I step out of the shop, take off my poncho, put it into my bag, then get out my pastry and take a bite. I shut my eyes and enjoy the moment, which takes me back to a time when food was fun, when I wasn’t worried about what I ate, before food became a battle, not a pleasure. Right now, this pastry is heaven. I open my eyes, and across the street an old man with a dark lined face, wearing a flat cap and jacket, grins at me and beckons me over to his stall. He’s selling lavender bags, bundles of dried lavender and essential oil. He picks up a small bundle and hands it to me. ‘Because you have a beautiful smile,’ he says, and grins, showing the gap where his front tooth once was.

‘Merci,’ I say. ‘Vous êtes très gentil,’ I try in my simple French. ‘Au revoir.’

‘Bonne journée, Madame,’ he calls.

Suddenly I feel really happy. I haven’t felt like this before. Why not? But I know the answer. Because Ollie and I had made each other unhappy.

I pass the estate agent’s window and see the smart young woman behind the neatly ordered desk talking to a middle-aged couple. I think of the big key in my bag. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm to hang on to it for a bit longer, just while I work out what I’m going to do. Give it until the weekend. Then I’ll start looking for a job and somewhere to live back home. I can’t just stay here, like I’m on holiday. I’ll have to go back to the UK soon and look for somewhere to rent while the house sells. I suppose we’ll split whatever profit there is, if any. The reality of the situation is sinking in: dividing our small ‘assets’. I’m no longer half of a couple. I’m no longer someone’s wife. It feels odd. It’ll feel strange telling people I’m separated. I sigh. We had lots of friends, but over the years I’ve felt lonely. The more people tried to sympathize when we discovered we couldn’t have children, the more I kept them at arm’s length. But now it feels good to smile, and here, in this town, although I’m on my own, I don’t feel lonely at all.