No one had an answer to this. They studied their menus diligently as if the answer might lie among the foie gras and the pommes sarladaises.

‘The question is,’ Jackie persisted sternly, ‘how are we going to put a stop to it before it gets out of hand?’

Since no immediate suggestions were forthcoming, she summoned Guillaume. ‘Tell me the truth, Guillaume. Have you seen Suzi in here lately?’

The barman shifted from one foot to the other like an anxious stork. Even his moustache lacked its usual perky insouciance. ‘Well . . . as a matter of fact . . .’ he bumbled.

‘Let me answer the question for you,’ Jackie replied, stoking up her anger like a Valkyrie in leisurewear. ‘The short answer is no, you haven’t, which is very curious since she usually hangs about here every night until you, Guillaume, have to pour her into a taxi at closing time. So where exactly is she?’

She fell silent, lost in thought, while the others selected their starters.

‘Right,’ she concluded. ‘Janine, your dogs are a perfect cover. I want you to start following her.’

‘Don’t you think that’s a little bit over the top?’ Mandy suggested bravely.

‘No, Mandy, I don’t,’ Jackie replied. ‘Suzi is at the dangerous age that tells her she can’t pick up men in bars forever. So she thinks she either needs to find one for herself or be on her own permanently. The fact that he happens to belong to someone else is immaterial. Suzi does not consider the rights and wrongs of betraying the sisterhood. Suzi is not a woman’s woman.’ The Ladies’ Club looked gratefully round at each other, relieved that they were women’s women, with all the obvious and lasting benefits that this accrued.

‘Jean-Christophe . . .’ Philippe stopped chopping the shin of beef on the aluminium counter of their small kitchen. ‘There’s a mad idea I’ve been brewing that I really want your opinion on.’

Jean-Christophe looked at his father, flattered that his opinion counted. Knowing Philippe, it wouldn’t be anything truly crazy. Though, of course, he had thrown away three Michelin stars to open a small restaurant in his home town, which a lot of people had thought completely crazy.

‘A lot of the restaurateurs I knew in Paris were desperate for locally sourced meat, fish and vegetables with a provenance they can boast about on their menus.’

‘Yes,’ laughed Jean-Christophe, his dark eyes, so like Philippe’s, sparkling with humour. ‘I’ve seen that sort of menu: flank of beef, lovingly reared in Poitou-Charentes by . . .’

‘Why don’t we have a food festival here in Bratenac to showcase local producers? It would be early enough in the season to bring in tourists, too. We could take a stall. That is, if you run the restaurant while we do it . . .’

‘But don’t these things take forever to organize?’