For a second he walked in silence, head down, then flicked an uncertain look at me. A reprimand? A ‘snap’ from Helen? Or a good-natured comment on greed? He risked the latter.

‘The pudding was brilliant.’

‘So I noticed. Apricot souffle. Not much left after you and Florence.’

He realized it had not been a reprimand, relaxed almost visibly.

‘You know, she’s really nice?’

‘I know. That’s the reason you should try to learn a little French. To speak to her. It’s not so hard.’

‘Well, I can talk a bit. Listen: “Savez-vous planter les choux, à la mode?”’

‘Great. Clever old you. But what does it mean?’

‘ “Do you know how to plant cabbages …?”’ He snorted with laughter.

‘Won’t get you far, will it?’

We had gone round the church and into the marketplace. In the centre a fountain, a fat swagged urn spilling continuous water from a brass spigot into the rimmed basin below. Across the square there were still lights in Le Sporting and the shuttered sound of radio music muffled across the empty square. No one was about. We were the only life apparent, save for a couple of cats hunched opposite each other on the church steps, growling.

The entire populace seemed to be trapped before the turquoise rectangles of their TV sets shimmering through gathers of lace curtains.

We went on round the church again by silent, but mutual, consent, our feet striking harshly on the cobbles. Mine anyway – Giles was bouncing in his white trainers. When we passed 11 rue Émile Zola a light suddenly sprang up in one of the top windows.

‘Florence is going to bed,’ I said.

Giles went across to the little iron gate in the hedge, took two of the bars in his hands, stuck his face over the top and called out, in a quiet voice, ‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle!’ And, turning to me, he smiled. ‘She’s really nice. Do you think she heard me?’

Futurama was a gigantic concrete block set in the middle of an immense car park.

Soulless, efficient, hideous in every way. Cheaper than anywhere else in the district. Inside there were thirty checkout counters, staffed by human robots in ill-fitting uniforms. There were aisles and aisles of shelving piled high with goods of every description, soaring off into vanishing points like vast cathedrals built of girders and breezeblock.

The trolleys were large enough to carry an armchair plus a small coffee table, or ten cases of vin ordinaire. I found, after a time, ‘Bedding’, bought two modest brass beds, mattresses, pillows, sheets and two – only – blankets. It was soon to be summer, after all. A wan youth wearing headphones, the sound of thudding music blurring through his scurfy hair, took down all my particulars, looked at his digital watch for the date and said that they’d deliver on Monday, before noon. How did I want to pay? Credit, cheque, cash?