Philippe elbowed his son in the ribs. ‘Go on, see what she wants. Who knows, maybe she’s having a party she wants us to cater. I think that’s the one who’s buying the château.’

‘Not our château?’ Jean-Christophe asked in amazement.

‘So I hear at the cafe. No one’s talking about anything else.’

‘Excuse me,’ Meredith enquired, ‘but do you think I could have a couple of minutes with Jean-Christophe?’

‘Allez-y,’ replied his father. ‘I’m sure he’d be delighted.’

Jean-Christophe put down the duck breast and beckoned her to come and sit outside by the river. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ he enquired, feeling excited that maybe she was going to offer him the job of chef at the castle. What a leg-up that would be for his career! ‘I could make you one in two minutes.’

‘I’m fine, thank you. Jean-Christophe, you know my friends who run the chambre d’hôte called Fleur-de-Lis?’

‘Monsieur et Madame Adams, bien sûr.’

‘I am looking for someone to come and cook dinner there three times a week. I know it isn’t full-time, but I will pay an excellent rate and it’s very near. I know you wanted something local.’

Jean-Christophe tried to hide his disappointment. On the other hand, if he made a good impression, she still might hire him when the château was up and running. This sounded like a temporary arrangement.

‘Certainement, madame, I would be interested,’ he beamed. ‘Excuse me if I am very basic, but I am French, you know. What exact rate would you be paying?’

He almost whistled at her reply. It was far more than he would get at any of the cafes in Bratenac, where he had been about to look.

‘Très bien, madame. What would you like me to do?’

‘I just need to get the agreement of my friends to accept the arrangement.’

‘You have not asked them yet, madame?’ The British were strange people indeed. He glanced round at his father, who was smiling quietly as he chopped potatoes for the pommes de terre sarladaises.

Meredith followed his gaze, taking in Philippe’s unshaven chin, crumpled clothes and bleary expression. The louche charm of the other day seemed to have vanished. Philippe looked up and met her eyes levelly. Fortunately, the cow shit was disguised beneath his chef’s overall, or she would no doubt have called the mairie instantly and raised a hygiene complaint.

‘Good night, was it?’ she asked, raising a sarcastic eyebrow as she turned away.