Belinda leant across the table and whispered, ‘She was my bête noire at school. I’ll tell you more later. Right now I need a glass of that wine you ordered.’ She took a bread roll from the basket and, breaking a piece off, chewed it thoughtfully, registering as she did so Fern’s shocked look at her words.

Would Sandrine recognise her? If it hadn’t been for her name badge, Belinda probably wouldn’t have realised the woman was Sandrine, she’d changed so much. Yes, there had been something vaguely familiar about her, but the slim blonde she’d known had matured into a middle-aged woman with henna-red hair.

When Sandrine reappeared with their wine, Belinda kept her head averted and looked out of the window.

Fern poured a glass of the wine and pushed it across the table to Belinda. ‘Here you go. I’m intrigued about how you know Sandrine from school, but if you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.’

Belinda picked up her glass and gently swirled the wine around, wondering whether to tell Fern the truth.

‘I’m hoping that she won’t recognise me and dump my lunch in my lap.’ She took a mouthful of her drink and decided the best thing to do would be to tell Fern a shortened, sanitised, version of the truth about how she knew Sandrine. ‘I grew up not a million miles from this place,’ Belinda said. ‘On the way here, we drove down lanes that I used to know every bend and pothole on. I saw cottages that people I knew lived in.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘I should have realised that sooner or later I would come face to face with someone from my past. Shame it turned out to be, not an old enemy exactly, but certainly someone who made my teenage years difficult.’ Belinda bit back on a smile. ‘But then I don’t suppose hers were trouble-free either.’

Fern poured a small amount of wine into her own glass. ‘How come you went to school in France?’

‘I was born in England, but my dad was French.’

‘When did you leave? And why?’

Belinda gave a rueful smile. ‘The day of my last Baccalauréat. As for why…’ She saw Sandrine coming towards them with their starters and fell silent as she reached their table, trying hard to ignore the scrutinising look Sandrine gave her as she placed the salad in front of her. Maybe she did recognise her.

‘Bon appétit,’ the waitress wished them both before walking away.