Medea is Becky’s conduit, her dark avatar, her brutish foot soldier. Her outrage, her violated body, her sorrow, her magnet for the smashed and long-dispersed pieces of her self.

She must not let Medea down.

She is doing a good job for her, so far. She has leapt through another flaming hoop, having touched-down, checked-in and changed into an outfit suitable for her first night in Cannes.

And now, she stands on a stretch of grass in the forecourt of her hotel (five star, Matthew says literally everyone stays there) at the ready, surrounded by palm trees and steak-red beach umbrellas, swimming pool still as a mineral-blue pane of glass, looking out at the Croisette: the stage for the world’s most famous film festival.

Scott had been here two summers ago, holidaying on a roof-top apartment over-looking the sea. Sweltering, he’d called it. Posted a picture of a charred black and grey steak he’d barbecued on the terrace: I present you minute steak, cooked for ten minutes! Maths fail! Becky had spent ages tying up the visual clues and identifying the exact location of his apartment: distance to the beach, position of the palm trees, amenities – microwave, hairdryer, Wi-Fi, barbecue (charcoal included) – and the final giveaway outside the entrance to his apartments, the yellow and blue neon sign, Croisette corner! So Hollywood-Boulevard! I heart this sign for my kitchen wall! It was easy after that. Google maps for a more specific location. Scrolling the interiors of nearby apartments on a rental website. Bingo she’d said as she matched it all up with the images he’d posted; green snooker ball rug in the living room, shining subway tiles in the kitchen. A call to the rental office to check the exact address. Just checking to see how central the location? Fabulous apartment!

She’d left it there. For a few days it had been enough but then, as the sludgy feelings sunk back in, she’d returned to the computer and searched Skyscanner for flights, thinking: What if I got on that 6am EasyJet flight? Arrived on the Croisette, waited for someone to let me into the main apartment (lost my key card!), lift to the twelfth floor, bing bong – hello there, he says, answering the door with an espresso cup in one hand – barely finished his sentence before I’m in and driving him through with his own fucking serrated steak knife. Don’t wait around. Back on 3pm flight. Home for an omelette and an early night.

She feels her heart-rate increase, her skin heat, her eyes prickle. She tells herself she must keep her eyes on the present. She is here for herself and her own dreams now. Not him. What did Adam say? Enjoy yourself! Well OK then.