Back next door, I say my goodbyes to Evelyn. She’s effusive about me making the effort to come down and give her what she calls ‘moral support’, but what’s pleased her most is the bond I seem to have established with Christianne.

‘She’s been a bit down lately,’ she says. ‘You’ve brought her out of herself. She’s become the old Christianne again. I don’t know the secret, but it’s really made a difference.’

‘We’re French,’ I say. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

We look at each other for a moment, and then she opens her arms. ‘You’ve been wonderful, my lovely.’ She gives me a long hug. ‘What a shame you can’t stay forever.’

I’m back in London by early afternoon. I have a mental list of calls to make, bills to pay, and arrangements to confirm, but the moment I step into the apartment I realize how foolish it is to take anything for granted. Three glorious days with Evelyn and Christianne have made me lazy. Real life, as Pavel once told me, never takes a holiday.

Malo, my son, is sprawled on the sofa. At first I think he’s asleep but when I dump my coat on the back of the chair, one eye opens. Already I have a feeling of dread. I tell myself something terrible has happened, and it’s no consolation to find out that I’m right.

‘Clem’s left me,’ he grunts.

‘Again?’

‘Yeah. But this time she means it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She told me.’

‘Has she found someone else?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘So, what is it?’

‘Me.’

My son is seldom this honest. Like his natural father, when the world doesn’t do his bidding, he has a reflexive habit of blaming someone else. In the case of H, this has frequently led to violence, always directed against other men, while Malo prefers the long sulk.

Looking down at the line of little bottles beside the sofa, I’m briefly torn between compassion and impatience. Leffe Blonde has its place in any celebration, but beer that strong does nothing for self-pity.

‘Are you drunk?’ I ask him.

‘Yes. A bit.’

‘That can’t have helped, not with Clemmie.’

A nod signals agreement. Clem doesn’t touch the stuff.

‘Does it stop with booze?’

‘You know it doesn’t.’

‘What else, then?’

Malo just looks at me, then shakes his head. I try to contain my temper, staring down at him. For some reason I can think only of Sylvester Penny, riding west from Heathrow in a London cab, oblivious of the meter. Reckless. Spoiled. All the usual terms of endearment.

‘Consider Clemmie for a moment,’ I tell him. ‘Poor bloody woman.’