Sally was desperate to save face in front of these two, who, early on in her career, had intimidated her so cruelly. She was not going to tell them that her restaurant was on the skids. So she told them about La Mosaïque, as it had been in its glorious heyday. How the Hollywood actress Marina Martel had attended the opening night and even offered her a part in her film, but she had been too busy then to accept. How her son Tom ran a very successful art gallery in Vieux Nice and how her daughter was big in finance, working in London – the City – happily betting with other people’s money.

‘And you own this restaurant?’

‘I have partners. Theresa Simmonds . . .’

Eggy, not listening or waiting for a reply, raised his hand, pointed it forward, and a distant car bleeped and flashed in response. Sally noticed that it was a very expensive-looking classic BMW convertible.

‘I suppose we can’t give you a lift anywhere?’ he asked.

‘No, Eggy. Thanks for offering but I’m here in the van.’

‘Oh, you do deliveries too, do you?’ said Phoo. ‘Like Pizza Hut.’

‘No, actually,’ replied Sally. ‘I’m picking up supplies.’

‘Ever the busy little worker bee,’ said Phoo. ‘Do you remember when you were an ASM on that tour we did? Can you recall, Eggy? She was always so earnest while setting the props table. Oh, you did make us laugh.’

‘Lovely to see you again, anyhow, Salz,’ said Eggy. ‘Chin up, old girl! Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

As Sally watched them walk away she felt a rush of relief. She ran back to the van and turned on the engine. She pulled out into the moving stream of traffic, wondering why it was you always bumped into the people you really did not want to see, while those you had lost touch with and missed never came your way.

Her mind went back over the three times she had worked with the Markhams – that early stage-manager job where they mocked her incessantly for taking her duties too seriously, but the one night when she placed the letter in the wrong corner of the table, they reported her to the company manager and almost got her sacked; then the TV job where she played their dimwit maid, and off camera they treated her as though she really was their dimwit maid; and, finally, the show where she was queen, Ssssaturday Ssssslamerama!, in which (as she did to everyone who came on the show, be they rock stars, movie stars or royalty), she glooped them. Everyone had to answer questions about themselves, and if they went wrong or hesitated, a bucketful of brightly coloured gloop landed on their head. But the Markhams did not take their glooping with the grace displayed by everyone else. They all knew beforehand that glooping was an inevitable part of the show. But not the Markhams. Oh, no. After the live transmission they behaved as though she had glooped them spitefully, just to mock them and have her revenge on them for reporting her when she was ASM. But they surely knew that being mocked was the entire point of the programme, so if they hadn’t wanted to be glooped/mocked, why had they agreed to come on the show at all? She knew why, of course. They had a tour to promote, and Ssssaturday Ssssslamerama! was top of the ratings, so at that moment they needed her more than she needed them.