat. She was in shock. Soon to be jobless, homeless, manless; and all because Marc Bouchard didn’t think that a relationship with her was enough for him. Well, he could have Miss-Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt and her fey, cloying obsequiousness, if that was what he wanted, but he damn well couldn’t have them both.

Come on now! Chin up. Take control. Don’t be a wimp, Marie-Claire told herself sternly, tensing when she saw Marc exiting his taxi. She took a sip of water, impressed that her hand was so steady. She would get through this meal knowing that the choice to play victim or victor was hers alone. And victorious she would be, she vowed, pasting a smile on as she saw her erstwhile partner’s face light up when he joined her.

‘Chérie, you look stunning,’ he gushed, kissing her lightly on the lips, his mouth and nose cold from the biting air outside. He looked tired, but his gaze was admiring as it slid over her, taking in every aspect of her appearance.

She’d swept her auburn tresses up in a topknot, and taken extra care with her make-up, contouring her cheekbones, using smoky eyeliner to give her eyes extra depth. Her black off-the-shoulder dress clung to every curve. She’d nearly slipped a disc struggling into a pair of Spanx. Her feet were already aching in their skyscraper heels. It was as well she wasn’t hungry because she was too trussed up to eat.

‘Thank you, sweetie,’ she said, lightly returning his kiss. ‘Sit down and tell me all about your day. You must be exhausted.’ How easily the faux sympathy dripped from her. She should be in Hollywood. She cupped her face in her hands and gazed at him expectantly across the table. The more talking he did, the easier it would be to get the meal over and done with and scarper.

‘Oh, Marie-Claire, what a day,’ he sighed. ‘Families are such a nightmare. But let’s order first – I’m starving.’ He reached across the table and took her hand before catching a waiter’s eye. Feeling her hand in his was a wrench. She’d always liked holding hands with Marc. He had big hands and long tanned fingers, and hers always seemed so dainty in his, though she was far from dainty, she thought wryly.

‘Good idea,’ she agreed, withdrawing her hand so she could peruse the menu. Her sight was blurred. She couldn’t concentrate on the two set menus, with their seven courses of gourmet offerings.