She glanced at her watch. She’d be lucky to get there on time. She ran straight to the station and caught a train into town; then, not wanting to waste precious minutes, took the tram down to the Vieille Ville.

Theresa trotted anxiously through the tiny back streets of the Old Town and arrived in the marketplace. Most of the stalls had packed up, and the restaurants, like her own, had just closed for the afternoon. She scanned the café terrace. No sighting of Chloe, but there were quite a few empty tables. She took a table in a corner near the back of the terrace to get a better view. From there she could see anyone approaching in any direction, and she would easily recognise Chloe from a good distance.

She ordered a café express and sat, while others all around her were chatting or reading the local paper. She looked at the time. Twenty to four. Surely Chloe would have given her more than a few minutes before giving up and going? The little white cup, only half-filled, but served with a slim biscuit, arrived and she tried to drink it slowly, savouring the rich aroma. It was difficult trying to dawdle over a coffee while not reading or fiddling with a diary, but she knew she had to keep her eyes forever scanning the crowds, in case Chloe was hovering, worried that this was a trap. A group of tourists briskly walked past, following someone holding up a flag on a stick. She saw that they were all wearing identical headpieces. There was a new position – a tour leader who didn’t even have to talk to their followers, just press buttons and play them the commentary!

After half an hour, Theresa felt bad sitting there fiddling with an empty cup so ordered a glass of wine. Why not? She felt tense enough thinking about the whole situation: Chloe’s running away, the mysterious gifts, the string of missed calls. And it wasn’t as though she was going to be driving or operating heavy machinery. And she had more than an hour before starting tonight’s service. She deserved, and needed, a drink.

She tried sending a text to the unknown number. But nothing.

After she had munched her way through a basket of crisps and drained the last drop of the wine, it was half past five. She knew in her heart that Chloe wasn’t coming. But how much longer should she wait? Should she live in hope that Chloe would turn up, even after waiting two hours?

She ordered another wine.

At a quarter to six she knew she was cutting it fine. She’d be lucky getting back in time to start the dinner. Hastily she paid up, leaving a decent pourboire for the waiter who had very kindly not pestered her even when tables were starting to fill up with the aperitif crowd.