‘How lovely.’ I sighed. It had been a long day, one of those days when I felt that I had worked hard and achieved nothing. I had made a stupid mistake in setting up some type and hadn’t checked it before finishing a title, and I had had to re-cover a complicated book as a result. There was a tube strike, one of a series that had blighted the early summer, and we had both had to fight our way here through hot seething streets. But in the restaurant’s plush calm it was easy enough to forget all this.

‘And how modish,’ Mel said, after studying the menu. ‘Everything’s retro.’

The food was old-fashioned French. I ordered frog’s legs because I was so surprised to see them and Mel chose an endive salad with Roquefort. Neither of us wanted to forgo having the côte de boeuf with sauce béarnaise to follow, so we both ordered it.

‘And it’s got to be a serious burgundy to go with all that, don’t you think?’ Mel was looking at the wine list.

‘You are pushing the boat out.’

She debated her choice with the sommelier at some length and then made the decision. This was my friend at her eager, hungry, inquisitive best, enjoying her surroundings and opportunities, and I loved watching her.

‘It’s because I’m so happy. I want to wrap my arms round everything. I want to lick this butter and kiss the greeter and go over there and snuffle up the scent of those over-the-top flowers.’ Her eyes travelled over my face ‘Is it all right to say that to you?’

‘Yes.’ Of course it was, even though I felt a little current of jealousy riding in my veins.

‘I’m still scared too, I told you. I went through this stupid pantomime of “give me space, I don’t want to feel so much” but then I knew I already did feel so much and it was physically painful not to see him. Then we went to Paris and it was wonderful.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sadie, he wants me to meet his daughter.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s good.’

Her agreement still left a curlicue of doubt hanging in the air.

‘Mel, she’s his. You’ll like her – love her – for that reason alone. And there’s no chance that she won’t love you back as soon as she sets eyes on you.’

Our first courses were reverently placed in front of us. With the point of my knife I carved the muscles of my frog’s legs off the little bones and took a slippery mouthful. The taste of garlic and butter reminded me of the long-ago summer in Grasse when I had first tasted food like this. When I first realised how good food could be.

‘Can I try some of that?’

We traded forkfuls.