Victoria disappeared into the kitchen while Sakura admired the surroundings. The restaurant was light and airy, with white tiled floors and walls and two dozen tables, each with its own individual reed umbrella to shield the diners from the sunshine. She gazed over the pool to the Indian Ocean beyond and allowed her thoughts to drift to Tokyo and what Yamato might be doing now. She tried to work out what time it would be there. Japan was an hour ahead of Bali, meaning that Yamato had probably had his breakfast. He liked okayu rice porridge or rolled omelettes; she doubted that they would give him either. What would he be doing now? Did they let him play? Did he have toys, or anyone to play with? She didn’t know where he was, who was looking after him, whether he was happy or sad, what he had been told when he asked where his mama had gone. She felt her mood slipping and bit her lip to stop herself from crying.

Victoria crossed the restaurant to the table. Sakura wiped her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Victoria asked.

“My son,” she mumbled. “I don’t know anything—where he is, who he’s with… anything. It makes me feel helpless.”

She felt Victoria’s hand on hers. “You’re not alone now.”

She looked up and blinked away the tears. Victoria was smiling kindly at her.

“Thank you,” Sakura said.

She saw a man in chef’s whites emerge from the kitchen. He was carrying a tray in one hand and skilfully negotiated the tables. John appeared at the same time, and the two men reached the table together.

“Excellent timing,” Victoria said.

“I’m Jean-Michel,” the white-clad man said, extending his free hand. He nodded at Victoria. “Her husband.”

Sakura took the man’s hand. “I’m Sakura.”

Jean-Michel put the tray on the table. It bore a small coffee pot and three short white cups. He turned to Smith. “And you must be John?”

“I am.” The two men shook hands.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Jean-Michel said.

“All good, I hope?”

“Not at all,” Jean-Michel said in a strong French accent. “Victoria says you’re thoroughly disreputable.”

Smith chuckled.

Jean-Michel indicated the pot. “Can I pour you all some coffee?”

“That would be lovely,” Sakura said.

Jean-Michel poured as Smith sat down. He was dressed in an airy shirt and loose-fitting slacks and looked much more presentable than he had done earlier. Sakura watched him; she examined his face, the steel in his eyes, the confidence with which he bore himself. He gave the impression of solidity and she decided that she would trust him. In truth, she had little choice, but it felt better to know that she had a capable friend.

“What can I get you for breakfast?” Jean-Michel asked them.

“I don’t know,” Sakura said.