‘Farine’, I remember, and reach for a bag. Now, what sort of sugar? I look at the row in front of me. I don’t know any of the brands. Well, perhaps sugar is just sugar. I take the pack with flowers on it. I decide to buy the butter from the cheese stall I passed outside, with what looked like a homemade slab behind the glass.

With my bags full, I walk past the estate agent’s and see Carine. She waves, and I can’t wave back as my hands are full, but I smile. She comes to the glass door and opens it.

‘Del,’ she says, and kisses me three times.

‘I’m so sorry about yesterday,’ I say. ‘I hope I didn’t make things too difficult for you. Especially with you coming out on a Sunday to show them around.’

‘Not at all! It’s not a problem. In fact, it has made the job easier. The couple are now so desperate to buy they will take the next house I show them!’ She winks at me and I laugh. ‘They look heavy,’ she says, gesturing at my bags. ‘Do you have time for coffee?’

I should get back. I don’t want to leave Ralph on his own for too long, but on the other hand a friendly face and a coffee would be lovely.

Carine locks the shop, having put a sign in the window to say she’ll be back in half an hour, and leads me through a stone arch and along a cobbled street to a small café hidden among the shops selling ‘Provence’ products and a smart guesthouse with lavender lollipops at either side of the light grey front door.

The café has a small covered terrace outside, with a couple of tables and a wisteria, heavy with blooms, trained up along the wall. Inside it’s dark, with just a few tables beneath red-and-white-checked cloths, glasses and paper napkins, all ready for lunch. I’ve never been here before. Ollie preferred the bigger, smarter brasseries and bistros on the main road.

‘Bonjour, Henri,’ says Carine, poking her head into the little restaurant.

‘Ah, Carine!’ He’s an attractive man, silver hair tied back in a ponytail, which suits him. He’s in chef’s whites and wipes his hands on a tea towel hanging from the apron tied around his waist. He’s not fat but is clearly a man who enjoys his food. I’d call it comfortable. He kisses Carine warmly, then looks at me.

‘Mon amie, Del.’ Carine introduces me and tells him I’ve just moved to the area, into Le Petit Mas de la Lavande.

‘Ah, oui? It’s a beautiful house. I heard some English people had bought it,’ he says, in French.

‘That’s me,’ I say quickly. ‘But just me.’ I make my situation clear.