Michelle interrupted her philosophical musings as her sister Jenny came to sit opposite her.

"Sorry, there's quite a queue at the till," said Jenny as she distributed CFC-free boxes and cardboard chip-holders, handing one of each to Michelle. "It's great you got a place by the window."

"Well, it's always nice to eat with a view," said Michelle.

Not much of a view, really. The street outside was awash with rain and detritus, its old stone buildings grizzled and blackened with years of pollution. The narrow pavements were packed with people in dreary waterproof jackets and carrying the occasional umbrella. Every now and then, a double-decker Routemaster would pause at the traffic lights outside the McDonald's, its old diesel engine shaking the bus with a noisy rattle while it waited for the red and orange signal.

"It's been a while since I ate at McDonald's," said Jenny, grasping her veggie burger as if its insides were about to fall out. "I think the last time was when Paul and I took his nephews out last summer. Or did we go to KFC's? I forget. Anyway, I stay away from fast food because it's so unhealthy, and they usually don't have much for vegetarians."

"Oh, I forgot you were a vegetarian." Michelle heartily bit into her Quaterpounder. "You never used to be."

"I've become more health-conscious, that's all. Besides, I decided to watch my weight."

Michelle wasn't surprised at the answer. It made sense for Jenny to give up meat because she thought she would reap some benefit, rather than for any ideological reasons; she wasn't the type to have qualms about eating little lambs. It occurred to Michelle that there seemed to be a lot more vegetarians in England than there were in France. Maybe it was just that English people didn't like food as much.

"I was sorry to hear about you and Philippe," said Jenny suddenly.

Now we come to the heart of the matter, thought Michelle. She watched Jenny pluck a "French fry" from the little cardboard container in front of her, her carefully manicured fingers delicately holding the thin greasy chip. Michelle was surprised Jenny hadn't mentioned Philippe before. She had never really approved of him, and was no doubt delighted when he and Michelle split up.

"Yeah. Well, these things happen," said Michelle noncommittally.

"It must have been hard, though, being alone all of a sudden. Why didn't you come home? You could have stayed with me and Paul."

Michelle shook her head. "Jenny. This isn't my home anymore. The last time I lived in Britain, Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister. It's been over ten years."

"But when you and Philippe split up, I though you might come back here."

"I wasn't living in France because of Philippe. That's where my friends are, and my job. My whole life is in Paris... I can't come back. Britain has become a foreign country."

And you've all become strangers, she thought, though she said nothing further aloud. Instead, she finished off her Quarterpounder.

Jenny spoke again. "Is it true, what they said in Pulp Fiction, that they have a different name for the Quarterpounder in France?"

"Yes, it's a Royal Cheese over there." Michelle wiped her hands on a napkin and smiled. "You'd think that if they were going to rename something, they would at least give it a French name. It's funny, because they don't even serve the same things over there. You can get the same hamburgers they have here, but they also make a 'McBacon', which is delicious. It's a normal hamburger, but with bacon in it. I noticed they don't make it in Britain."

Jenny's blue eyes were wide with surprise. "I didn't know they had different hamburgers in different countries. I always assumed McDonald's made the same stuff everywhere."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" said Michelle in a matter-of-fact voice, as if the local peculiarities of McDonald's restaurants were a speciality of hers. "Actually, you'd like McDonald's in France. They serve a lot of salads."

"Salads? At McDonald's?"

"Yes. About three or four different types."

"Oh."

Jenny was obviously impressed. She had picked up another French fry, but she now put it back and wiped her hands.

"Salads at McDonald's. I'll have to tell Paul about that," she said. "He'll be very surprised."

"Maybe you two can come over and I'll show you around," said Michelle, not without amusement. "The McDonald's on the Champs-Elysées apparently has the cleanest toilets on the avenue. They did a survey of all the toilets in all the restaurants there, and the McDonald's one came out on top."

"Oh, in that case, maybe we should come over and have a look," said Jenny with a laugh.

"Yes, and when you've finished visiting the McDonald's, I can show you around Paris. It's not a bad little city."

"I know." Jenny lowered her eyes. "Paul and I sometimes thought about coming, but it just never seemed convenient."

Michelle nodded as if to accept the excuse. She knew that they had merely been avoiding Philippe. Even though Michelle had split up with Philippe now, she still couldn't understand Jenny and Paul's antipathy for him. True, Paul was one of those basic British types who thought the French were the Anti-Christ, and that kind of attitude didn't exactly bring out the best in Philippe. Egged on by Paul, Philippe had a tendency to overdo the arrogant Frenchman act. Maybe it was simply male pride which made each of them incapable of acknowledging the good aspects of the other man's country.

As a result, the only time Michelle got to see Jenny was when she came over to London on business, as she had done this time. They would meet at Victoria station or some other convenient location, and then head to Oxford Street for an afternoon of shopping. Aside from the occasional phone call, it was the only contact the two sisters had.

Jenny was fiddling with her empty Coke container, twirling the straw in and out of the plastic cap. Her expression was grave and it made her look older. Michelle was suddenly aware of the thick foundation under Jenny's eyes, the dark roots at the base of her dyed yellow hair, the way her forehead creased with worry, nowadays deepening lines which someday would be permanent. Michelle wondered if her sister was seeing the same changes in her; had Jenny noticed the grey in Michelle's dark hair and the lines around her mouth?

They had shared their childhood and their early adult years, but time and distance had drawn them apart. Michelle had built a new life in Paris, the city of her teenage dreams, while Jenny remained in the London suburbs, never moving more than a dozen kilometres away from their birthplace. It was difficult to bridge the gap that had grown between them. Britain was now as foreign to Michelle as France was to Jenny. And yet, looking at her younger sister, Michelle had a sudden memory of them both as children, eagerly waiting for their Dad to cut a Big Mac in half so they could share it.

"We really should see each other more often," she said. "Paris is only three hours away by the Eurostar, you know. I could show you my flat, all the places I go to, the cafés I sit in... the life I live there."

"I know," said Jenny, raising her eyes. She smiled, and dimples appeared under the makeup. The same dimples she had had as a child. "I promise I'll try and come over to see you. Who knows, maybe I'll even try out that McBacon you were talking about."