‘Ah, mes amis,’ Pierre said as he reached the table. ‘It has been too long since I saw you all. And Odette . . .’ He paused and swallowed hard. ‘It is an honour, truly, to serve you again at my table. I saw your film, the one with Anna Neagle playing your part, and my dear wife, she had to stop me from standing up in the cinema and shouting, “I know the real Odette!”’

Odette smiled. ‘Thank you, Pierre. It’s a pleasure for me also to be back here once again.’

As a fellow SOE veteran, Saffron knew the story of Odette Sansom, as she had been called back then: her exploits as an undercover agent in Occupied France; her capture by the Gestapo; the torture she had suffered, and her appalling mistreatment in Ravensbruck concentration camp. But having spent the post-war years in Kenya, she had no concept of how famous Odette had become.

‘I want to pay you my sincere respects,’ Pierre continued. ‘And to offer my most profound sympathy for what you had to endure. The things those filthy Boches did to you . . . they’re no better than savages.’

He sensed a sudden air of silent embarrassment descend upon the table and stammered, ‘D-d-did I say something wrong?’

Gerhard smiled reassuringly. ‘No, Pierre . . . it is just that I am a filthy Boche. But you are right. Some Germans were bloody savages and they did things that shame me to the depths of my soul. But most of us are not like that. We are no better or worse than anyone else.’

‘Look at it this way,’ said Leo Marks. ‘I’m a Jew and I’m breaking bread with him.’

‘I do not wish to offend anyone. Please, I insist, let me give you this meal, as the Americans say, “on the house”.’

‘Thank you, Pierre, that’s very kind,’ said Odette. ‘And don’t worry. You meant well. All that matters is the war is over. Now we can live in peace.’

Saffron took Gerhard’s hand and looked into his eyes. They had been reunited for six years, but it still felt like a miracle to have him by her side.

‘Amen to that,’ she said.

Pierre Duforge regarded himself as a man of discretion. But he was also a businessman, and in the current state of the austerity-ravaged British economy it was not easy to keep a restaurant afloat. The lack of decent food for his customers only made matters worse. Whenever Pierre went home to France, the market stalls were laden down with vegetables, fruits, meats, cheeses and all manner of breads and pastries. Why, he asked himself in profound bemusement, did the British still choose to starve themselves?