He spoke again, in a shaky voice. ‘You owe me the truth, Yanne,’ he said. ‘I’ve let this go for much too long. I don’t even know who you are, for God’s sake. I just took you on trust, you and your kids – and have you ever heard me complain? A spoilt brat and a retard—’

Abruptly he stopped.

I stared at him blankly. Finally, he’d crossed a line.

On the floor, Rosette looked up from the jigsaw she was playing with. A light flickered overhead. The plastic shapes that I use for making biscuits began to rattle against the table-top, as if an express train were going by.

‘Yanne, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Thierry was trying to regain lost ground, like a door-to-door salesman who still sees a chance of nailing that elusive deal—

But the damage was done. The house of cards, so carefully built, now swept away at a single word. And now I can see what I’d missed before. For the first time, I can see Thierry. I’ve already seen his pettiness. His gloating contempt of the underling. His snobbery. His arrogance. But now I can see his colours, too; his hidden vulnerabilities; the uncertainty behind his smile; the tension in his shoulders; the odd stiffening of his posture whenever he has to look at Rosette.

That ugly word.

Of course I have always been aware that Rosette makes him slightly uncomfortable. As always, he over-compensates, but his cheeriness is a forced thing, like someone petting a dangerous dog.

And now I can see that it’s not just Rosette. This place makes him uncomfortable; this place we made without his help. Every batch of chocolates; every sale; every customer greeted by name; even the chair on which he sits – all of these things remind him that we three are independent, that we have a life outside of him, that we have a past in which Thierry le Tresset played no part at all—

But Thierry has a past of his own. Something that makes him what he is. All his fears are rooted there. His fears, his hopes, his secrets—

I look down at the familiar granite slab on which I temper my chocolates. It’s a very old piece, black with age; already worn when I acquired it and bearing the scars of repeated use. There are flecks of quartz in the stone that catch the light unexpectedly, and I watch them shine as the chocolate cools, ready to be heated and tempered again.

I don’t want to know your secrets, I think.

But the granite slab knows different. Spackled with mica, it winks and gleams, catching my eye, holding my gaze. I can almost see them now, images mirrored in the stone. As I watch, they take shape, they begin to make sense, glimpses of a life, a past that makes Thierry the man he is.