He kisses me on both cheeks, then a third kiss on the first cheek. My stomach flutters, as if the butterflies Ralph was chasing have flown right through me. ‘How are you?’ he asks, wiping his hands.

‘Très bien,’ I say, and he smiles. ‘Et vous?’

‘Tu. We are friends, non?’

‘Oui,’ I say, suddenly infuriatingly shy. He looks at the plate and I realize I’m going to have to explain myself. ‘Um, I made you these.’ I hold out the plate, anxious now. I’ve made biscuits for a Frenchman: he may think they’re awful. ‘I wanted to thank you for bringing the furniture and the book,’ I say quickly. I don’t want him to think I make a habit of turning up with baked goods. But I do want to prove to him I’m here to stay, not another blow-in, in today and out tomorrow.

He pushes back the hair from his face. ‘It was my pleasure. But so are these.’ He takes the plate. ‘I will make some coffee,’ he says.

I love it here. There are so many things I’d love to buy that would look beautiful in the house.

Outside, in the courtyard, he puts down the biscuits on a tarnished old wrought-iron table, but no coffee. ‘I thought maybe an aperitif instead,’ he says, and produces a bottle of rosé wine, the sun shining through it as it lowers in the sky. ‘To my new friend from Britain!’ he says, and I hope he means it.

‘Lovely,’ I say, a little confused. On the one hand he’s being friendly, but on the other he’s highlighting the differences between us.

‘Fabien, how does it feel, having people move into the town, buying up the old houses? Do the local people resent it?’

He shrugs, holding two glasses. ‘It depends. Some people come here to be part of our community. Others, well, they don’t want that. Here we welcome everybody who wants to live as part of our town and community.’ He smiles and I smile back, because that’s exactly what I want to do.

He puts down two elegant glasses and invites me to sit on a chair that matches the table. ‘Op,’ he says, raising a finger. He goes back inside for a third glass and puts it on the table. Then he takes a corkscrew from the back pocket of his jeans and pulls the cork, which releases with a pleasurable pop. As he pours the cold pink liquid into the glasses, the glugs seem such a joyous sound. He hands me a glass, then holds out the plate of biscuits to me. I take one, as does he. He raises his glass to me, then takes a bite of the biscuit and a sip of wine. I hold my breath. I liked my lavender tuiles, but that was the first time I’d ever eaten them.