Donna had also located the telephone in the bistrot so once Bob’s secretary, whom Donna described as ‘scarily efficient and not at all attractive’, had had the telegram dictated to her, Alexandra and Donna were free to shop. It was going to be an enjoyable afternoon.

Chapter Two

‘It’s so great that you can talk to the cab driver,’ said Donna a few hours later when they loaded bulging bags into the boot of a taxi.

‘You can too, if you practise,’ said Alexandra. ‘What’s the address?’

Donna lived in a very good arrondissement near the Eiffel Tower. Alexandra resolved to send a postcard, borrowing Donna’s address, to her relations. They’d be very reassured. The address of the small pension where Alexandra was staying wouldn’t be nearly as impressive.

And Donna’s apartment was glorious. It had high ceilings, huge rooms with herringbone parquet floors and marble fireplaces, and tall windows that opened on to balconies and Paris and beyond.

‘This is lovely!’ said Alexandra, looking around the salon, thinking that Bob must be doing very well to be able to afford such a beautiful apartment.

‘It is. But you wait until you see where I have to cook.’

Alexandra followed Donna into the kitchen. ‘I see what you mean!’ she said, horrified. ‘It’s like a corridor with a sink in it!

‘How am I supposed to produce a dinner party in here?’ asked Donna. ‘It’s hard enough to make coffee and toast.’

It was more like a scullery, fairly long, but very narrow. It had a shallow sink and a plate rack above, the only thing which reminded Alexandra of the beloved kitchen she had left behind in London.

‘I don’t suppose you are expected to produce dinner parties, really,’ Alexandra said. ‘I expect your cook would have done what we have done, and brought in things from outside.’

‘Or maybe people entertain in restaurants. That’s what Bob should have suggested really, but we’re American!’

‘That’s all right,’ said Alexandra, as Donna did seem a bit shamefaced. ‘We’ve bought pâté, fresh bread and butter for the starter, and the most wonderful Gâteau Saint-Honoré for the pudding, so we’ve only got the chicken dish to do.’

‘That is the most beautiful dessert,’ said Donna, looking at the confection that had sat on her knee during the taxi ride, encased in a white cardboard box. Golden spheres of choux pastry sat on a circle of puff pastry topped with whipped cream. A circlet of spun sugar was the final touch. ‘But no one will think I made it.’

‘They don’t have to think you made it,’ said Alexandra. ‘My nanny told me when I was in Paris before that no Frenchwoman would dream of making a cake or tart for a formal dinner.’ She paused. ‘Now, what shall we do with the chicken?’