‘Thank you.’

‘It’s a little less luxurious than your previous trip.’

‘That’s it. I’m going home again.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘Short break. France.’

‘Nice. Any particular reason?’

‘Just fancied it. Never been.’

‘Clearly.’

There was a moment of silence, where it was evident she wasn’t telling the whole story, but he didn’t pry.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ she said. ‘I’m pathetic.’

‘No, no,’ he reassured her. ‘You’re normal.’

She wasn’t really, she was a stunted adult with less life experience than most, due to a teenage pregnancy and a lack of education. Not that I’d change having had Becky for the world, she quickly thought.

Now, as she looked around the pedestrianized streets of Bordeaux, Kate felt herself slow and relax as she moved with the ebb and flow of the evening crowd. She took the time to take in her surroundings: wrought-iron curls above heavy wooden doors, white stone buildings oozing grace and majesty – and the lights! Lights everywhere: on the buildings, in the squares, turning the trees into clusters of glowing emeralds. This was a city that came alive at night. And walking around it was free.

Kate was worried about how much this impromptu trip had cost – with the expense of paying the forensic accountant, every penny of her savings had long gone, and she’d had to sell a good chunk of her shares. It’s important, it’s important, she told herself firmly, quelling the rising anxiety. The doctor’s testimony was crucial to her case. She had to get Dr Zayan on side tomorrow – how, she still had no idea, but it would be an expensive failure if she didn’t.

Kate was hungry but had already decided to avoid the restaurants. Street food was cheaper. She found a deli and bought a baguette filled with Brie and tomato for a few euros and went to sit on a bench in the centre of a square. It was lively; cafes lined the wide pavements and the outside tables were filling up, garlanded by groups of people with their glasses of wine and plates of charcuterie. There were a lot of smokers, Kate noticed. And dogs, the French seemed to like their dogs, many hunkered under chairs and tables, chins settled on paws for the long night. It wasn’t a loud, frenzied crowd as it might have been in London, where drinkers stood in crowds, talking at high volume, blocking the pavements. No one stood here. They sat in civilized groups.

It was a shame she couldn’t join them, she thought, find herself a table for one and order a drink and watch the people go by. She looked longingly at the cafe nearest to her. An empty table beckoned. Oh, what the heck, why not? It would cost less than ten euros and seeing as this was her first-ever trip abroad and something she’d been yearning for all her adult life, she could allow herself an hour of escapism.

She walked over and took a seat, the iron chair scraping on the cobblestones. No one else took any notice of her, no one looked at her strangely, wondering why she was alone. She picked up the menu. A waitress appeared and Kate scanned the wine list. Understanding very little of it, her eyes settled on one word. Well, when in Bordeaux . . . She pointed to it on the menu. ‘A glass of this one, s’il vous plaît.’