Thierry is incandescent with rage. In Thierry’s world, to walk off a job is both shameful and dishonest, and it was clear that he would accept no possible excuse. There’s something about a cheque, too; a cheque Roux cashed, or didn’t cash—

I didn’t see much of Thierry this weekend. Some trouble with the flat, he’d said, when he dropped in briefly on Saturday night. He’d mentioned Roux’s absence only in passing – and I hadn’t dared ask for too many particulars.

Today, he told me the whole thing, calling in at the end of the day. Zozie was just closing up; Rosette was playing with a jigsaw – she makes no attempt to link the pieces, but instead seems to enjoy making complicated spiral patterns with them on the floor – and I was just starting a last batch of cherry truffles when he came into the shop, clearly furious, red in the face and ready to explode.

‘I knew there was something about him,’ he said. ‘Those people. They’re all the bloody same. Shiftless, thieving – travellers.’ He gave the word the filthiest inflexion, making it sound like an exotic oath. ‘I know he’s supposed to be a friend of yours. But even you can’t be blind to this. To walk off a job without a word – to mess up my schedule. I’ll sue him for that. Or perhaps I’ll just beat the crap out of the ginger bastard—’

‘Thierry, please.’ I poured him a coffee. ‘Try to calm down.’

But where the subject of Roux is concerned, it seems that this is impossible. Of course, they’re very different people. Solid, unimaginative Thierry, who has never lived outside Paris in his life; whose disapproval of single mothers, ‘alternative lifestyles’ and foreign food has always rather amused me – till now.

‘What is he to you anyway? How come he’s such a friend of yours?’

I turned away. ‘We’ve been through this.’

Thierry glared. ‘Were you lovers?’ he said. ‘Is that it? Were you sleeping with the bastard?’

‘Thierry, please—’

‘Tell me the truth! Did you fuck him?’ he yelled.

Now my hands were trembling. Anger, all the more violent for being suppressed, came rushing to the surface.

‘And what if I did?’ I snapped at him.

Such simple words. Such dangerous words.

He stared at me, suddenly grey-faced, and I realized that the accusation, for all its violence, had just been another of Thierry’s big gestures; dramatic, predictable but ultimately meaningless. He’d needed an outlet for his jealousy, his need for control, his unspoken dismay at the speed at which our trade has improved—