Having seen Theresa into the waiting cab, Sally rushed through into the kitchen, threw on an apron and set to work. Theresa had done most of the tricky business. All that was left to Sally was to put things into and take them out of the oven. She also had to whip up the odd thing on the stove-top. But Sally loved cooking, so all was well.

A large orange book, a photo album, was taking up most of the counter to one side of the sink, so Sally stowed it next to the delivery and order folders, and some small trays which stood vertically in a side cubbyhole under the counter, near the back door.

She swirled pureed beetroot on to warm empty plates, ready for the pies, heating up in the oven and almost ready.

As she found her way around Theresa’s kitchen, Sally felt as though she was prying into someone else’s world.

Poor Theresa. She hoped all would work out well, and the little girl would turn up soon. Children could be such a worry, especially if they were secretive or stubborn. Sally had had some close moments with her own two. But hopefully Chloe would be found soon; with any luck before Theresa even landed at Heathrow.

Sally pulled the tray of pies from the oven and swept it round, but her cloth caught the edge of a small glass, spilling slightly foetid water all over the countertop. The glass swirled round, then rolled across the counter and down on to the terracotta floor, where it smashed into pieces.

Flicking the broken glass out of the way, Sally briskly plated up the pies. It was more important that they should be served piping hot than cleaning up the mess on the floor. After William arrived and whisked them through to the dining room, Sally got out the dustpan and brush and knelt to sweep up the glass fragments.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you . . .’

Sally jumped with surprise.

She turned to face Marcel who had sneaked in through the back.

‘I’m just returning the account books. I’ll come again during the break. Theresa not here?’

Benjamin was at the dining-room door calling for three cheese platters.

‘No. She’s not.’ Sally wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘One minute, Benjamin.’

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ Marcel threw up his hands. ‘I’ll see you later.’

For heaven’s sake! The man worked in the restaurant trade. What was he thinking about, coming here at the height of the lunch service?

Sally wondered if it wasn’t to get a glimpse of how things were going in the kitchen before he made his offer. She smiled. Of course in most restaurants the ‘height of service’ would be rather more than eight covers – which was all she was coping with. But, still, for Sally, taking over from Theresa like this, unprepared, even catering for a few tables was something of a baptism by fire.

Sally washed her hands and got back to work, cutting tranches of cheese, snipping small branchlets from a bunch of grapes and arranging them on plates.