‘You’re a star, Yanne. I don’t know how you do it. How’s business?’

‘OK.’ In fact, it’s not; the customer was only my second that day, not counting the ones who just come to look. But I was glad of her presence when he arrived – a Chinese girl in a yellow coat, who would no doubt enjoy her macaroons, but who would have been far happier with a box of chocolate-coated strawberries. Not that it matters. It’s not my concern. Not any more, anyway.

‘Where are the girls?’

‘Upstairs,’ I said. ‘Watching TV. How was London?’

‘Great. You should come.’

As a matter of fact I know it well; my mother and I lived there for nearly a year. I’m not sure why I haven’t told him this, or why I have allowed him to believe that I was born and raised in France. Perhaps a yearning for ordinariness: perhaps a fear that if I mention my mother he may look at me differently.

Thierry is a solid citizen. A builder’s boy made good through property, he has had very little exposure to the unusual and the uncertain. His tastes are conventional. He likes a good steak; drinks red wine; loves children, bad puns and silly rhymes; prefers women to wear skirts; goes to Mass through force of habit; has no prejudice against foreigners, but would prefer not to see quite so many of them about. I do like him – and yet the thought of confiding in him – in anyone—

Not that I need to. I’ve never needed a confidant. I have Anouk. I have Rosette. When did I ever need anyone else?

‘You’re looking sad.’ The Chinese girl had gone. ‘What about lunch?’

I smiled. Lunch cures sadness in Thierry’s world. I wasn’t hungry; but it was that or have him in the shop all afternoon. So I called Anouk, wheedled and struggled Rosette into her coat, and we went across the road to Le P’tit Pinson, which Thierry likes for its dilapidated charm and greasy food, and I dislike for the same reasons.

Anouk was restless and it was time for Rosette’s nap, but Thierry was full of his London trip: the crowds, the buildings, the theatres, the shops. His company is renovating some office buildings near King’s Cross, and he likes to oversee the work himself, going down by train on Monday and coming back for the weekend. His ex-wife Sarah still lives in London with their son, but Thierry is at pains to reassure me (as if I needed it) that he and Sarah have been estranged for years.