‘What things?’ I wanted to know.

‘Well, the chocolaterie, for a start. The rent’s paid till the end of the year. But after that . . .’ She gave a sigh. ‘It won’t be easy making it work. And I can’t just take money from Thierry. He keeps offering, but it wouldn’t be fair. And I thought . . .’

Well of course I’d known there was something wrong. But I’d thought she was sad about Madame. Now I could see it was Thierry instead, and her worry that I might not fit in with their plan.

Some plan. I can see us now. Maman, Papa and the two little girls, like something out of a story by the Comtesse de Ségur. We’d go to church; eat steack-frites every day; wear dresses from Galeries Lafayette. Thierry would have a picture of us on his desk, a professional portrait, with Rosette and me in matching outfits.

Don’t get me wrong; I said he’s OK. But—

‘Well?’ she said. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

I bit a little piece from my croissant. ‘We don’t need him,’ I said at last.

‘Well, we need someone, that’s for sure. I thought at least you’d understand that. You need to go to school, Anouk. You need a proper home – a father—’

Don’t make me laugh. A father? As if. You choose your family, she always says, but what choice does she think she’s giving me?

‘Anouk,’ she said. ‘I’m doing it for you . . .’

‘Whatever.’ I shrugged and took my croissant out into the street.

8

Saturday,10th November

I DROPPED IN at the chocolaterie this morning and bought a box of liqueur cherries. Yanne was there, with the little one in tow. Though the shop was quiet, she looked harried, almost uncomfortable at seeing me, and the chocolates, when I tried them, were nothing special.

‘I used to make these myself,’ she said, handing me the cherries in a paper twist. ‘But liqueurs are so fussy, and there’s never the time. I hope you like them.’

I popped one into my mouth with well-feigned greed. ‘Fabulous,’ I said, through a sour paste of pickled cherry. On the floor behind the counter, Rosette was singing softly to herself, sprawled among a scatter of crayons and coloured paper.

‘Doesn’t she go to nursery school?’

Yanne shook her head. ‘I like to keep an eye on her.’

Well, of course, I can see that. I see other things, too, now that I happen to look for them. The sky-blue door hides a number of things that regular customers overlook. First, the place is old and in some considerable disrepair. The window is attractive enough with its display of pretty little tins and boxes, and the walls are painted a cheerful yellow, but even so the damp awaits, lurking in corners and beneath the floor, speaking of too little money and not enough time. Some care has been taken to hide this: a scrawl of cobweb-gold across a nest of cracks, a welcoming shimmer in the doorway, a luscious quality to the air that promises more than those second-rate chocolates.