Christine nodded and made appreciative noises when necessary. Usually she found this kind of speculative autobiography tedious in the extreme – she’d heard it a million times from clients, usually those with some desperate financial secrets to hide – but in this case, she was actually quite interested. God, was she falling in love? Or was Joel some kind of surrogate son – a nice young man in whose future she could take a benign interest? After all, her own children barely spoke to her these days. Isabelle just asked for money, Ben said ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ and mumbled the odd word of appreciation for meals and laundry. It made a change to be confided in, to be a receptacle for dreams and ambitions.

‘You certainly have, and I’m sure you’ ll achieve everything you want to.’

‘Really?’ He put his coffee down, looked in her eyes. ‘Everything?’

‘Well, yes. Why not? I mean, you just have to know what you want, and go for it. It’s what I’ve always done in my career.’

‘I see. So if you want something, you should just reach out and . . .’

‘Grab it!’ She laughed. ‘Why not?’

Silence fell, broken only by the hiss and gurgle of the coffee machine.

‘In that case,’ said Joel, looking down at his mozzarella and avocado ciabatta, ‘I’d like to take you out for dinner.’

‘Oh, I . . .’

And then he looked up, his brow furrowed, his eyes veiled by those long, curly eyelashes. ‘Please?’

Under the circumstances, it would have been rude to say no.

Dinner was divine. They’d eaten on the terrace, at the mosaic-topped table, using their fingers to scoop up oily artichoke hearts, pungent slices of pissaladière. The pièce de résistance was a delicious bourride, miraculously still hot, the garlic sauce steaming as they poured it over white fish and crevettes so fresh they were practically swimming on to the fork. They washed it down with a cold, fresh Pouilly-Fumé, then mopped up the remaining aïoli with hunks of white bread. When they had finished, the table top was covered with crumbs of crust, shells, blobs of olive oil and pools of condensation from the wine bottle.

‘Come.’

They walked into the dark garden, the only light that which spilled out from the house. They stood under the mulberry tree, kissed and lit cigarettes. The smoke curled up into the canopy of leaves, where it was swept away by a sudden gust of wind. The weather was changing, they could both feel it, as if this might be last night of summer.

‘That was a beautiful evening, Massimo.’

‘The night is young, baby.’ He tugged at the ties at the back of her neck, loosening the top of her dress. This was not exactly a statement of matrimonial intent, but it felt good, as did his mouth on her neck. He had not shaved since morning – and Massimo was one of those men who was distinctly stubbly by the afternoon. His face scratched her, and she pressed into him, feeling the hardness in his trousers. Any minute now, he would be as big as the peppermill she’d been using on her bourride.