Then she walked briskly on across the narrow bridge across the river, not waiting to engage further in conversation. Judging by his startled expression, that would do quite well enough as a warning shot across the bows. She continued swiftly along the riverbank until she reached Philippe’s restaurant.

From this angle the restaurant couldn’t have been in a more stunning spot. The dozen or so tables were ranged right along the bank of the Savarin. In the background was an old arched bridge constructed of golden stone, adorned by an ancient market cross. Willow trees ran right down to its banks, reflected in the shining clear depth of the river, which dazzled like pink diamonds in the last of the afternoon’s sunshine. A kind of deep peace emanated from the scene – belied, of course, by the bustle of business that would soon take over as the popular restaurant began to fill up. The good people of Bratenac had not been slow to appreciate it when Parisian quality arrived in their midst, apparently without Parisian prices.

The restaurant’s kitchen was sited in a rather unprepossessing portacabin a few yards along the small quay and Meredith could see Philippe apparently engaged in the act of shining lamb bones, instantly noted with great interest by Nelly.

‘For the demi-glace,’ Jean-Christophe cheerfully informed her as she approached. He stopped and stared at the dog.

‘Don’t ask,’ Meredith shook her head, laughing as Philippe looked up, equally startled. He was almost clean-shaven this time, his hair neatly brushed, his dark eyes unclouded by exhaustion and lit instead by twinkling good humour. The family resemblance between father and son and the obvious warmth between them struck her again. He had clearly been a good father.

‘And who’s this?’ he enquired, handing Nelly a bone.

‘My new friend Nelly.’

‘I didn’t have you down as a dog lover,’ he commented, his head on one side, surveying the slobbering bulldog, who had forgotten to try and make herself engaging at the sight of the unexpected treat.

‘Hmm, I’ll think about that,’ Meredith replied. ‘You mean I’m a tough old bird who doesn’t go soppy over furry animals?’

He shrugged. ‘The British are dog-mad, we all know this, but you seem different, perhaps because you live in the East?’

‘Where they eat dogs rather than pet them?’

‘I imagine that is an outdated stereotype. All those terrible jokes – a dog is not for Christmas, you can make it last all year – yet when I visited Tokyo they dressed their dogs in baby clothes and wheeled them round in poussettes – how do you say that in English?’

‘Buggies,’ replied Meredith helpfully.

‘We know that the British love dogs and gardens, n’est-ce pas?’