The charity awarded small loans, taught basic skills in book-keeping and general marketing awareness, and provided backup when necessary. It was fairly small-scale but it had attracted a fair amount of attention, especially since it empowered women in very male-dominated societies, and with that had come extra funding. It could grow a lot bigger if they had more time, but Lucille and her partner in the charity needed to earn a living.

After she’d left Paris, Lucille had managed to win a place at university. It had been a hard slog, since she’d funded it through waitressing, but her degree had led to her present job teaching French literature to mature students on part-time courses; hence her passion for Baudelaire.

It had been a strange life compared to her previous security, but that security had come at a price. She relived for a moment the loss of leaving her ten-year-old son, who, despite her saying goodbye, had not understood that her departure was permanent. She was suddenly aware of tears falling on her laptop and wiped it dry.

What would Jean-Christophe be like now? A young man of twenty-five. She wondered if he looked like her at all. He certainly shared her eye colour, but face shapes changed. His hair, too, was black like hers. Maybe he’d dyed it blond, maybe his beautiful young skin was covered in tattoos like so many of the young people she saw in the streets. Or maybe he looked like his father.

The man she’d heard on the radio had sounded nothing like the easily riled, temperamental, unappreciative husband she recalled, who’d treated her like a waitress in life as well as at work. Could someone really change that much?

She looked down at the form again. Are you doing this for Street Taste or for yourself? she wondered, but no answer presented itself. She might be beautiful, but she was getting older – and although she’d had serious relationships, none had lasted since she’d left Philippe.

‘Oh shit, I don’t know,’ she said out loud.

There was only one way to find out.

‘What would you like to drink? A gin-tonic? Champagne?’ asked Philippe as they sat down in a small restaurant, nestled among russet towers, next to the church in the hilltop village of Loubressac.

‘I didn’t think champagne was local,’ Meredith quipped, remembering how he had insisted on her ordering a wine that came from the region. How long ago was that? It seemed so long, but was actually quite recent.

‘You are right, of course,’ Philippe grinned. ‘Champagne has to come from the Champagne region, but they’ve probably got a nice local crémant.’

‘That sounds delicious,’ Meredith replied.