‘Mummy, William, is not twenty-one. She can manage a girl, that’s easier, and she’s at school all week, and it’s company for her anyway. But Giles is a boy, and boys, in case you have not had time to notice in the last nine years, are different. Giles is different anyway. He’s sullen and sulky. I don’t know what’s wrong, he won’t say. I’m at my wits’ end sometimes.’

‘He wasn’t like that. He was quiet, but never sullen.’

‘He is now. I want you to take him over. See what’s wrong.’

‘Helen, I’m not at home and I can’t get back to sort out a small boy –’

‘You don’t have to. I’m sending him out to you. You take charge for a bit, sort things out. I’ve booked him on a flight to Nice on the sixteenth.’

‘That’s this week, for Christ’s sake!’

‘So it is. This is true. Clever you. It has to be then because there is the Film Festival in Cannes and this was the only seat I could get. Actually, Eric wangled it, through the firm.’

‘Very good of him.’

‘I thought so. He really wants me to have a shot at this Marbella thing.’

‘Nice airport is miles from here. Marseilles or Toulon are much –’

‘I got him to Nice. You pick him up. He’s got a label, got a handgrip, he’s on flight 950, Air France. Two-fifty.’

‘On the sixteenth?’

‘The very day. Be sweet for once in your life. It’s not much to ask. He wants to come out. It was his idea. So don’t let the child down. Right?’

We said goodbye. I hung up and heard Eugène knocking at the door with my hot croissants. Well, well. Old Helen absolutely true to form. Eric, and Marbella. Fine. And don’t let the child down! Ball severely in my court. Typical.

At La Source, Madame Yvonne looked only vaguely interested when I told her that there would be two of us for lunch. She set a Cinzano before Florence, a large Scotch before me, and asked if we wanted ice. Her expression indicated that to obtain this she would have to venture forth to Alaska. And back. But, with a helpless shrug, if that was what we needed then she would go.

We saved her the journey and she looked around the gloomy little restaurant for the menu, which she located under a pile of old Télé-Sept-Jours and Elle next to the TV set, which was, mercifully, off.

‘It’s always the same. Never changes. Tinned cassoulet, a cut from some joint with frozen peas, or cod à la grecque. There is packet fish soup to start with or home-made pâté, which could be highly dangerous looking at the cook’s fingernails, and an apple or cheese to finish. Okay?’