‘I just have to get past Marcel to reach the fridge.’

‘Don’t get into a sweat, Cyril,’ snapped Marcel. ‘I have important business here. You don’t.’

Theresa stepped back to let Cyril by. Muttering to himself, he hastily started unloading the pork into the cool shelves of the meat refrigerator.

There was something disturbing about Cyril’s presence this morning. Theresa turned back to continue her conversation with Marcel.

‘You say “just fifteen” but fifteen years old is nothing, Marcel. You know how difficult an age that is. Remember you told me about your own son.’

Marcel’s son had gone on to drugs at sixteen, and been found in a gutter one morning, overdosed. It had taken years of care to help him back to leading a good, healthy life. The boy, now twenty-two, was living in Paris, attending a college for pastry chefs.

‘So, Theresa, what are you doing about your granddaughter?’ Marcel shuffled from foot to foot. ‘You don’t want her to fall into the hands of bad people. Perhaps I can help. I can talk to you. Talk to her.’

‘I have spoken to her today, and I’m hoping she’ll contact me again somehow and that then we can arrange a meeting.’

‘Hope? Why don’t you simply phone her back?’

‘She didn’t use her own phone.’

‘I don’t envy you.’ Marcel rubbed his chin with his hand. ‘As you say, teenagers can be wily.’ He seemed as though he himself might burst into tears. ‘I’m so sorry about before.’ He pulled his cap over his eyes and moved towards the back door. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help . . .’

When he had gone, Cyril took his face out of the fridge and gathered up his empty boxes. ‘It is love, you see,’ he said. ‘It is always love. Especially with adolescents.’

Throughout the lunch service Theresa’s mind kept returning to Chloe. She wondered where she might be now; how she was eating; did she sleep with Neil; where did she sleep; what was Neil’s father actually like? She couldn’t imagine a man who was carefree about welcoming and then encouraging two underage children to play truant from school being really as lovely as Chloe had implied. She wished Chloe would come here, then at least Theresa could provide her with a decent hot meal and try to talk some sense into her. But then, with the kind of money Neil’s father seemed to possess, she supposed Chloe would be fed well enough already.

She sent out the last of the desserts, a poires belle Hélène and a cheese platter, then hung up her apron. As she grabbed her bag she felt her phone vibrate.

This time a text message from a number she did not recognise.

‘Meet me this afternoon, 15.30, Le Bar – Le Chat Bleu, Cours Saleya, Nice.’

This had to be Chloe or Neil making contact.