‘One had no idea you were the waitress here, darling,’ said Phoo, putting on her spectacles as she picked up the menu. ‘The way you spoke to us about the place, we imagined you owned it or something.’

Sally’s spit dried up.

Through her shock she managed to stammer out: ‘How did you find me?’

‘Name on the van you were driving, old gal. “La Mosaïque” writ large. Quaint foreign spelling and all that. Then when we saw the place in the flesh, as it were, while passing through the village, we decided we must pay you a visit toot sweet.’

Sally wondered how anyone would ‘pass through’ Bellevue-sur-Mer. It was away from the main road, and you could only really get down as far as La Mosaïque if you were coming expressly to the bay and in fact to La Mosaïque itself. The only thing beyond it was the port de plaisance. The Markhams must have come here deliberately searching her out.

‘Well, then? Are you going to stand there gaping like a fish?’ pressed Odile. ‘Might you take our orders before we die of famine?’

Sally caught a brief exchange between the two women: Odile rolling her eyes, and Phoo pursing her lips in reply.

‘Of course.’ She poised her stylus over the order pad. ‘What can I get you?’

Having taken the orders, Sally returned to the kitchen. She didn’t think she would be able to put up with a whole night of this.

‘I need to swap places with somebody. One of you will have to take the service. I can’t do it.’

‘So now you see what we had to deal with last night.’

‘No, William, this is quite different. These are people I know from way back. They didn’t like me then, and they don’t like me now. And while we’re at it I have to confess that I don’t like them either. It’s personal.’

‘You’re an actress, aren’t you, Sally?’ William gave her a cold glance. ‘So act. There is little difference, surely, serving at table or performing on stage.’

Sally thought she would like to brain William with the order pad.

‘Really? Sally?’ Benjamin took a step back and gave her a wry look. ‘You’re old friends with Odile de la Warr?’

‘Not her. No. I never saw her before in my life. Well, that’s not exactly true. I met her once in a supermarket queue. How do you know her?’

Both William and Benjamin threw back their heads and made goggle eyes.

‘She’s famous, dear. Fay-mous. Très célèbre! She’s always posing in those glossy mags, in backless dresses or see-through blouses, standing next to French pop singers and models at parties. “Glamorous Odile and friend” kind of thing. When we knew that she was coming here we were both rather excited.’