‘Oh, I still work there in the evenings,’ I said. ‘Laurent doesn’t need me all day – and really, he isn’t the easiest of bosses.’

‘And Yanne is?’

I smiled at him. ‘Let’s say Yanne doesn’t have such – roving hands.’

He looked startled, as well he might. ‘I’m sorry. I thought—’

‘I know what you thought. I know I don’t quite look the part. But really, I’m just trying to help Yanne. She deserves a break – now don’t you agree?’

He nodded.

‘Come on, Thierry. I know what you need. A café-crème and a milk chocolate square.’

He grinned. ‘You know my favourite.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the knack.’

After that, it was Laurent Pinson – for the first time in three years, so Yanne says – all stiff and churchy and trying too hard in his cheap and shiny brown shoes. He hummed and hawed for a laughable time, occasionally casting a jealous glance at me over the glass counter-top, then opted for the cheapest chocolates he could find and asked me to wrap them as a gift.

I took my time with scissors and string, smoothing down the pale-blue tissue paper with the tips of my fingers, wrapping it all in a double bow of silver ribbon and paper rose.

‘Someone’s birthday?’ I said.

Laurent gave his habitual grunt – mweh! – and fingered out the correct change. He has not yet spoken to me of my defection, though I know he resents it, thanking me with exaggerated politeness as I hand him the box.

I have no doubt as to the meaning of Laurent’s sudden interest in gift-wrapped chocolates. He means it as a gesture of defiance, indicating that there is more to Laurent Pinson than meets the eye and warning me that if I am fool enough to ignore his attentions, then someone else will benefit in my place.

Let them benefit. I sent him away with a cheery smile and the spiral sign of the Hurakan scratched on to the lid of his chocolate box with the pointed tip of a fingernail. It’s not that I bear any especial malice towards Laurent – although I’ll admit I wouldn’t grieve if the café were struck by lightning, or some client got food poisoning and sued the management. It’s just that I have no time to deal with him sensitively at this time, and besides, the last thing I want is a love-struck sexagenarian following me around, getting in the way of business.

I turned as he left and saw Yanne watching.

‘Laurent Pinson, buying chocolates?’

I grinned. ‘I told you he was sweet on me.’

She laughed at that, then looked abashed. Rosette peeped out from behind her knee, a wooden spoon in one hand, a melted something in the other. She made a sign with her chocolatey fingers.

Yanne handed her a macaroon.

I said, ‘The home-made chocolates have all sold out.’