He extended a hand towards a tray. There was red paint inside, only slightly grubby now. He hesitated for a moment, then dabbed his fingertips with a quick movement into the paint.

He grinned. ‘Feels pretty good,’ he said. ‘Like mixing pasta sauce without a spoon.’ He stretched out his hand again, this time letting the paint cover the palm.

‘Over here,’ said Anouk, indicating a place on one of the chairs. ‘Rosette missed a bit.’

Well, as it turned out, Rosette had missed lots of bits, and after that Nico stayed awhile to help Anouk with the stencilling, and even Alice stayed to watch, and I made hot chocolate for everyone, and we drank it like gypsies, out on the step, and laughed and laughed when a group of Japanese tourists came past and photographed us all sitting there.

As Nico said, it felt pretty good.

‘You know,’ said Zozie, when we were clearing away the painting things ready for the morning. ‘What this shop really needs is a name. There’s a sign up there—’ she pointed to the faded strip of wood hanging above the door – ‘but it doesn’t look as if there’s been any actual writing on it for years. How about it, Yanne?’

I gave a shrug. ‘You mean just in case people don’t realize what it is?’ As a matter of fact, I knew exactly what she meant. But a name is never just a name. To name a thing is to give it power, to invest it with an emotional significance that, until now, my quiet little shop has never had.

Zozie wasn’t listening. ‘I think I could do a pretty good job. Why don’t you let me try?’ she said.

I shrugged again, feeling uneasy. But Zozie had been so very good, and her eyes were shining with such eagerness that I gave in. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But nothing fancy. Just chocolaterie. Nothing too chichi.’

What I meant, of course, was nothing like Lansquenet. No names, no slogans. It was already enough that somehow, my discreet plans for redecorating had turned into a psychedelic paint war.

‘Of course,’ said Zozie.

And so we took down the weathered sign. (Closer examination revealed the ghostly inscription Frères Payen, which could have been the name of a café or something different altogether.) The wood was faded but intact, Zozie declared; with a little rubbing-down and some fresh paint, she thought she might make something reasonably durable.

We went our separate ways then: Nico to his place on the Rue Caulaincourt, Zozie to her tiny bedsit on the other side of the Butte, where, she promised, she would work on the sign.