THIERRY HAS BEEN working hard this week. So hard that I’ve barely spoken to him; between our work in the shop and his refurbishments in the house, there seems to have been no time at all. He phoned today to talk to me about parquet flooring (do I prefer light oak or dark?), but has warned me against dropping by. The place is a mess, he tells me. Plaster dust everywhere; half the floor taken up. Besides, he says, he wants it to be perfect before I see it again.

I dare not ask after Roux, of course, though I know from Zozie that he is there. Five days since he arrived here so unexpectedly, and so far he has not returned. That surprises me a little – though perhaps it should not. I tell myself it’s better this way; that seeing him again would only make things even more difficult. But the damage is done. I’ve seen his face. And outside I can hear a tinkle of chimes, as the wind begins to stir again . . .

‘Perhaps I should just drop by,’ I said, in a casual tone that fools no one. ‘It seems so wrong not to see him at all, and . . .’

Zozie shrugged. ‘Sure – if you want to get him sacked.’

‘Sacked?’

‘Well, duh,’ she said impatiently. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Yanne, but I think Thierry might be just a little bit squiggle-eyed about Roux already, and if you start just dropping by, there’ll be a scene, and before you know it—’

It made sense, as always, I thought. Trust Zozie to point it out. But I must have looked disappointed, because she grinned and put her arm around my shoulders. ‘Look, if you like, I’ll check on Roux. I’ll tell him he’s more than welcome to come by here whenever he wants to. Hell, I’ll even bring him sandwiches if you like.’

I laughed at her exuberance. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’

‘Just don’t worry. Things’ll work out.’

I’m beginning to think perhaps they will.

Madame Luzeron was in today, on her way to the cemetery with her little fluffy peach-coloured dog. She bought, as always, three rum truffles, but seems less distant nowadays; more inclined to sit and stay; to taste a cup of mocha and a slice of my three-layer chocolate cake. She stays, but still she rarely talks, although she likes to watch Rosette drawing under the counter, or looking at one of her story books.

Today she was watching the Advent house, now open to show the tableau inside. Today’s scene is set in the hallway, with guests arriving at the door of the house, and the hostess in her party dress standing there to welcome them in.

‘That’s a most original display,’ said Madame Luzeron, moving her powdered face closer to the window. ‘All the little chocolate mice. And the little dolls—’