The trouble was, she was used to dressing mainly for work and her wardrobe reflected this fact. She had a couple of dresses she’d worn to the opera, but they seemed too formal. What if Philippe had chosen some pop-up, like his own place? Or planned a picnic on the river, or some hip little joint where you had to queue to get in? Being overdressed was a worse fashion faux pas than being underdressed. What made her uneasy was not knowing, not being in charge.

Come on, control freak, said a voice in her head, let go for once. You might even have fun.

Then she remembered the twenty-five-euro linen dress Steph had persuaded her to buy from a stall in Bratenac market, and pulled it out of the back of her wardrobe.

It was both chic and dressed-down. The vibrant green might be a shade more typical of Ronnie than Meredith, but actually, it worked.

She slipped down to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of champagne, hoping the others wouldn’t notice the indulgence, then slipped quietly back upstairs. She ran a bath in her eau de nil bathtub with lion’s-paw feet that stood on a pedestal, swagged by floaty curtains, looking out towards the river.

Aren’t you making a bit too much of this? asked that familiar voice in her head.

No, she thought. For once, I’m going to bloody well enjoy myself and not worry about anything else at all!

Down in the kitchen, Sophie held up the bottle of champagne with the missing glass and grinned. ‘Come on, Mum, let’s have one too!’ She poured out two glasses. ‘To Philippe and Meredith on their first date! Good luck to them. God, I hate first dates. All that stress wondering if you’re actually going to like each other. Though in this case I suspect they know already!’

Lucille Latignac sat looking out over the rooftops of Bordeaux and reading through the application she’d sent to the Bratenac Food Festival, which started in less than a week.

Why had she done it? Was it simply because it would be good for Street Taste?

It was a source of great pride to her that her charity taught immigrants to use their cooking skills to produce and sell street food. She and a friend had put two and two together when they’d witnessed how many new arrivals there were in France, particularly from North Africa and Senegal, due to the country’s colonial past – at the same time noticing the sudden leap in interest in street food. Street food had become hip and chic. Why not help refugees use their skills to cook? And it had been a big success.