V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent,

V’là l’bon vent, ma mie m’attend.

Thierry speaks of her being ‘a little slow’, or ‘a late developer’, and suggests that I get her ‘checked out’. He has not yet mentioned autism, but he will – like so many men of his age, he reads Le Point and believes that this makes him an expert on most things. I, on the other hand, am only a woman, besides being a mother, which has addled my sense of objective judgement.

‘Say spoon, Rosette,’ Thierry says.

Rosette picks up the spoon and looks at it curiously.

‘Come on, Rosette. Say spoon.’

Rosette hoots like an owl and makes the spoon perform an impertinent little dance on the tablecloth. Anyone would think she is making fun of Thierry. Quickly I take the spoon from Rosette. Anouk pinches her lips to stop herself from laughing.

Rosette looks at her and grins.

Quit it, signs Anouk with her fingers.

Bullshit, signs Rosette with hers.

I smile at Thierry. ‘She’s only three—’

‘Nearly four. That’s old enough.’ Thierry’s face takes on the bland expression he adopts when he feels I am being uncooperative. It makes him look older, less familiar, and I feel a sudden sting of irritation – unfair, I know, but it can’t be helped. I don’t appreciate interference.

I am shocked at how close I come to actually saying it aloud – then I see the waitress – Zozie – watching me with a frown of amusement between her long blue eyes, and I bite my tongue and keep silent.

I tell myself that I have much to be grateful for in Thierry. It’s not just the shop, or the help that he has given us over the past year; or even the presents for myself and the children. It’s that Thierry is so much larger than life. His shadow covers the three of us; beneath it we are truly invisible.

But he seemed unusually restless today, fidgeting with something in his pocket. He looked at me quizzically over his blonde. ‘Something wrong?’

‘I’m just tired.’

‘What you need is a holiday.’

‘A holiday?’ I almost laughed. ‘Holidays are for selling chocolates.’

‘You’re going to keep on with the business, then?’

‘Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I? It’s less than two months to Christmas, and—’

‘Yanne,’ he interrupted me. ‘If I can help in any way – financial or otherwise—’ He reached out his hand to touch mine.

‘I’ll manage,’ I said.

‘Of course. Of course.’ The hand returned to his coat pocket. He means well, I told myself; and yet something in me rebels at the thought of intrusion, however well-meant. I have managed alone for so long that the need for help – any kind of help – seems like a dangerous weakness.

‘You’ll never run the shop alone. What about the kids?’ he said.

‘I’ll manage,’ I repeated. ‘I’m—’