He gave me a smile. ‘I see this as an opportunity for you. I mean, obviously we’re all sorry about Madame Poussin, but in a way, this liberates you. You could do whatever you wanted, Yanne – although I think I’ve found a place you’ll like—’

‘You’re saying I should give up the chocolaterie?’ For a moment his words sounded like a foreign language.

‘Come on, Yanne. I’ve seen your accounts. I know what’s what. It’s not your fault, you’ve worked so hard, but business is terrible everywhere and—’

‘Thierry, please. I don’t want this now.’

‘Then what do you want?’ Thierry said with exasperation. ‘God knows, I’ve humoured you long enough. Why can’t you see I’m trying to help you? Why won’t you let me do what I can?’

‘I’m sorry, Thierry. I know you mean well. But—’

And then I saw something in my mind. It happens sometimes, at unguarded moments: a reflection in a coffee-cup; a glimpse in a mirror; an image floating its clouds across the glossy surface of a batch of newly tempered chocolate.

A box. A little sky-blue box—

What was in it? I couldn’t say. But a kind of panic bloomed in me; my throat was dry, I could hear the wind in the alleyway and I wanted nothing more at that moment than to take my children and run and run—

Pull yourself together, Vianne.

I made my voice as bland as I could. ‘Can’t this wait till I’ve sorted things out?’

But Thierry is like a hunting dog, cheery, determined, and impervious to argument. His hand was still in his coat pocket, fiddling with something inside.

‘I’m trying to help you sort it out. Don’t you see that? I don’t want you killing yourself with work. It isn’t worth it, just for a few miserable boxes of chocolates. Maybe it suited Madame Poussin. But you’re young, you’re bright, your life isn’t over—’

And now I knew what it was I’d seen. I could see it, quite clearly in my mind’s eye. A little blue box, from a Bond Street jeweller, a single gem, carefully chosen with the help of a female shop assistant, not too large but of perfect clarity, nestling against the velvet lining . . .

Oh, please, Thierry. Not here. Not now.

‘I don’t need any help right now.’ I gave him my most brilliant smile. ‘Now eat your choucroute. It’s delicious—’

‘You’ve hardly touched it,’ he pointed out.

I scooped a mouthful. ‘See?’ I said.

Thierry smiled. ‘Close your eyes.’

‘What, here?’

‘Close your eyes and hold out your hand.’

‘Thierry, please—’ I tried to laugh. But it sounded harsh in my throat; a pea in a gourd, rattling to escape.

‘Close your eyes and count to ten. You’ll like it. I promise. It’s a surprise.’