‘Four hundred thousand euro, I think,’ said Jackie. ‘Though they’d probably take an offer,’ she added confidentially, as if she were an intimate acquaintance of the duke and duchess.

‘Good God,’ Meredith laughed. ‘My apartment in Hong Kong cost four times that – though of course, it does have a concierge and swimming pool.’

‘Why don’t you buy it, then?’ challenged Jackie. ‘I hear you’re a businesswoman. If you’ve got money and a business brain, I gather it could be quite a good venture.’

Meredith smiled and stared out at the river. ‘Not really my kind of thing. I’m more into banks and hedge funds.’

‘God, how dull,’ said Jackie, as Jean-Christophe arrived at her table with their food. ‘Think of all the drama you get at weddings!’

Once they were served, he turned to Steph and Meredith. ‘Are you ready to order, mesdames?’

‘I think I’ll have two starters, please,’ Steph replied. ‘The hot foie gras and then the asparagus. Are they local? Not flown in from Brazil?’ She smiled, undercutting the pointedness of her question.

‘Bien sûr, madame.’ The young man looked shocked, as if Steph had just sworn in church. ‘My father insists. Everything is local and seasonal.’ He turned to Meredith. ‘And you, madame?’

‘I’m actually quite hungry after our walk. I’ll have the confit de canard and some sauté potatoes. Oh, and a salade verte. Merci bien.’

She gave him one of her special smiles, the one she reserved for friends rather than clients.

‘I didn’t know you spoke French,’ commented Steph.

‘Menu French, you mean. We all do that.’

‘No, you have the accent, and that little way of waving your hands as the French do.’

Meredith looked out at the river again. ‘How much would it make my dad laugh if I bought that château?’

Steph stared at her, astonished. ‘You’re not serious? Could you afford it?’

‘Easily. A year’s bonus. And that’d be a bad year.’

‘But your life’s in the East.’

Meredith produced a sphinx-like smile. ‘Indeed it is. Are you going to have another glass of wine with yours? I certainly am.’

Jean-Christophe appeared with the drinks menu.

‘I’ll have a glass of Sancerre,’ Meredith said decisively, not even bothering to look at the list.

‘Non, madame, je suis desolé,’ a laughing voice insisted from somewhere behind them. ‘Sancerre is from the Loire, and here you must drink the local wine.’

An older version of Jean-Christophe suddenly materialized. They even had the same hair, although the newcomer’s was streaked with grey. Yet this version struck Meredith as shaggy and craggy, unshaven to the point of scruffiness, wearing an old and not very clean suede jacket over his chef’s overalls.