I still had my job at the big department store in town and loved everything about it. I was a department manager. I was good at it. I was respected. It was where I fitted in. I loved talking to customers, arranging the stock, cashing up the tills at the end of a busy day. I knew who I was. Now, I have no idea where I fit in. Not here in France any more, that’s for sure. Not that we ever did. We went to a few parties laid on by some of the expats living here when we first arrived, but I didn’t meet anyone I really connected with. I found no one who loved the food of the area, or wanted to learn French with me and could tell me about a local class, or anyone who was making a living that might have given me some ideas on how I could start a business of my own, a way of putting my experience at the department store to good use. We met the group of expats every Thursday in the local ‘pub’, the bar in the middle of the town, on the square, for a few drinks and English quiz night, organized by a friendly, smart woman called Cora and two of her friends. Ollie had loved those nights. I was never one for quizzes. A wide general knowledge has never been top of my list of attractive qualities in a person. But Ollie loved the glory of being on the winning team.

I wander back inside to the kitchen, hoping Ralph will follow if he thinks food’s on offer. The kitchen still smells of the ripe melon I had for breakfast, trying to eat up the last of the food from the fridge, and feeling I should have something, although my stomach was tight with tension. I look out of the French windows at the terrace, to the side of the house, where we’ve yet to enjoy one of those long, happy, friends-surrounded meals we kidded ourselves we would, and the field that slopes to the valley and the river. The other side looks out over the town and the purple lavender surrounding it.