Jennifer’s boys were also transfixed by their mobiles. They had never looked particularly alike, but they seemed to grow further apart in looks as they grew into their mid-teens. Jake, the older of the two, was his mother’s son with fair hair and grey-blue eyes, beautiful long eyelashes and cupid’s bow lips. Tall and slim, long-limbed like her – he was going to be a heartbreaker. His younger brother, Ethan, on the other hand, had all his father’s genes: dark hair and olive skin, eyes so deep brown they were almost black. Just fifteen, he was already stockier through the shoulders and waist, his legs thick with hair.

People sometimes remarked to Jennifer they didn’t look much like brothers.

They do to me, she would always say with an adoring smile.

Russ returned to the table as the food arrived, steaming plates of creamy chicken in mushroom sauce, entrecote with camembert, turkey escalope, pan-fried potatoes, pasta salads and mountains of pommes frites, along with two more bottles of La Grande Cigale Blanc.

Odette finally came and sat down, her little face wrinkled in disgust.

‘Don’t like that,’ she said, pointing a small finger at her plate. ‘Or that.’

Rowan leaned over and began cutting it up for her.

‘Of course you do, darling, it’s just chicken like you have at home.’

‘Smells funny.’ She pointed at Rowan’s bowl of pasta salad. ‘I want yours, Mummy.’

‘You have yours, darling. Look, it’s chicken, do you see? You always have chicken.’

‘Want yours.’ Her high voice was suddenly strident and sharp, cutting through the rest of our conversations. ‘Don’t want chicken.’

‘You wouldn’t like mine, Odette, it’s got garlic in it.’

‘My chicken’s stinky.’ She pushed her chair away and stood up, stepping back from the table.

‘Sit up at the table, please,’ Rowan said calmly.

‘No!’

Watching their argument unfold, I realised that everyone else at the table was doing the same, looking at the confrontation but trying to pretend that they weren’t. Rubbernecking at the scene of a domestic incident like drivers gawking at a motorway pile-up.

Odette tossed her head and started walking away.

Keeping her voice even, Rowan said, ‘Odette, darling, if you eat some of your chicken you can have pudding afterwards.’

‘Don’t want pudding.’

‘How about you just have some of the fries instead of—’

Russ turned suddenly in his chair, his face an angry shade of red.

‘ODETTE! COME BACK HERE AND SIT DOWN!’ he bellowed, his deep voice echoing off the old stone walls. ‘NOW!’

A hush fell over the little village square as all the other diners turned to look – a dozen conversations halted mid-sentence, forks frozen mid-air, wine mid-pour – eyes flicking between the tiny child and the tall man. Every customer and every waiter staring at the stand-off.

For a moment, the only sound was a muffled chink of crockery from somewhere inside the restaurant.