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pebbles.
    â€“ I’m going into town for a haircut and a few things. Knock off early. We’ve done a lot this week and it’s too hot.
    He pointed down the rows of vines where the weeds they’d pulled were withering in the sun. Raymond was taking a bunch of grapes off a laden vine, the curved knife glittering. He tossed them in the basket beside him, his boot crushing one like a cockroach as it rolled towards him.
    â€“ We’re wasting a lot of fruit.
    â€“ No we’re not. It’ll make a better wine. Trust me.
    â€“ It’s not me who has to trust you, it’s Hubert.
    â€“ Don’t worry, we’ve got back - up, we’ve got Arnault.
    Raymond laughed. He took the stub from his mouth to gob a ball of phlegm after the grapes.
    â€“ That ponce? Do you think Gaspard’ll beat up on that monied bastard if things go wrong?
    He chuckled coldly, far - off water in a well.
    â€“ That’s not how it works. Believe me. Watch your back, son, that’s all.
    The old man patted him on the shoulder, passing in the smell of garlic and sour sweat, grunting as he lugged the half - full basket.
    André gave a wave to Ghislaine as he turned to go. Her tee shirt had fallen away from her shoulder as she stooped at the vines. Her skin gleamed where she’d put on sun cream. She wore a baseball cap to shade her eyes and worked like a country girl now. You’d think she’d been born to the land and not to … but André realised that he had no idea what she’d been born to. Who she was or where she came from. He knew less about her than he knew about Gaspard. Apart from her touch. He knew that. She’d touched him, lit another mystery. Gaspard had said that hadn’t he? About women being mysterious. Like wine. He fetched his gear and fired up the bike. The jacket smelled faintly of perfume.
    André got back at five - thirty with short hair, a couple of new tee shirts and some groceries. There had been grey strands in with the brown that fell onto the barber’s sheet. He’d wandered the town square wondering about flowers, but that had seemed ostentatious, risky. When he got to the kitchen it was deserted, but there was a bunch of blue campanula in a simple glass vase on the table. The Peugeot was parked outside, but the house seemed deserted. He’d bought fillet steak and shallots, broad beans and baby carrots, cous cous and two good bottles of Bergerac, a white and a red. Then some cheese: a blue Fourme d’Ambert, some Epoisses and some fresh Chevre. With wine, cheese was half the story. For starters he’d toss a green salad with olive oil and anchovies. He made the salad first, pouring in the oil from the anchovies as a dressing, prepping the vegetables and dicing carrots to mix with the cous cous . He popped out the broad beans into a pan and got the skillet ready. Then he put the white wine in the fridge and went for a shower, washing away the dust and pomade, putting on a clean shirt and jeans.
    When André got to the kitchen, he expected Ghislaine to be dressed for dinner, but she was wearing combat trousers and a cotton sweatshirt and carrying the helmet.
    â€“ Can we ride first?
    It wasn’t really a question. Still, he hesitated.
    â€“ Please? I need to cool down.
    â€“ OK.
    He put the salad and steak back in the fridge. There was already a big moon rising over the village when he fired up the bike and she climbed behind, clunking helmets. A flock of jackdaws puffed out from the church steeple like smoke from a censer. Swallows darted over the vines. A dark ribbon of cloud rose at the horizon. André remembered that he’d missed the weather forecast that evening. They rode towards the cloud, feeling the air cool, following the ridge of the valley as it rose from the river. Ghislaine’s hands were light around him, tensing as they cornered, relaxing as they pulled clear.
    This time he stopped near a forest trail. The