I don’t think I can do this. I take a huge breath. And then Stephanie arrives, with the book, and takes charge.

‘Lou and JB, you sort out the restaurant. Lay the tables,’ she instructs. And they nod and leave the tiny kitchen, with Tomas, who is carrying the napkins. They take the tables outside, even though the mistral is revisiting the town, causing chaos, knocking over glasses as Lou puts them in place and snatching tablecloths. Tomas lets go of the paper napkins, which flutter skyward like red birds.

Stephanie hands me the book. I take it from her, hold it to my chest, and breathe in the scent of the pages I’ve come to know so well. I put it on the side and open it. This book has been my map, keeping me focused and on the right track. Each day I’ve turned a page and planned the next. It’s been my guide, my friend, my bible. Now, I look at the pages and they blur. I have no idea what to do. I put my hands over my face.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Stephanie, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘Trust yourself. You know what you’re doing.’

She thinks I can do this. She is staring at me, willing me not to let down the people she cares about. Well, I’ll just have to give it a go. I walk back to the fridge. It’s time to work without the book and I push it gently to one side.

I think about the recipes Mum used to cook for me and that I had hoped to cook for my family one day. The dishes Ollie never wanted me to make because they were too calorie-laden. I think about the lamb shanks I was going to cook this evening. Well, I can’t do lamb shanks for everyone, but I could do cawl, a traditional lamb and vegetable stew, which Mum would cook to make the meat go as far as possible. I check the fridge and send Stephanie out for the meat and baguettes while I start chopping vegetables. As I work, I find myself back in the kitchen with Mum and a kind of calm takes over. I’m cooking, without the recipe book, from instinct. I drop things, panic, get hot, but when we’re nearing lunchtime, I dip a spoon into the broth for Stephanie to try. She sips and smiles. ‘Nearly perfect!’

‘Nearly?’ I laugh.

I taste the cawl, wondering what could be missing. I test for seasoning. The meat is falling apart. The vegetables and potatoes soft but not overcooked.

Stephanie flips open the first page of the old recipes and picks up the sprig of dried lavender that has been there since the day Fabien gave me the book. ‘Lavande!’ she says.

‘Of course!’ I strip into the stew a few dried flowers from the bunch that Henri has hung from his ceiling.