She had been a waitress when they’d married and perhaps Philippe had expected her to adore him, the great chef, like everyone else. But she was smart and ambitious and she wasn’t prepared to live at the margins of his life, on the occasional crumb of time he tossed her. And so she’d left.

And then, two years ago, his father had suddenly appeared at home when he should have been at the restaurant and said to Jean-Christophe that he had been thinking about his life; that the restaurant had become an obsession that had cost him his marriage and was taking too much of his time away from his son. A year later they had arrived here, despite all the outcry and the protests and people telling Philippe he was mad, that no one threw away one Michelin star, let alone three.

‘Have you seen my father?’ he shouted to Marie, who worked for them prepping, supervising deliveries of the produce Philippe had ordered at the market and waiting on tables.

‘Maybe he’s gone fishing,’ grinned Marie.

It was true Philippe often went fishing for trout, but he would hardly go an hour before they were due to open. Jean-Christophe went to check what had already arrived and started getting ready to assemble produce for the various dishes on the menu.

He was just trimming some duck breasts when Philippe appeared. He was unshaven, with what appeared to be two or three days’ stubble, his eyes glassy and drooping, his clothes crumpled and stained. He made Jean-Christophe think of the walking dead. ‘Putain!’ he breathed, staring at his father. ‘Fuck me, you look rough!’

Philippe mumbled a single word. ‘Grand-père.’

No more explanation was necessary. Jean-Christophe put down his knife. ‘Where did he get to this time?’

‘A derelict barn over near St Lucien, on the Bratenac road. Covered in cow shit. I brought him home and showered him. Guess what he sang?’ A smile cracked Philippe’s face, which was full of sudden tenderness. ‘That Jacques Brel song, “Ne me Quitte Pas” – don’t leave me. As if I would leave him!’

‘You’ve got a lot of patience with him,’ Jean-Christophe said quietly.

‘En effet I could have killed the old sod.’ Philippe smiled wryly. ‘I spent all night looking for him. I think he’s getting worse. He took off his panic alarm and hid it in the postbox.’ He noticed for the first time what Jean-Christophe was doing. ‘I’d better get stuck in. You never know when the English women from that club are going to turn up.’ He looked round him. ‘Merde alors, here is one of them now.’

Meredith was tapping gently on the window of the portacabin and making a ‘Can I come in?’ gesture.