Sunday

It's Maxime who insists. My mother wouldn't have dared.

He sends me a message on Thursday, then another on Friday, then turns up at the rue du Moulin on Saturday morning with croissants and the grin of a boy who's been caught doing something he shouldn't. He's wearing a polo shirt with the Delcourt Construct logo and safety boots caked in mud. He smells of wet cement and aftershave.

“Sunday lunch. At the house. Mum's doing a roast. She won't ask you herself because she's scared you'll say no, so I'm asking. You can say no. But if you say no, I'll be back tomorrow with croissants, and the day after, and I'll end up getting fat, and it'll be your fault.”