Carol let out another heartfelt sigh. ‘I just want it to be like it was before . . .’

William groaned and lowered his face into his hands, while Theresa had to stop herself throwing up her arms and yelling at Carol to shut up.

‘Sally? What are your opinions?’ William leaned his elbows on the table and scrutinised her face.

Sally sat to attention. ‘Um. Well, er . . . I . . .’

‘Are we boring you?’ William pursed his lips. He was in for the kill. ‘For the last hour you’ve been in another world.’

Sally apologised. In truth her head was back on the beach at Cagnes-sur-Mer and those preposterous Markhams.

‘We’ve been going around and around in circles for hours now.’ Theresa stood up, her chair scraping on the parquet floor with a high squeak. ‘For God’s sake, let’s eat. And, Benjamin, open a bottle of something alcoholic.’

‘There must be a way we can get more people in to La Mosaïque.’ Carol beamed, as though she had had divine inspiration. ‘Couldn’t I walk around with a sandwich board, handing out leaflets?’

‘No.’ William banged his forehead on the table. ‘No, Carol. You cannot. This isn’t Coney Island. Yes, we need more customers. And, yes, we also need more time. But our debtors are pressing and, to be frank, since the dreadful events of the summer before last, we have all been living in cloud-cuckoo-land. That bloody stupid work of art gave us false hope, and an imprudent sense of security. If it hadn’t been for that bloody medallion, we’d have called it a day long ago.’

‘How about if we—’

‘Nooooo!’ shouted William. ‘Don’t you see, Carol. It’s all over.’

Theresa moved to the window and looked out, wishing she was anywhere but in this room. The birds were gathering over the dark sea, as the evening drew in. She watched them swooping and whirling up again from the teal-blue waters. ‘Everybody has to eat,’ she murmured.

‘Including us,’ said Sally, clearing the papers and pens from the table and bustling towards the kitchen. ‘Carol, lay out that salad and bread, while I get the fish going.’

In silence they prepared the food and laid the table. Benjamin handed everyone a glass of rosé, and flopped into an armchair.

‘Perhaps we should all run away to sea,’ he said. ‘And Sally can drive us.’

‘On what?’ said Zoe, already topping up her glass. ‘The raft of the Medusa?’

‘At least none of them had to pay meat suppliers,’ replied Benjamin.

‘No.’ Theresa downed her glass of wine and slumped down at the table. ‘They ate one another.’

By ten o’clock they were all well fed and rather tipsy. Sally put on the latest album by French superstar Calogero, and they sprawled out on the sofas while the music played.

They had unanimously raised their hands to approve the vote that, from now on, they would work twice as hard, adding extramural activities, like home deliveries, to their restaurant schedule. That way they hoped to keep the place afloat. The aim was to make the restaurant seem as attractive as possible to potential buyers. Then, as soon as the time was ripe, and the websites were full of recommendations, they would sell up and go their separate ways.