I call Ralph into the shade of the kitchen and close the doors, telling him to be good. Then, in the afternoon sunshine, the plates in my hands, I walk towards the riverbank and the path into town. It’s so important that I do this: I need to feel I’m living here, not just existing.

As I walk towards the clearing with the beautiful settee I remember Carine telling me it was a place for the homeless and suddenly understand how lucky I am. I have a roof over my head. The rug can be pulled out from under any of us at any time. I think of Lou and Rhi, having to rebuild their lives when they were left on their own. As for me, well, I’ve chosen to be here. But I couldn’t have stayed with Ollie, not when I was so unhappy.

I hear a commotion at the clearing before I get to it.

Two men and a young woman are standing in the river, trousers rolled up to their knees. The dogs, off the lead, are barking, and just for a moment I feel a spike of panic.

A small group on the side of the river is calling to someone and I’m trying to make out what they’re saying. Is someone in trouble? Instead of turning back, which might have been advisable, I quicken my pace. I have first-aid training from working at the store: maybe I can help. As I near the group they’re lifting something out of the water. My heart lurches. It’s the blue settee with the gold legs. It’s dripping wet and heavy by the look of it. Between them, they move it out of the river and across the path, where it sits, sodden. Then they help each other on to dry land. There is laughter and the dogs settle as their owners return to them.

I skirt around the settee and the group standing around it. ‘Pardon, Madame,’ says a long-haired older man with a beard. And the others join in, making room for me to pass. I thank them and glance at the two plates of biscuits I’m carrying. Far too many for one person. I turn to the older man and offer him the plate. He looks at me, then at the tuiles with the sprig of lavender.

‘Merci,’ he says, and takes one.

‘Non,’ I say. ‘Pour tout le monde.’

He’s surprised, and thanks me again. Then he hands the plate around to the small community.

‘Merci,’ he says again, the group echoing him.

I find Fabien on his knees in the brocante, cleaning an old bed frame.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. Even the furniture in this place gets a second chance at life.

‘It will be,’ he says, standing up, and suddenly I’m feeling ridiculous, coming here with a plate of biscuits.