Donna gave a gasp of horror. ‘Don’t you know? You bought all those vegetables and herbs – I thought you had a recipe in mind!’

‘I soon will have a recipe,’ said Alexandra confidently. ‘Look, here’s a Larousse Gastronomique.’ She pulled out the large and very battered book from the shelf. ‘Thank goodness there was a copy of it in the apartment.’

‘We rented it furnished,’ said Donna. ‘I expect they consider it essential, unlike effective plumbing and drains that don’t smell.’

‘I hope my French is up to obscure technical terms.’ Alexandra realised that Donna was looking at her uncertainly. ‘Why don’t you set the table? That can take ages!’

‘Oh yes. I could find the plates too. There are hundreds of plates and glasses, all shapes and sizes.’

‘See if there’s something attractive to serve the pâté on,’ suggested Alexandra. ‘And also for the cheese. I think we should unwrap it.’

She was glad Donna had gone back into the dining room because she wasn’t quite as confident as she made out, and didn’t want to be watched or talked to while she went through the book. However, she had done a cookery course, and had helped her friend Meg, who’d done the same course, cook directors’ lunches, so she had a bit of experience.

It wasn’t long before she decided to put down what was thought by many to be the Bible of French cuisine and just get going. She didn’t have enough time to translate obscure culinary terms – the course she’d done in London had been for young women, not chefs. She began by chopping a few onions and lots of the purple garlic bulb that had so appealed to her when she saw it rolling into the gutter.

She was glad she’d had the foresight to ask the butcher to divide the two chickens into pieces. They needed tidying up but she didn’t have to bash her way through anything too large. She threw all the leftover bits into a pot with the onion skins, some whole onions, carrots and a bunch of thyme. She had no plans for a stock but thought it might come in handy.

Several hours passed and, at last, the tiny kitchen was filled with the delicious smells of chicken, wine and mushrooms. There was a sauce to pour over the portions and chopped parsley to go on top of that. Alexandra was tired. She wanted to go back to her pension and lie on her bed and do nothing. Cooking a simple chicken dish wasn’t nearly as easy as everyone pretended it was, or at least, not for her. But she had really enjoyed helping Donna, and was very sad to think that they probably wouldn’t see each other again. They’d become friends as they worked out which glasses went where and speculated about what the dinner guests might be like.