But it is the thought of Maisie that stops her from turning back: Becky is wearing one of her tops, a ruffled grass-green favourite of hers. Its smell, of incense and old perfume and Maisie’s shampoo, makes her feel like her daughter is close, laughing at her doubts and willing her on as she walks through the hotel’s marbled lobby and into an outside bar area: umbrellas down with the sun, now setting on a burnt-orange tinfoil sea all punctured with the rudders and sails of yachts.

The area is crowded: coffee meetings that have turned into pre-dinner Aperol spritz meetings and chats about family, people, politics – non-film subjects and yet still business. It all deepens relationships, generates trust, creates the foundations for a good deal in the future. Becky knows that business is done on every corner and in every bar in Cannes. She knows there are makeshift offices in apartment blocks rented for the week, that the benches, sofas and bars all become workplaces and playgrounds. No one observes times of day, the standard boundaries for phone calls. She knows because she’s been on the receiving end of those calls in previous years: at the office and in the early hours as she sleeps at home. Now she’s here, for real, amidst the people who have a good time. The people who have something to sell.

She can see Matthew and another man sitting at the best table – unimpeded view of the sea – arms outstretched across lines of throw pillows, both swiping at their phones as they talk to each other. Could she do that? Break off a conversation to fire off an email? Is it expected of her here?

‘Becky!’ says Matthew, standing up and then drawing her in for a hug. She cannot remember a time when he has greeted her this way in London. The rules are different here; she must learn them, and fast. ‘This is Rebecca Shawcross,’ he says to the man he is with. ‘Becky works with me,’ he adds, while making space for Becky to sit at the end of their padded bench. ‘And how are you enjoying sunny Cannes so far?’

‘It’s so beautiful,’ she smiles. She scrabbles for something to say to illustrate her point and finds herself mentally scrolling through Scott’s old Instagram feed. ‘So many art galleries here,’ she says, regretting it immediately. She’s not on her holidays. The last thing she wants is for these people to think she’ll be visiting galleries or even considering casual tourism in precious working hours.

‘She’s about to make her first feature, actually,’ Matthew says, and the other man nods. ‘We’re meeting Emilia Cosvelinos for it tomorrow.’