‘This place is dog-friendly. They’ll have a drink and then lay under our table. At least Lady will.’ Fern looked at Belinda.

‘BB will too,’ Belinda hastened to assure her, but crossed her fingers as she spoke. Lady was far better behaved than BB.

‘Mrs LeRoy and Lady, how lovely to see you both again and to meet your friends,’ the receptionist greeted them as they entered. They were shown straight to their table by a window overlooking the river and, thankfully, BB followed Lady’s lead and obediently lay down under the table.

Belinda smothered a laugh as she looked around. ‘Nearly every table has a dog under it.’

Fern smiled. ‘It’s good business. So many people walk the river path every day with their dog and stop off here for a coffee or lunch, they’d be silly to ban dogs. Besides, the French have never had a problem allowing dogs into their cafés and restaurants. I remember when I first came over, people used to put them in their supermarché trolley and push them around whilst they did their shopping. Brussels put a stop to that a few years back.’

Belinda smiled, a memory of going shopping with her mum and seeing just that in the nearest supermarché to home coming to mind. At the time it hadn’t seemed strange, just a normal thing to do.

A waitress appeared with a bread basket, a menu for each of them and the wine list which she handed to Fern as she spoke to her in French.

Listening to the two of them, there was something vaguely familiar about the woman that Belinda couldn’t quite pin down. It wasn’t until the waitress turned to include Belinda in the discussion about which wine they would like to accompany their meal that the name on the neat badge she wore pinned to her pristine black blouse leapt out at her. Sandrine.

Belinda quickly put her head down and studied the menu.

‘Sorry I don’t speak or understand French.’ She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m English. Whatever my friend chooses will be fine by me.’ Rather than acknowledge the stare she sensed Fern was sending in her direction, Belinda reached out for the water carafe and poured herself a glass.

The waitress turned back to Fern, with her pencil poised.

Fern placed their order of two green salads for starters and two roast beef main courses, explaining that as she was driving, a half carafe of the house Bordeaux between them would be fine. ‘Merci,’ and Fern handed back the menus.

Once the waitress was out of earshot, she looked across at Belinda, her eyebrows raised.

‘I know you speak French, so what was that all about?’