‘Henri?’ The bistro is still closed when I get there. I knock on the glass of the door, with its dark-wood surround, and try to look in through the window, which is half obscured with French lace. ‘Henri?’ I shout up at the windows above the bistro, the shutters still closed. ‘Henri?’ I call again, sliding the box of biscuits on to an outside table that, unusually, wasn’t put away when he closed last night.

The shutters open. ‘Oui, j’arrive!’ he calls.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

‘Sorry, I slept over,’ he says, rubbing his hair and his unshaven face.

‘Overslept!’ I manage to smile.

‘Yes, yes!’

‘I brought the biscuits. I hope they’re okay. Is there any news?’

‘The customers love the biscuits, with café and ice cream. Do you think you could try lavender ice cream?’ he asks.

‘Of course,’ I say, not thinking about ice cream at all. Within no time he’s dressed and opening the front door.

‘I’ve seen Stephanie,’ he says.

‘Oh, thank God!’ My body feels as if all the air has been let out of it and wants to collapse in a heap on the floor. ‘Where is she? Is she coming home?’

He holds up a hand. ‘Give her time. She’s angry and hurt, but she’s safe,’ he says. ‘She’ll be missing the comfort of her own bed and this little one very soon.’ He kisses Tomas’s hand.

‘Thank you, Henri,’ I say. ‘Please tell her I’m sorry. And tell her how much Tomas is missing his maman. He needs her. Please tell her to come home.’

He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Go home. Wait for her,’ he says, and coughs. ‘Summer cold!’ he mutters, then turns into the restaurant and opens the blinds, ready for business.

I walk back up the cobbled street and find myself heading in the direction of the brocante, wondering whether to pop in on Fabien, share the news that Stephanie is alive, but not home yet. I look at the open gates – but what can I say? She’s still gone. And whatever happened between me and him had a part in making her leave. I have to stay away and, with all my strength, I turn, catching a glimpse of him as I do, and walk towards the river, feeling the divide between us growing wider.

The sun is hot now. I’m desperate to get back to the cool of the house. I walk along the shade of the riverbank, past the clearing, but there’s only one person there, sitting under the tree. I recognize him. He’s here more often than not. He has the long beard and long hair. He nods as I pass, watching me go. Tomas is chasing butterflies.

Back at Le Petit Mas, Rhi and Lou are sitting outside the kitchen, with glasses of rosé in their hands, which are covered with white paint.