‘Me too. But first remember I’ve got that hot lunch date. I just met this woman – I told you. And she made me laugh. These days I need all the laughter I can get. So hopefully a laughing lunch.’

Eggy chomped through the last slice of toast.

‘One thing I have learned from Dermott, Sally, and it’s a lesson for all of us, is that we have to make the most of now. We’re none of us going to live for ever. But we’re nearer the precipice than most.’ He got up and moved to the door. ‘Thanks for the tea. See you on the green, old girl.’

Twenty-three

TWENTY-THREE

Cooped up in the flat with Chloe, Theresa had spent an excruciating afternoon. While they ate lunch, seated at the glass table, Chloe had told her all about Neil. How wonderful Neil was, how kind Neil was, how good-looking Neil was, how Neil was the only person in the whole wide world who understood her, how Neil should be an actor, how Neil had been so brilliant playing Friar Laurence.

Theresa held her tongue. After her own experience last night with a tableful of actors, she didn’t think she would be recommending that occupation to any sane person.

As the afternoon dragged on, Chloe gave up flicking through the French TV channels, took out her mobile phone and started typing frantically on to the screen. Theresa knew that this had to be a conversation with Neil and wasn’t quite sure whether she was meant to prevent it. Imogen had left no regulations regarding her daughter’s utilisation of electronic equipment, only that Theresa should not let the girl out of her sight.

While Chloe was hunched over the phone Theresa took out a book and tried to read, but she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind kept going back to two things: the awful embarrassing evening with Sally’s actor friends and the threats, or veiled threats, which someone was sending her. And it certainly looked as though that person was Cyril. He had obviously picked up her album from the countertop at La Mosaïque, and was sending the photos to her; he had lured her to Nice where he had taken a picture of her, and sent her gifts, roses – a knife, for God’s sake. All butchers had knives galore.

Suddenly she had an idea and decided to listen to the CD, Daphnis et Chloé.

As the ravishing music started, filling the room with its swirling mystery, Theresa stayed behind the kitchen counter, tidying up.

‘What’s this?’ The music had been playing only a few seconds when Chloe looked up. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘It’s named after you, sweetheart. Daphnis et Chloé. It’s a ballet by a French composer, Maurice Ravel.’

‘A ballet!’ Chloe exclaimed, leaping up and springing around the room like a gazelle. ‘I love it. OMG. It’s wonderful. It’s exactly how I feel about Neil.’