‘Poivre et sel, pepper and salt, as our English ladies would say,’ pointed out Jean-Christophe. ‘I would even say it suits you. Just grey and it would be creepy, like some sad 1960s rocker.’

‘Hey, I happen to like sad 1960s rockers,’ protested Philippe.

‘Yes, but you don’t want to look like one! Cadaverous Ronnie Wood or Keith Richards of The Walking Dead! You do look a bit zombie-like today, though. Grand-père again?’

‘Don’t ask,’ shrugged Philippe. ‘Into each life some rain must fall.’

‘Quite a shower into yours,’ Jean-Christophe said quietly. He stopped chopping and gave his father a hug.

‘In the middle of the night when Grand-père wakes me, I worry that you must have missed your mother so much when you were young,’ Philippe said softly. ‘You needed a mother’s love. I was always so busy. I didn’t give you that everyday reliable love a child needs . . .’

‘There are other ways of showing love,’ replied Jean-Christophe. ‘Love isn’t some abstract thing. You got me out of bed in the mornings even though you had come back God knows when, and you left me dinner plus a different little note every single night to welcome me when Marie brought me home from school. In fact . . .’

He delved into his pocket, his mischievous smile looking so like his father’s that an outsider would instantly have known their relationship without needing to ask. ‘I still carry one of them in my wallet.’ Again that impish grin. ‘For when I get kidnapped by pirates and need to remember home.’ He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Dear Son. Let us fish for the uncatchable carp on Saturday morning. Your unreliable father. X,’ he read, glancing up at Philippe with a smile. ‘I always wished I was a musician, so that I could write a song called “The Uncatchable Carp”.’

They both laughed, remembering the hours they had spent on the lake of St Savarin, staring into its green depths, waiting for the legendary fish that never appeared. ‘Of course I missed Maman, but I was very young, and I wouldn’t have had the relationship I’ve had with you if she hadn’t left, would I?’ He saw that his father’s eyes had begun to water.

‘Hey,’ he teased, ‘you’re crying, you old softie.’

‘It’s just the onions,’ lied Philippe unconvincingly.

‘And you’re a terrible liar, too.’ Jean-Christophe was serious for a moment, his dark eyes fixed on his father’s face. ‘Besides, you trusted me with your most precious possession – your restaurant. What father could do more than that?’

‘What stupid father would have a restaurant as their most precious possession?’ Philippe replied. ‘Besides, it isn’t.’

‘I know,’ replied Jean-Christophe, his smile as wide and sunny as a brand new day. ‘I am.’

Eight

When they all got down to breakfast the next morning, Meredith was busy opening a bottle of champagne.