‘Are you spying on me, Marcel?’ Theresa looked him in the eye.

‘No. Cyril told me he saw you there. He was taking photographs or something. I just thought that after our recent discussion about the price of your restaurant you might be . . .’ He started fiddling with the table. ‘The other gentleman is gone away?’

‘Only for a minute.’

‘I wanted to talk to you about La Mosaïque . . .’

At this moment, to Theresa’s great relief, Roger emerged from the gents. She had no desire to be cornered by Marcel to talk money without anyone from the restaurant team to back her up. She was frightened she might say something in her poor French which Marcel would take as her agreeing to another minuscule offer. This was the problem when you spoke a language in the most basic of fashions. You might say something which actually meant something very different – like all those badly translated menus where Crudités Variées became Various Crudenesses, and Gratin d’Avocat – or avocado with grilled cheese – appeared as Cheesy Lawyer.

‘Oh look. Here comes Roger.’

Marcel moved off. Roger sat.

‘You know what, Theresa, I’ve had it with all the fancy French food, the wine, the coffee, the so-called “good life”. I just want to slump down on the sofa with a football match and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.’

‘Followed by beans on toast,’ added Neil. ‘And a burger.’

‘And chips, with tons of ketchup, and a fried egg.’

‘Sausages.’

‘Bacon.’

The way these two males were waxing on about English food reminded Theresa of the opening song from the musical Oliver! She half-expected them to put their hands to their chests, gripping imaginary braces, and start hopping from foot to foot in imitation of a Victorian street dance, all the while warbling manfully on the subject of shepherd’s pie and mustard, fried-egg roll, toad-in-the-hole and jam roly-poly with custard.

‘Have you got a busy day laid on, boys?’

‘If only,’ said Roger with a sigh, gazing out to the grey sea.

‘I don’t know whether this is an idea which would appeal to either of you, but Monaco is only just up the road. There’s meant to be a wonderful museum . . .’

‘Oh, not art. Please not. Or history. I left school thirty years ago, Mrs Simmonds.’

‘No. It’s motor cars. Race cars mainly.’

She noticed that Neil had looked up, his eyes gazing sheepishly at his father.

‘You fancy that, nipper?’

Neil nodded.

‘Right ho. Monaco it is.’ He stood up. ‘Breakfast is on me, Mrs Simmonds. See you around.’

Rather than stay there like a sitting duck to have Marcel explaining why she should take his offer, Theresa crammed the remains of her brioche into her mouth and left with the others. On the doorstep, Roger kissed her on the cheek and once again thanked her for her understanding.