‘No wonder you’re so popular with all the Brits.’

‘They thought about a swimming pool but decided it was too expensive. Maybe next year. I’ve got a few tools to pick up still. Why?’

‘I want you to go up there and let it slip – very naturally, of course – that David, their friend’s husband up at Fleur-de-Lis, the one that left her for Suzi, has moved into a hotel. I don’t know which, but there are only two in Bratenac, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find out.’

‘You’re a born stirrer, Jack.’ Steve shook his head. ‘Always interfering in other people’s business. What are you up to now?’

‘I just think life needs a little nudge now and then, that’s all.’ Jackie smiled innocently.

‘I always thought he was a mug to leave her in the first place,’ Steve conceded.

‘Maybe she’ll have learned to appreciate him. Speaking of which . . .’ She suddenly leaned down and kissed Steve on the lips.

‘Blimey, what was that for?’ he asked.

‘Maybe I thought I ought to appreciate you a bit more myself.’

‘I’m up for that,’ he grinned. ‘And where’s that beer got to?’

Jean-Christophe sat at the window table of the small restaurant in the pretty square surrounding the town well. He had arrived early so that he could prepare himself mentally. He ordered some sparkling water to calm his nerves. Why the hell was he feeling apprehensive at the prospect of meeting his own mother?

Behind him was the comforting buzz of old friends talking in quiet voices, punctuated by the occasional burst of companionable laughter.

Suddenly the laughter stopped. Jean-Christophe turned to find an old lady elbowing her companion sharply and nodding towards the door.

He followed her gaze.

Lucille stood framed in the doorway, looking round with the mysterious smile of a fallen Madonna that somehow characterized her. Her dress was simple and beautifully cut in coffee-coloured linen, which she had teamed with bronze leather shoes and a tightly belted trench coat in some light and filmy fabric. She looked as Parisian as an ad for Chanel No 5.

Jean-Christophe waved, suddenly unsure what to call her, and got politely to his feet.

‘You don’t need to stand for me,’ she told him, in her soft voice that somehow floated like her trench coat. ‘I’m your mother!’

Fortunately for Jean-Christophe, his initial period of embarrassment was lost in the discussions of what they would like to eat.

‘You are a chef too,’ Lucille smiled. ‘What would you recommend?’