Things are not so easy, of course. I’ve tried to explain – this is not about Roux. But Thierry is immovable. He has several friends in the police force and has already used his influence to bring more attention than it deserves to this rather minor case of fraud. But Roux has vanished, as he always does, like the Pied Piper into the side of the hill.

As he left Thierry threw me one last, poisonous scrap of information, presumably from his friend in the gendarmerie—

‘That account he used to cash the cheque. It’s in a woman’s name,’ he said. He gave me a sly, triumphant smile. ‘Looks like your friend isn’t alone.’

Today I wore my red dress again. Not my usual, I know, but the scene with Thierry, Roux’s disappearance and the weather – still dull and charged with snow – made me long for a touch of something bright.

And maybe it was the dress itself, or maybe some wild trace on the wind, but for all my anxiety, in spite of everything – Thierry’s words; the ache in my heart when I think about Roux; my sleepless nights; my fears – I found myself singing as I worked.

It’s as if a page has somehow turned. I feel free for the first time in years, I think; free of Thierry; free even of Roux. Free to be whoever I want – though who that is, I do not know.

Zozie had gone out for the morning. I was alone for the first time in weeks, except for Rosette, fully occupied with her box of buttons and her drawing-book. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to stand behind the counter in a crowded chocolaterie, to talk to the customers, to find out their favourites.

It was startling, in a way, to see so many regulars. Of course I’m aware of comings and goings as I work in the kitchen at the back of the shop, but I hadn’t really noticed how many people come in here now. Madame Luzeron – though it isn’t her day. Then Jean-Louis and Paupaul, drawn by the promise of a warm place to sketch as well as their increasing appetite for my coffee-mocha layer cake. Nico – on a diet, now, but a diet that seems to involve eating lots of macaroons. Alice, with a bunch of holly for the shop and a request for her favourite, chocolate fudge. Madame Pinot, asking after Zozie—

She was not the only one. All of our regulars asked after Zozie, and Laurent Pinson, who came in all brushed and gleaming and greeted me with an exuberant bow, seemed to wilt when he saw who I was, as if that red dress had led him to expect someone else behind the till.

‘I hear you’re having a party,’ he said.

I smiled. ‘Just a small one. On Christmas Eve.’