‘It’s – different.’ I may have imagined the trace of dismay in his voice as he took in the bright walls, the stencilled shapes, the finger-painted furniture, the old stuffed armchairs and the chocolate pot and cups on the three-legged table, and the window display with Zozie’s red shoes among the mountains of candied treasure. ‘It looks—’ he broke off, and I caught the arc of his gaze, that little flick towards my hand. His mouth tightened a little, I thought, as it does when he doesn’t like something. But his voice was warm as he said, ‘It looks terrific. You’ve worked wonders in this place.’

‘Chocolate?’ said Zozie, pouring a cup.

‘I – no – well, OK then, just the one.’

She handed him an espresso cup, with one of my truffles on the side. ‘It’s one of our specials,’ she told him, smiling.

He looked round once more at the piled boxes, glass dishes, fondants, ribbons, rosettes, cracknels, violet creams, mocha blanc, dark rum truffle, chilli squares, lemon parfait and coffee cake on the counter-top with an expression of slightly blank amazement.

‘You made all these?’ he said at last.

‘Don’t look so surprised,’ I said.

‘Well, for Christmas, I guess . . .’ He frowned a little as he looked at the price tag on a box of chilli chocolate squares. ‘People really do buy them, then?’

‘All the time,’ I said with a smile.

‘Must have cost you a fortune,’ he said. ‘All this painting and decorating.’

‘We did it ourselves. All of us.’

‘Well, that’s great. You’ve worked so hard.’ He tried his chocolate, and once more I saw his mouth tighten.

‘You know, you don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it,’ I said, trying not to sound impatient. ‘I can make you a coffee if you’d prefer.’

‘No, this is great.’ He sipped it again. He’s a terrible liar. His transparency should please me, I know; but instead it gives me a twitch of unease. He is so vulnerable beneath his self-assurance; so unaware of the ways of the wind. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Everything seems to have changed practically overnight.’

‘Not everything,’ I said, smiling.

I noticed Thierry didn’t smile back.

‘How was London? What did you do?’

‘I went to see Sarah. Told her about the wedding. Missed you like crazy.’

I smiled at that. ‘And Alan? Your son?’

That made him smile. He always does when I mention his son, although he rarely speaks of him. I’ve often wondered how well they get on – that smile is a little too broad, perhaps – but if Alan is anything like his father, then it’s quite possible that their personalities are too similar to make them friends.

I noticed he wasn’t eating his truffle.