‘Phoebe Taylor. Good lord. I rather believe that while you were canoodling up here with this old boy, down in La Mosaïque his wife was getting plastered with that blown-up doll, Odile de la Warr. Now I see why.’

‘Well, there we are.’ Carol’s line was starting to annoy Sally. She’d done nothing, after all, except lend an ear. ‘But, I must assure you, my relationship with Eggy is strictly professional.’ Sally laughed away the notion which Carol had obviously picked up that she was up here in the middle of nowhere having a romantic tryst with Eggy Markham. ‘Really, Carol. I wouldn’t touch him with a pair of ten-foot tongs.’

‘Hmmmmmm.’ Carol was tight-lipped. ‘Whatever.’

Eggy snorted and shifted in his seat.

‘He’s flat out.’ Sally sighed. ‘I wonder how his wife will take to him coming back unconscious?’

But Carol did not respond.

This was not how Sally expected going with Eggy for a little drink to end up. Carol, already disgruntled that she had flown off to do this acting job, was now also judging her as a cheat and a man-eater.

Sally knew that the more she tried to explain things, the worse it would get.

For the rest of the journey she and Carol barely spoke a word.

Twenty

TWENTY

Early next morning Imogen phoned Theresa to tell her that she was taking Chloe and the other two children directly to the airport and heading back to London. She had seen Neil hanging about the hotel, she said, and didn’t want to allow any complications to develop.

Theresa suggested she might come up to say goodbye, but Imogen told her that they were all already sitting in the taxi, simply waiting for Frances to pick up her bill, so it would be pointless.

Theresa was quite upset. She had a slight headache. A ravenous hunger had also come upon her, but there was little in the cupboard, except the box of brownies, and she didn’t much fancy them for breakfast. So, as a treat, to cheer herself up, she went along the road to Marcel’s brasserie.

The morning was chilly, with no sun. An easterly wind was picking up dust and stray leaves and dancing them along the pavement. The brasserie terrace was deserted, but indoors the place was bustling.

At a table for two near the window she saw Roger Muffett, eating breakfast with Neil. He looked up, waved at Theresa and called to her across the room: ‘Come and join us.’

‘So you’re still here,’ she said, leaning against the back of a chair. ‘I gather Imogen has taken Chloe back to London.’

Neil’s face was the picture of misery.

‘Little fellow’s not very happy about that.’

‘Good morning, Theresa.’ Marcel came up and pulled out her chair. ‘It’s a rare day that you pay us a visit this early.’

‘I’m lucky, Marcel. I am among friends.’