‘What’s that smell?’ He’d caught it at last; his big face turning towards the source. In the kitchen behind me, Yanne was singing. A rhythmic sound, as of a wooden spoon against a pot, suggested that Rosette was joining in. ‘Smells like someone’s doing some cooking. Point me to it, Shoe Lady! What’s for lunch?’

‘Coconut truffles,’ I said with a smile.

In less than a minute he’d bought the lot.

Oh, I don’t flatter myself on this occasion that it was any of my doing. His type is absurdly easy to seduce. A child could have done it; and he paid by Carte Bleue, which made it the work of an instant to collect his number (after all, I must keep in practice), although I do not mean to use it as yet. Such a clear trail might lead to the chocolaterie; and I’m enjoying myself far too much to jeopardize my position at this stage. Later, perhaps. When I know why I’m here.

Nico is not the only one to have noticed a difference in the air. Just this morning I sold an astonishing eight boxes of Yanne’s special truffles – some to regulars, some to strangers lured in from the streets by that earthy, seductive scent.

In the afternoon, it was Thierry le Tresset. Cashmere coat, dark suit, pink silk tie and hand-made brogues. Mmmm. I love a hand-made shoe; glossy as the flank of a well-groomed horse and whispering money from every perfect stitch. Perhaps I was wrong to overlook Thierry; he may be nothing special from an intellectual point of view, but a man with money is always worth a second glance.

He found Yanne in the kitchen, with Rosette, both of them laughing fit to split. Seemed slightly put out that she had to work – he came back from London today just to see her – though he agreed to call back after five.

‘Well, why on earth didn’t you check your phone?’ I heard him say from the kitchen door.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Yanne (half laughing, I thought). ‘I don’t really know about things like that. I suppose I must have forgotten to turn it on. Besides, Thierry—’

‘God help us,’ he said. ‘I’m marrying a cave woman.’

She laughed. ‘Call me a technophobe.’

‘How can I call you anything if you won’t answer the phone?’

He left Yanne with Rosette then, and came round to the front for a word with me. He mistrusts me, I know. I’m not his type. He may even consider me a bad influence. And, like most men, he sees only the obvious: the pink hair; the eccentric shoes; the vaguely bohemian look that I have worked so hard to cultivate.

‘You’re helping Yanne. That’s nice,’ he said. He smiled – he’s really very charming, you know – but I could sense the wariness in his colours. ‘What about the P’tit Pinson?’