Scraping her hair out of her eyes, Sally turned to apologise, only to find herself face to face with Phoo Taylor-Markham.

‘Salzy! Of course it had to be you crashing into me. You were never the greatest driver.’

Phoo held out her shopping basket. ‘I suppose I couldn’t squeeze in front? I’ve only a few paltry items.’

Reluctantly Sally agreed, knowing that now she would have to spend a few minutes in polite conversation.

‘Eggy and I were laughing this morning, remembering how clumsy you always were. And all those problems with biscuits! Don’t you remember? Trying to charge us for all those expensive biscuits? And it was so clear to us that you were a secret biscuit binger. In those days you were rather large, weren’t you? Well done, by the way, getting all that flab off. You’re not nearly so fat these days. Must be the famed Mediterranean diet that everyone’s always going on about.’

Sally tried to find the conversation amusing, but found it difficult to crack a smile. Why did Phoo have to remind her of her nervous start in the business? Why bring any of it up now, so many years later? Sally thanked her stars that the merry theatrical couple were only here on a two-week holiday.

‘Making the most of your last few days?’ she asked.

‘Sorry?’ Phoo looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand you.’

‘Didn’t you say you were going back to London at the weekend?’

‘Oh lord, no. Well, yes. We were meant to be going back on Saturday. But it’s all change now, I’m afraid. We’re staying on because Eggy and I . . .’

‘Phoebe!’

Phoo was interrupted by the shrill call of a heavily tanned woman, with hair dyed so blonde it was almost white. The woman was skimpily dressed for the season, but Eggy who marched doggedly at her side was bearing a huge fur coat which no doubt belonged to the blonde.

‘Let the peasants form the long lines. I ’ave the special card for the short queue. Come with me, Phoebe.’ The blonde clicked her pearly-pink taloned fingers in the air; a collection of bracelets on her bronzed arm jingled. ‘You are now shopping with Odile de la Warr!’

Odile dragged Phoo away to the special priority queue.

‘Oh, ye gods! Sal, old girl!’ exclaimed Eggy. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Shopping?’ she suggested. ‘Rather like you.’

There was a pause.

‘I presume the fur coat is not your own?’

‘It might suit me rather well,’ Eggy pulled a face, ‘if I was playing a character in Game of Thrones – I should be so lucky . . . But no. It’s Odile’s. I am her mere slave boy.’

‘I hear you’re staying on for a while. That’ll be nice for you.’

Eggy seemed to ignore her remark.

‘Odile’s quite splendid, don’t you think?’ He cast his eyes back in her direction. ‘My idea of the perfect ultimate Frenchwoman.’

Sally squinted along the rows at the loud woman with her mahogany skin, scraped-back hair and surgically enhanced breasts and lips. In her own opinion she thought a perfect idea of a Frenchwoman would be something more along the lines of Simone Signoret or Jeanne Moreau.