‘Odile de la Warr, Sally, is the Queen of St-Tropez,’ added Benjamin, exasperated. ‘Or should I say the original Tarte Tropézienne.’ He laughed loudly at his own joke.

‘Chop-chop, Sally. What are they eating? Madame de la Warr is an extremely demanding creature. And she has a big mouth.’

‘Well, perhaps she shouldn’t have injected her lips with so much filler—’

‘I mean, Sally dear, that Odile’s opinion really counts.’

Sally took a deep breath. ‘Thanks, Benjamin. Thank you, indeed. That’s all I need.’ She reeled off the orders; then, as she returned to the dining room, said under her breath, ‘The sooner this place is sold, the better.’

Both William and Benjamin laughed aloud.

But Sally knew that the entire evening service was going to be hell.

The other tables slowly filled up with passing trade. Carol did not come back from her delivery round. Sally really could have done with some help. She tried to get through to Carol a few times, but the phone went straight to answer. She presumed today’s deliveries must be in distant valleys or people who lived in tunnels or something. She left a message begging Carol to return soon.

Odile de la Warr sent three dishes back: one too cold, one too salty, one because she had changed her mind about what she fancied.

To make matters worse, Sally kept dropping things, and once even tripped over someone’s handbag, which was lying on the floor by their seat, and upturned a whole trayful of desserts, which had to be remade.

Towards the end of service a family of six, all dressed in matching shell suits, arrived at the door.

The man of the family spoke in English and made no attempt to try even a ‘Bonsoir’ in French. His opening gambit was: ‘We need a drink of water.’

‘Not in here, I’m afraid,’ said Sally, as quietly as possible. ‘This is a restaurant. If you want a drink, you could try the bar-brasserie next door.’

‘Did I say a drink?’ The man pushed forward. ‘I said we want a drink of water.’ He said the word ‘water’ in a loud and aggressive way. ‘My family is thirsty.’

‘I’ve already told you, monsieur,’ said Sally calmly. ‘This is a restaurant.’

‘So you won’t give us a glass of water?’

‘If you have a meal, of course we serve water. But this is not a bar. We don’t serve drinks alone.’

‘All right. Have it your way.’ The man took another step forward, scanning the dining room. ‘Do you have a table for six?’

‘You’re lucky, monsieur. It’s the last one.’ Sally escorted them to the only remaining table, which was right next to the Markhams. She handed out six menus.

‘Do you have a toilet?’ asked the woman, who Sally presumed was the man’s wife.

Sally pointed towards the corner and the sign reading ‘Toilettes’.