She flopped down on to a rock and sat staring out at the sea. She had about ten minutes before she’d have to trudge up the hill and start the hellish day of accounting. At the bottom of her heart, even though she couldn’t extinguish a flicker of hope, she knew that in all likelihood the day’s work would end with one decision: La Mosaïque was finished; La Mosaïque had to go.

With a piercing cry the seagull was suddenly back, circling round a stretch of water which appeared to have a slightly different surface from the surrounding sea. The bird dived again and this time came up with a fish in its beak. Within minutes, as though from nowhere, scores of seagulls appeared, all circling and diving into the same patch of water, which obviously contained a shoal of fish.

Everything needed to eat. Not only everything but everyone. La Mosaïque and her dreams of being part of a restaurant might go up in smoke, but there had to be other ways she could use cooking to continue her life here.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook and pencil. And as she jotted down the first few ideas, the sun came out and shone so strongly she needed to take off her mac.

Sally drove the van along the coast road to Cagnes-sur-Mer. She was visiting a little fish stall from which she frequently bought red mullet and sea bream for the restaurant. She hoped to buy something good – a treat which she could cook up for everyone at tonight’s dinner of fate.

As she climbed out of the driver’s seat, the sun emerged from behind a black cloud.

It felt so lovely, especially after the dismal weather this morning, that she couldn’t resist running out on to the beach and darting about, abandoned, springing up like Isadora, dipping in and out of the water, even though she was wearing shoes.

When she had exhausted herself with her little display, she flung herself down on the sand and closed her eyes.

That was exhilarating!

She felt like one of those blonde-haired girls who used to twirl around in misty 1970s adverts for Polaroid or Nimble and other long-forgotten products. As Sally recalled, those girls usually seemed to steal an apple somewhere along the line, and so pretty were they that nobody ever arrested them for theft.

What a turn-up! Only this time yesterday she had thought that today she would be rich. This morning it was all change. Her dreams of round-the-world cruises and new wardrobes of lovely clothes right out of the window. Not only that but she was much worse off than she had been a few years back before plunging much of her savings into La Mosaïque.

She closed her eyes, basking in the warm March sunshine, and felt guilty because, despite everything, she still felt happy.

It was inexplicable. Immediately after the bad news came, she felt terrible. But once she was out of Theresa’s flat and walking up the lane to her house a kind of thrilling pall fell upon her. She wondered whether this wasn’t a leftover from her years in the acting business. That sense of not-knowing what will come next, the wide dark hole which opens up as every job ends, understanding that you might never work again, but, at the same time, now you were again available to all offers and it was possible that your next job might take you to Hollywood, riches and world fame. Sally realised that, like most actors, she was addicted to those adrenalin surges, and living a life which was like walking a tightrope. She could never have been happy sitting around, smug, behind a desk, with a pension lined up, guaranteed promotions in the pipeline and safe, reliable security all round.