But as Theresa left the restaurant at the end of service, she was disappointed that there were no vibrations from her phone – no voicemails or texts on her mobile. Absolutely nothing.

She strolled listlessly across the road and stood for a while gazing at the black sea, watching the lights of boats anchored in the bay. She was almost mesmerised by the slopping reflections of the moonlight, which spilled down on to the horizon, a rippling white stripe which ended in the slapping water at the sea wall near her feet.

If she was a teenage girl alone with a boy with whom she was besotted, would she have made an arrangement to meet her granny for a coffee? Absolutely not. Theresa knew she must have got it wrong.

As Theresa let herself inside the flat, she yawned. She was dog-tired. Not only from the hours she had been keeping and all the rushing about, going to London and back, but the stress of everything was starting to get to her. She had the worry about Chloe and La Mosaïque to cope with and she had not addressed either one mentally.

Before she’d had the time to remove her coat and check her answering machine for messages, the landline phone rang. With a sigh she picked up.

‘Mummy? I’m coming over.’

It was Imogen.

‘To Nice? When? Shall I make up the spare room?’

‘No. It’s too small and dark. I shall stay at that seedy hotel up the road – what’s its name again?’

‘Hotel Astra.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But you could stay here—’

‘No, I couldn’t. I’m bringing the girls and I’m bringing Frances, so that, if I’m called upon, she can babysit.’

‘But I could—’

‘No, Mummy. You couldn’t. You go out to work, remember? For us it’s the Easter holidays, starting tonight. So we’ll be arriving tomorrow morning. I just didn’t want to surprise you by us bumping into one another in the street.’

‘But I—’

‘I have to go now, Mum. Packing. Passports. Tickets. Early start. Lot of organisation to be done.’

And she hung up.

Theresa went and looked at the spare room. It was small and dark. Imogen was right to stay away. For a guest room it was not very welcoming. Theresa decided, when she had the time and money, to get someone in to paint it a nice bright colour, put up some pictures, perhaps a mirror to give the illusion of space.

She flopped down on the empty spare bed and, feeling tired and unwanted, she wept.

After a moment or two she pulled herself together again. Though in her heart the fear was still whispering: Failure! Failure on every level – as mother, grandmother, wife, solicitor’s secretary and now restaurateur.

It was all hopeless. What was the point of trying?

When you thought about it, everything came to dust.