Theresa spoke briefly to her third and youngest granddaughter Cressida then ended the call.

Almost instantly the phone rang again. She picked it up, hoping it would be Imogen to continue where Cressida had left off. But there was just a silence. She must have done that thing where you put the phone down too violently and it rings the bell.

She laid the receiver carefully back and looked out across the road at the sea.

The gloom was still upon her. The physical gloom outside, as the sun set, did not help.

It was almost time to go back to work. Time to face the sombre music. Time to prepare the dinner service.

After Sally had driven back and forth all afternoon doing the usual restaurant shopping, picking up ingredients from Theresa’s list at the huge cash and carry, she had barely a few minutes before she was on the road again, this time making the evening home deliveries.

This afternoon had been problematic. What with the stupid shenanigans of Shore to Ship she had lost the vital morning time when the markets were open. Instead she had to rush about sourcing fresh things from more dubious outlets.

Luckily most of the dinner home deliveries so far this evening were in Bellevue-sur-Mer; only one was outside the town, a few miles along the coast in Nice itself.

She motored along in the dark, the passenger seat and footwell loaded with the boxes of dinner all tied with a pink ribbon within their insulated bags. The van laboured up the hill. It was badly in need of a service. She wondered how long this situation could last, with everyone working all hours, just to try to scrimp a bigger profit and earn some good reviews on the online sites.

She was dog-tired. Or was she simply depressed?

The traffic signal turned green and the van lurched forward, on the descent into Nice – the yellow horseshoe of street lamps lining the curve of the bay, the distant multicoloured twinkling lights of the airport.

The atmosphere in the restaurant itself was so horrible that she was glad she was out on the road doing deliveries.

If this was how it felt after a day, what would they be like in a week, a month?

She pulled up at another traffic light, and watched the flashing sign for a fast-food joint near the port. She knew that businesses around here had had a triple whammy as they had also been disturbed by work on the new tramway. Once the tram was running, business here should not only pick up, but multiply.

Back in Bellevue-sur-Mer they had no such hope.

Damn that Picasso!

If they hadn’t had that expectation of an unearned fortune, they might have thought more clearly, and thrown in the towel while there was still a chance of making good for themselves.

Now the weight of everyone’s disappointment was too heavy to bear.