“Enough,” I say loudly, startling a young couple who are coming down the hill towards me with lots of shiny carrier bags. I smile at them, but given the fact that they jump hastily into their car, I may look a frightening sight. I check my reflection in the car window and curse. My hair is standing up from where I’ve swept my fingers through it over the last several hours. I hastily smooth it down and try to do the same with my shirt, but it’s a lost cause.

Giving up, I reach in and clip on Endof’s lead. After locking the car, I walk slowly up the hill. It’s a lovely place where Laurie has chosen to make his home. The narrow cobbled streets are full of little shops, art galleries, and restaurants from which heavenly smells are starting to emerge. I sniff and my stomach rumbles, but I ignore it in favour of looking at the piece of paper in my hand with Laurie’s address on it.

I stop a man passing by, glad that I speak fluent French as I ask for directions. Once given them, Endof and I walk down the streets, passing tourists wandering and taking photos and chattering happily. Laurie’s house turns out to be down a little cobbled side street. It’s so narrow that you can reach across it in places, and the air is filled with the scent of flowers. Laurie’s cottage is at the end. I stand for a second, taking in the details. It’s made of honey-coloured stone with a set of stone steps leading up to a sage-green door. Huge terracotta pots filled with colourful geraniums line the steps. It’s charming and very small.

“We’ll have to extend,” I say to Endof and then blanch. “Ack, forget I said that. How ridiculous is your master?”

I take a deep breath and wipe my hands on my shorts, feeling an explosion of nerves in my belly. I hesitate for another few seconds, and then Endof nudges me with his head. He seems like he’s smiling, his mouth stretched in a wide doggy grin.

“As you say,” I say solemnly. I walk up the stone steps and ring the bell on the door. It gives a merry peal, and a few seconds later, it swings open. My heart is in my mouth, but I relax as an older woman appears. She’s wearing dark clothes and carrying a cardigan.

“Ah, the taxi,” she says. I hesitate, but luckily she doesn’t require an answer. “He is in the back,” she says in French. “He has his case. Please help him with that.”

Fear swamps me. “His eyes are bad, yes?” I reply.

She hesitates but eventually nods. “Yes. Carry his case for him. His flight is at ten.”

“Flight? Where is he going?”