He reached out across the table and grabbed Rosette’s hand. She looked up at him, startled. ‘Here. Take the spoon. Hold it, Rosette.’ He forced the spoon into her hand. She dropped it. He picked it up again.

‘Thierry—’

‘No, Yanne, she has to learn.’

Once more he tried to give Rosette the spoon. Rosette clenched her fingers into a small fist of denial.

‘Look, Thierry,’ I was getting annoyed. ‘Let me decide what Rosette—’

‘Ouch!’ He broke off abruptly, pulling away his outstretched hand. ‘She bit me! The brat! She bit me!’ he said.

From the edge of my field of vision, I thought I glimpsed a golden gleam; a beady eye; a curly tail—

Rosette fingered the sign for come here.

‘Rosette, please don’t—’

‘Bam,’ said Rosette.

Oh no. Not now—

I stood up to leave. ‘Anouk, Rosette . . .’ I looked at Thierry. Small bite-marks stood out against his wrist. Panic bloomed in me like a rose. An Accident in the shop was one thing. But in public, with so many people there—

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We have to go.’

‘But you haven’t finished,’ said Thierry.

I saw him struggling between anger and outrage and the overwhelming need to keep us there, to prove to himself that it was all right, that the situation could be averted, that things could go back to the original plan.

‘I can’t,’ I said, and picked up Rosette. ‘I’m sorry – I have to get out of here.’

‘Yanne,’ said Thierry, grabbing my arm, and my own rage – that he should dare to interfere with my child, with my life – dissolved as I saw the look in his eyes.

‘I wanted it to be perfect,’ he said.

‘It’s all right,’ I told him. ‘It’s not your fault.’

He paid the bill and walked us home. At four o’clock, it was already dark, and the street-lights shone against the wet cobbles. We walked in near-silence; Anouk holding Rosette’s hand, both very careful to avoid the cracks. Thierry said nothing; his face set, his hands jammed deeply into his pockets.

‘Please, Thierry. Don’t be like this. Rosette missed her nap, and you know how she gets.’ In fact, I wonder if he does know. His son must be in his twenties now, and maybe he has forgotten what it’s like to have a child: the tantrums; the tears; the noise; the fuss. Or maybe Sarah coped with all that, leaving Thierry to play the generous role: the football matches, the walks in the park; the pillow-fights; the games.

‘You’ve forgotten what it’s like,’ I said. ‘It’s hard for me to manage, sometimes. And you make it worse when you get in the way—’

He turned to me then, his face pale and tense. ‘I haven’t forgotten as much as you think. When Alan was born—’ He stopped abruptly, and I could see him struggling for control.