The little hilltop village certainly was picturesque. Winding cobbled streets, lined with small old houses painted in various shades of terracotta and ochre, led up to the square. Shaded by plane trees, the centre of the square was set up for pétanque. There were only a few shops – a clothing boutique, an artisanal jeweller, a gallery, a garage and a bike-repair station.

The sun had gone down, and the temperature dropped. Sally’s clothes weren’t nearly warm enough to handle it. As she walked along, peering into windows, deciding which of the two bars to patronise, she shivered.

‘Can’t have my wife catching cold the night before our big scene.’ Eggy took off his jacket and draped it around Sally’s shoulders.

They decided on the bar which did not have a loud sports television, blaring out a rugby match.

This one was quiet, with a few workmen gathered round a table playing cards.

They chose a red faux-leather corner banquette and on Sally’s advice ordered a basket of panisse chips to go with their bottle of Bandol.

‘We’ve not had time for you to fill me in on all the years between,’ said Eggy. ‘You must have had many adventures.’

‘Not really.’ Sally didn’t want to go into a tedious spiel explaining how she’d landed up here. She just wanted to relax and be quiet after a long day’s work.

‘Santé!’ She raised her glass.

‘Cheers!’ He raised his and they chinked.

Looking at him this evening, Sally felt sorry she had put him in the same bag as his wife. On his own, he was actually rather kind.

‘You know, I really like a glass of wine,’ said Eggy, knocking it back in one slurp. ‘But what I’d really kill for is a cup of builder’s.’

‘When we next get some time off, you could pop over to my place in Bellevue-sur-Mer and I’ll brew you a whole pot. How about the day after tomorrow?’

‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid.’ Eggy nudged Sally in the ribs. ‘I told you. Got a hot date in Nice.’

Sally recalled Eggy mentioning this before but had actually thought he was joking.

‘Someone on the film crew?’ she asked, intrigued at how, with his wife breathing over his shoulder, he could manage to fix up a date.

‘No. Local. Lovely-looking woman, very striking. A random encounter.’

‘When you were in St-Tropez?’

‘No. Near you. We’ve rented a place in BSM, as it happens. A little first-floor flat, down on the seafront. Easier for the filming, you know. They offered me a hotel room, but I couldn’t leave old Phoo on her own. And St-Tropez is all very well but it’s quite a schlep.’

Sally worked out that the only possible place he and Phoo could be staying must be in the rental flat above Theresa.