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heavens, no! We all went our own ways, and it was some years before Marc and I met up again. I was over thirty when we got married.”
    “And Guy? Did he end up marrying one of the nurses, too?”
    But Madame Fraysse just shook her head. “No. Guy never married. I don’t know why. Just never met the right woman, I suppose.”
    Enzo scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Would you say that Guy dominated his younger brother?”
    Madame Fraysse thought about it for a moment. “In many ways I guess he did. In the old days, certainly. He was older, more outgoing, never short of confidence. I suppose Marc must have aspired to be like him. But in the end, it was Marc who had the talent and the drive to make the most of it. Guy would probably still have been working in some grey accountant’s office, wasting his life counting other people’s money.”
    For some moments, Enzo was lost in thought. Memories he hadn’t entertained for years flickered on the periphery of his consciousness, like an old black and white movie seen out of the corner of the eye.
    “Monsieur Macleod?”
    He looked up, surprised.
    “Are you still with us?” Her smile was a little forced.
    “I’m sorry. Just running some thoughts through my head.” He made himself focus again. “What did Marc do when he wasn’t in the kitchen?”
    Madame Fraysse laughed again. But there was no amusement in it this time. “When was he
not
in the kitchen?” She perched herself on the edge of the armchair opposite again. “When Marc got his third star, Guy got the money to build him his dream kitchen. You’ll see it shortly. Extended out from the original house, but mostly hidden from the view of the clients. He had an office built on to it, with picture windows looking into the kitchen so that he could always see what was going on. He spent a lot of time there, planning menus, taking phone calls. He was the darling of the Paris media, you know. They couldn’t get enough of him. And he was always making early morning dashes up to Paris to record some radio or TV show, then driving like a maniac back down the
autoroute
.
    “And then, of course, he ran. Every day. He was fanatical about his fitness. So many chefs die young, Monsieur Macleod. All that butter and cholesterol in French
cuisine
. That was one of the reasons he worked so hard to develop the low-fat
style Fraysse,
as he liked to call it. Food that used few of the fatty ingredients of traditional French cooking, but which was still served with wonderful sauces that fizzed with flavour and life. Only the best, purest ingredients were good enough for Marc. He really elevated the preparation and cooking of food to a pure art form.”
    There was no disguising her undying admiration for her late husband, almost as if she were defending him from attack. And there
had
been those critics, Enzo knew, who had not admired the
style Fraysse
, and who had taken no small delight in saying so.
    “He also had a small office up here in the apartment, just off our bedroom. You can see it if you like.”
    Enzo stood up. “I’d like that very much.”
    He followed her through an open doorway to the bedroom. More austerity. An uncomfortably high-looking bed with antique head and footboards, a couple of pink Chinese rugs the only compromise to comfort on the otherwise hard, polished surfaces of the floor. A dresser with a large, circular mirror sat in the window space, and an enormous dark-wood
armoir
stood against the far wall.
    “All his clothes still hang in the wardrobe,” she said. “I never did have the heart to throw them out.” She stopped to open one door of the
armoir
, revealing a row of pants and jackets hanging neatly on the rail. Polished shoes lined up beneath them, and shelves up one side contained scarves and hats, gloves and sweaters. She reached in to touch a Paisley-patterned silk scarf lined with cashmere, stroking it fondly. Then she grasped it and raised it to her face, breathing deeply. Her smile