They had almost done the rounds when they bumped into Guillaume, his moustache waxed for the occasion into perfect curlicues either side of his mouth. ‘Guillaume,’ Meredith congratulated, ‘if there were a contest for best moustache, you would definitely win it.’

‘He’s aiming for lounge lizard, but he ends up more bounder or brothel creeper, if you ask me,’ said a voice from behind the stall.

‘Oh hello, Jackie,’ Meredith greeted her. ‘Are you helping out?’

‘Just trying to drum up a bit of business for the cafe. Can we tempt you with a cocktail?’

‘What do you fancy?’ Meredith asked Philippe. ‘Or are you not allowed to drink on duty?’

‘This is France, as I keep reminding you,’ he smiled back. ‘It’s your duty to drink. Perfect timing for an apéritif before we head for Jean-Christophe and the Airstream to get some food. He’s parked it in a good spot, just by the entrance.’

Guillaume mixed the cocktails while Jackie studied Philippe and Meredith with interest. Their obvious attraction for one another, tempered by a slight awkwardness, told her that they must have just got together. How fascinating. She couldn’t wait to share with the girls the news that Philippe had managed to melt the ice on Everest. Jackie had never taken to Meredith, but even she could see that she was visibly softening.

There were just a few stalls left now, round the corner in the annexe. They must have applied late. They all seemed to be selling North African street food. A small speaker blasted out Moroccan music, bouncy and infectious, with its hand drums, tambourines and the lute-like oud.

‘Want to try a little?’ he invited Meredith.

‘Congratulations!’ suggested a deep female voice, not at all the kind of voice that pimped unwitting tourists into mediocre restaurants. ‘Why don’t you start with the Moroccan? You’ll find it delicious.’

Meredith turned, struck by something strange in the speaker’s tone that she couldn’t put her finger on. Behind the stall stood a striking woman with almost black hair, cut to a stylish shoulder length, arresting blue-green eyes outlined in black to make them more noticeable, and an ironic expression.

She was one of the most beautiful women Meredith had ever seen.

‘Hello, Philippe,’ she said coolly. For a moment her eyes held his as if there were no one else on the planet. ‘How are you keeping these days?’

Philippe stopped as if he’d been shot. ‘Lucille,’ he gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I run Street Taste.’ She gestured around her to the various stallholders. ‘It’s a charity.’ To Meredith’s sharpened gaze, the newcomer seemed to be revelling in the moment. ‘Even waitresses don’t stay waitresses forever, you know.’

‘Meredith.’ Philippe turned to her, still looking stunned. ‘This is Lucille, my ex-wife. Jean-Christophe’s mother.’