‘Yes, I’d heard the British were buying up the whole of Bratenac.’

‘Well,’ Meredith drawled, not allowing herself to be insulted by this deliberate attempt to get under her skin, ‘not quite the whole.’ She could feel her dislike and innate distrust for the woman rising by the moment. If Nelly were here, Meredith decided, she’d bite her.

‘I must see my son now,’ she announced dramatically.

‘You’ll have to queue,’ Philippe shrugged. ‘There’s a long line of people waiting.’

‘I can wait.’

After all, Meredith wished she could add, you’ve waited fifteen years.

Lucille approached the Airstream and stood at the back of the queue.

‘Is that a good idea?’ asked Meredith quietly. ‘Just going up to him without a word of warning? I mean, poor Jean-Christophe. He’s already stressed, poor lad. Shouldn’t you try and stop her?’

But Philippe was still looking as if he’d been struck by an asteroid.

‘Come on. You ought to be there as well.’ She started walking towards the van with Philippe in her wake. They arrived just in time to see Jean-Christophe, pan in hand, turn to the queue. ‘Et pour vous, madame?’ And then the tiniest pause before he dropped the pan, scorching his other hand as he did so, and exclaimed, ‘Maman?’ in tones of anguished surprise.

‘Bonjour, Jean-Christophe.’ She reached across to touch the wounded arm, making Jean-Christophe shudder as if he’d been burned again. ‘I know this isn’t a very good time . . .’

‘Ah oui, madame,’ endorsed the man in the queue behind her rudely. ‘We are waiting to order here!’

‘Look, here is my number.’ She handed him a card for Street Taste. ‘I’d really like to hear from you.’ She turned and walked away.

Jean-Christophe looked through the crowd till he found his father. ‘Are you OK, Papa?’

‘I think so,’ replied Philippe. ‘Are you?’

Jean-Christophe suddenly ducked away from the service opening and emerged at the side of the van, rubbing the red weal on his arm. He ignored the angry gentleman who was eager to give his opinion on the service. ‘Fifteen years without a word, and now this?’

‘I suppose the reason she didn’t get in touch might have been because she felt a clean break would be easier for you,’ Philippe attempted.

‘You’re a good man, Papa, but can I tell you something?’ Jean-Christophe went on rubbing his injured arm. ‘It wasn’t.’

‘Come here.’ Philippe moved towards his son until they were both locked in a tight embrace.

Behind them Meredith, usually so practical and cynical, found herself rubbing away a tear. It could hardly have been Lucille’s intention, but by leaving her husband and child for what, Meredith had to admit, might have been perfectly valid reasons, she had prompted them to form a bond strong enough to face anything.