But Thierry had not forgotten it. Drunk he might have been, but not drunk enough to forget why he had followed Roux here. He’d come in search of Vianne Rocher, and he’d found her at last, perhaps not as he’d imagined her, but here, and with the enemy—

‘So you’re Vianne Rocher.’ His voice was flat. His eyes were pinpricks in red dough.

I nodded. ‘I was. But I’m not the person who cashed those cheques—’

He cut me off. ‘I don’t care about that. What matters is you lied to me. Lied. To me.’ Angrily he shook his head, but there was something pitiable in the gesture, as if he couldn’t quite believe that, once again, Life had failed to live up to his exacting standards of perfection.

‘I was willing to marry you.’ Now his voice was slurred with self-pity. ‘I would have given you a home, you and your kids. Another man’s kids. One of them – well – I mean, look at her.’ He glanced at Rosette in her monkey suit, and the familiar rictus came over his face. ‘Look at her,’ he said again. ‘She’s practically an animal. Crawls on all fours. Can’t even speak. But I would have taken care of her – I would have got the best specialists in Europe on her case. For your sake, Yanne. Because I loved you.’

‘Loved her?’ said Roux.

Everybody turned to look.

He was leaning against the kitchen door, hands in his pockets, eyes bright. He had unzipped his Santa suit and beneath it he was all in black, and the colours reminded me so much of the Pied Piper on the Tarot card that suddenly I could hardly breathe. And now he was speaking, in that fierce, harsh voice; Roux, who hates crowds, avoids scenes where he can, and never, ever makes a speech—

‘Love her?’ he said. ‘You don’t even know her. Her favourite chocolates are mendiants; her favourite colour is bright red. Her favourite scent is mimosa. She can swim like a fish. She hates black shoes. She loves the sea. She’s got a scar on her left hip from when she fell out of a Polish goods train. She doesn’t like having curly hair, even though it’s gorgeous. She likes the Beatles, but not the Stones. She used to steal menus from restaurants because she could never afford to eat there herself. She’s the best mother I’ve ever met—’ He paused. ‘And she doesn’t need your charity. As for Rosette . . .’ He picked her up and held her so that her face was almost touching his own. ‘She’s my little girl. And she’s perfect.’