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call was to Sabine and she enjoyed the exchange of news and chat with the nine year old Parisienne.
    After she and John had broken up, Alice had moved to Paris as the only place to learn the fashion business. Without the welcome of Maurice and Millie Charente, she might have left within the month. In fact, she had stayed two years, and had returned to London with priceless gifts. One was the knowledge and contacts that would underwrite success in the career she had chosen for herself. The others were more personal – the close friendship with Maurice and Millie, a godchild she doted on and an absolute mastery in the French language. She had left England with a halting grasp of school French; she returned with a level of fluency that frequently had her taken as a native.
    A fter listening to Sabine’s happy babbling of school and Maman and Papa there was a less welcome call to make. The phone rang out so many times she thought she might be lucky and be able to leave a message saying she had called, but it was not to be. Her mother answered on the seventh ring.
    ‘Alice! At last! I had begun to think you were avoiding me.’
    ‘Why should I do that, mother?’
    ‘Why, indeed? Think yourself lucky you have no children of your own. You give them everything and all you get in return is grief.’
    This was a complaint Alice had heard many times before. ‘Is there anything you want, mother?’
    ‘Well, let’s see, now. Politeness? Respect? Support? How about those for starters? Are they too much for a mother to ask of her daughter?’
    Support. Alice sighed. ‘How much is it this time?’
    Her mother cut in angrily. ‘Alice. I have never asked you for money.’
    There was a sardonic edge to Alice’s laugh. ‘Does Dad know we’re having this conversation?’
    ‘I never trouble your father about the trivial sums you send me, Alice.’
    Trivial! That was not the word Alice would have chosen to describe the amounts it had taken to get her mother out of trouble over the years.
    ‘Without the care and education we lavished on you when you were a child,’ her mother went on, ‘You would not be enjoying the colossal earnings you have now. I said as much to Martin Planer and he agreed.’
    A fist of ice closed around Alice’s heart. ‘You spoke to…’
    ‘And what thanks do I get? How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’
    ‘What did you say to Martin Planer?’
    ‘Who?’
    Frustrated rage was a constant feature of Alice’s relations with her mother. She knew she must not give in to it now. ‘Martin Planer,’ she said through gritted teeth.
    ‘How do you know Martin?’ asked her mother.
    ‘Mother…’
    ‘He’s one of our directors.’
    ‘I know who he is, mother. Though why he lets you go on working there I can’t imagine.’
    ‘You’ve never met him. You know very well I’ve always kept work and home separate. I owed you that, as my daughter. And what do you mean, “why he lets me go on working”?’
    ‘Mother. What did you say to Martin Planer about me?’
    ‘My conversations with my colleagues are none of your business.’
    ‘You discussed me.’
    ‘A few words, perhaps. I told him about your luxurious apartment and he…’
    ‘Mother,’ Alice broke in. ‘You didn’t tell him where I live. Tell me you didn’t.’
    The older woman sounded flustered. ‘Not the address, of course. What do you take me for?’
    The shock of relief almost cast Alice to her knees.
    ‘I told him about your penthouse, and what it must have cost. And I had to tell him where it was, or it wouldn’t have meant anything to him, now would it?’
    ‘Oh, mother.’ Alice felt almost physically ill.
    At that moment the doorbell rang. ‘I’ve got to go,’ Alice said.
    ‘But I haven’t told you what I need.’
    ‘Mother. Merrill is at the door. She’s taken in a package for me.’
    ‘Oh, has she. Yet more ridiculously expensive clothes, no doubt. While your poor parents…’
    The