Chloe was sitting in the back seat, next to a young boy who Theresa presumed had to be Neil.

‘I did put on the child locks,’ Roger Muffett added timidly, holding up a hairy hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare.

‘Open up!’ Imogen commanded.

Roger obeyed.

Cringing, Chloe edged herself out of the car. Imogen grabbed her arm and marched her inside, leaving Theresa in the street.

‘It’s been a difficult time,’ Theresa said to Roger. ‘We had no idea . . .’

‘Nor me. Once I knew, I even contemplated handcuffs. But Jack the Lad in there won’t be free to wander for many weeks, and to be honest I have sent for his mother. She was always better at handling him. So she’s coming over to take him in hand.’

Theresa thought back to the morning when she met the inebriated Cynthia Muffett. If Roger Muffett had no control over their son, she wondered how on earth Cynthia would fare any better.

She stooped to look in at Neil.

Poor boy! He was just a kid. Theresa couldn’t fathom why she was so shocked to see how puny and young he looked. She had always known that he was only fifteen, but in the flesh he appeared so much younger than Chloe, and with half the confidence.

‘Hello, Neil,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Very silly idea, I’m afraid. You do realise it couldn’t have gone on for much longer.’

He looked up, right into her eyes.

‘Are you Theresa?’

Theresa nodded.

‘I’ve only ever heard very good things about you.’ He fidgeted with his jacket buttons. ‘You’re a cook, aren’t you? Please don’t be cross with me. I did try to contact you . . . I ordered food from La Mosaïque . . .’

Theresa felt rather cruel now to be taking Chloe away from the boy. He looked devastated, and who wouldn’t? His fate now was to spend his time between a brassy, loud father, who obviously wanted to be half his own age with no responsibilities, and a mother, who had turned to the bottle to assuage her loneliness. What a future!

She turned back to Roger, who was fumbling in his pockets for his sunglasses.

‘You’ll be sailing off to sea again tonight, I suppose?’

He slipped the glasses on, and they immediately slid down to the end of his nose.

‘Maybe. Maybe not. The world’s my lobster.’ He pushed the sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. ‘Entre nous, I prefer a good old cod and chips.’

A typical Englishman abroad.

Theresa tried not to smile.

‘This is a very pretty place,’ he said, glancing at blue sky, the stone walls spread with pink bougainvillea. ‘Perhaps I’ll settle down somewhere round here. Property prices aren’t too bad. Better than London, anyway.’