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to notice.
    ‘So, now that you have found your voice again, you can tell me of your adventure,’ she said calmly. ‘You were in Pigalle?’
    ‘Yes. It was our first night out so we went to see the city,’ he answered between sips. ‘Don’t remember much about it, though, except for the lights. Have you ever been?’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘Have you ever been to Pigalle?’
    Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. The expression betrayed her stern manner. She was no older than eighteen, he realized.
    ‘I should think not!’ she laughed, and he felt himself smiling along with her. ‘You should be careful, boys such as you can lose their wits, smoking opium there.’
    ‘I …’ He paused. The deliverymen were watching the conversation with interest. ‘I didn’t know what it was … Mademoiselle.’
    The word was clumsy in his mouth. He watched the smile drop from her face as she drew back into herself once again.
    ‘These men are going across the city.’ Her voice was perfectly flat. ‘They can take you as far as the Place de la République. I am sure you can find your way across the river from there.’
    Briskly, she shook her skirts, held out a hand towards him. He staggered to his feet, clasping her gloved fingers in thanks. Her face flushed red.
    ‘Might I have the bowl back?’ she asked awkwardly.
    He snatched his arm away, cursing himself.
    ‘I’m Gui,’ he blurted, almost dropping the china as he placed it in her hands. He could hear the deliverymen trying to cover their laughter. ‘Guillaume du Frère.’
    ‘Indeed. I am Mademoiselle Clermont.’
    ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle.’ He hesitated, ashamed of his behaviour. ‘I’m afraid I can’t pay for the chocolate. My money was stolen. But if I can ever be of any assistance …’
    Mademoiselle Clermont opened her mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. Gui made his escape towards the cart. Her voice followed him as he climbed up.
    ‘We are expecting a large delivery next Saturday,’ she called quickly. ‘I believe we could use more staff. If you wish to assist, and do not mind lifting and carrying, you may come along. Luc there will tell you the details.’
    Before he could respond she hurried away through the door. A key scraped in the lock. He caught a glimpse of writing, engraved onto a brass plaque before the cart lurched away: Deliveries: Pâtisserie Clermont.

Chapter Seven
    March 1988
    My grandfather poured the hot chocolate from a pan into a round china bowl.
    He had found me crying, sitting where my mum had left me with a pile of toys, before racing off for yet another meeting with the solicitors. I knew she’d come back silent and angry, knew that my dad wouldn’t be coming to collect me like he had promised.
    Grandpa Jim had scooted me through to the kitchen, lifted me onto the worktop while he bustled and hummed, pouring milk and chopping something into a pan. He had told me to blow my nose on his handkerchief, the one with his initials sewn in the corner.
    A strange, rich scent rose from the hob. I sniffed hard, through the hiccups, and asked him what it was.
    ‘ Chocolat chaud .’ He had smiled. ‘Proper hot chocolate, the way they make it in Paris …’
    The train jolts, shaking me out of a doze. Blinking, I refocus on my handwriting, the words ‘Mademoiselles at Pâtisserie Clermont’ scrawled across a page in my notebook.
    I scrub at my eyes, feeling strange. The memory of being in my grandfather’s kitchen was so vivid, but those words … the way they make it in Paris. Had he truly said that, or was my mind playing tricks on me?
    Before I fell asleep I had been thinking about the last time I saw Grandpa Jim alive. He had become frail by then, no longer the energetic, wiry old man I’d known as a child. I’d been staying with him for a few days. He’d said it was because he needed help with a particular piece of work, but in hindsight, he must have felt that something was wrong.
    I had spent the day in the cool,