But if I’m going to stay until the weekend, I’ll need a few supplies. Everything went into that truck, except my bag with toiletries and essential clothes. At that moment I spot a pair of big double doors down a side street, inside a courtyard, behind wrought-iron open gates. I’ve never noticed it before. A large brocante, by the look of it, with all sorts of furniture, bedding and even a clothes rail. I need some bedding, maybe something to sleep on, a cup and a pan. Looks like I could get everything I need right here. Perhaps even sell it back to the owner when I leave. I walk towards it, seeing piles of fabric, kitchen implements and ornaments.

I run my hand over a bundle of bedding. A floral eiderdown, sheets and blankets, tied up with ribbon, for just five euros. Far cheaper than paying to stay somewhere. There’s a chair that’s been half upholstered, the fabric cut and in place: it just needs tacking on. I could live without a chair, but at that price, it seems a shame to leave it behind. There are boxes of plates, beautiful cups and saucers and cutlery, all cheaper than I could buy in the supermarket. There are wooden bed heads and stacks of thick mattresses. Then I see a lovely leather-bound book. A work of art in itself. A cookery book of the area, handwritten, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s about lavender. I smell the lavender in my hand, as I turn the pages. It could have been written for Le Petit Mas de la Lavande. I try to imagine my home in its heyday as a lavender farm, long gone.

‘Bonjour.’ A polite voice cuts into my thoughts.

An attractive young man is smiling at me. Dark curly hair, dark stubble on his chin. He has big green eyes and is wearing an old leather jacket, despite the sun, and a soft scarf around his neck. For a moment I just stare at him and feel quite hot. I fan myself with the empty pastry bag, scattering crumbs on to the book. ‘Oh, sorry – je m’excuse,’ I say, blushing.

‘No problem.’ He flicks away the crumbs. ‘It’s done.’

‘Merci,’ I say, and push the scrunched-up bag into my shoulder bag, on top of the key.

‘Are you looking for something?’ he says, in stilted English.

‘Um, well, yes,’ I say, wondering where to start and how to explain my situation. ‘I need … um … everything really! The basics. Cheaply.’

He smiles quizzically, not understanding. ‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ he says. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’

My mouth is suddenly dry. ‘Coffee would be wonderful, merci.’

‘Je m’appelle Fabien,’ he says, and holds out a hand to shake mine.

‘Della,’ I reply. ‘Everyone calls me Del.’

‘Enchanté,’ he says, and something shifts inside me, making me feel young again.