The box is old, made of metal. A rural scene – a meadow, sheep, a distant mountain shadowed with clouds – adorns the side that faces us. The colours are beginning to fade, giving it a slightly antique look, and when I fetch it down it’s heavier than I expected.

‘Can we open it? Would she mind?’ Christianne shoots me a look. The question is conspiratorial. We’re kids on someone else’s territory. Nice.

‘Care to hazard a guess?’ I’m looking at the box.

‘What’s inside, do you mean?’

‘Yes.’

Christianne frowns, then suggests I know already. I tell her I don’t.

‘But you’re her friend. You had the next-door apartment up in London. She told me.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So, you’d know. Surely.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Then you guess.’

The invitation comes with that same hint of mischief. I shrug. I tell her I haven’t a clue.

‘One attempt, one go.’ She won’t give up. ‘Just one.’

‘Bric-a-brac.’ I’m staring down at the box. ‘Little treasures. Odds and ends she’s squirrelled away.’ I glance up. ‘And you?’

‘Buttons.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely. Let’s see …’ She extends a hand but has difficulty opening the box. ‘You do it.’

The box has a lock. When I point it out, Christianne shakes her head.

‘It won’t be locked,’ she says. ‘Just open it.’

I do her bidding. The lid lifts open at the slightest pressure. Inside, to Christianne’s delight, we find nothing but buttons: blues, deep purples, plastic, glass, fabric-covered, various metals, all sizes, all shapes. She reaches for the box once again, her fingers drifting among the buttons the way you might sift coins, and when she finally withdraws, I realize her hand is shaking. Excitement, I think vaguely.

‘My mother had a box exactly the same.’ She’s grinning like a child. ‘It had to be buttons.’

I pour more coffee while Christianne digs around in the box. A leather-covered button, probably the biggest, earns a special nod of approval.

‘Did your mum sew?’ She glances up.

‘Not really. She read a lot.’

‘No button box?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ I’m about to tell her a bit more about the little Breton house in Perros-Guirec where I grew up when, once again, she performs a conversational swerve and changes the subject. Her croissant finished, she’s pushed her coffee to one side and sat back, as if to take a proper look at me.

‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’

‘Maybe.’

‘In the movies?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Hour of our … ?’ She frowns, hunting for the key word.

‘Passing?’

‘The one in Nantes? During the war?’

‘Yes.’

She nods, beaming, and then extends a hand. She wants to congratulate me, not for being on screen, not for being just a little bit famous, but for the sequence towards the end that Pavel always cherished.