The next morning Stephanie is up early with Tomas, appearing from the woodland clearing. Tomas is as pleased to see Ralph as my dog is to see him when I let him out. Stephanie and I stand on the terrace, the early-morning sun reaching through the trees, as dog and boy run about on the dewy grass, its scent fresh and new.

‘Where do you want me to start?’ says Stephanie. ‘Tell me what I should do.’

‘Whoa! Let’s have some breakfast.’ Just as I wonder how long it will take me to walk into town for bread, there is a parp, parp at the end of the drive: the bakery van.

‘Tell her to wait! I’ll get my purse!’ I say to Stephanie. She, Tomas and Ralph run down the stony drive to the road.

When I join them, I’m slightly out of breath.

‘Bonjour,’ says the young woman from behind the counter in the Citroën van. ‘I heard there were new people here,’ she says, ‘so I thought I’d stop by. Bienvenue,’ she says.

‘Merci,’ I reply.

‘The last people who were here were very strange. The owner told me not to come because he didn’t eat bread.’ She laughs. ‘Who moves to France and doesn’t eat bread? Bread is our life blood, like wine!’

I’m smiling to myself, the pain of Ollie’s and my split easing a little. I wish he could have seen this place as I’m beginning to see it, from the inside out. Maybe that was the problem: we saw each other’s worlds so differently.

‘Well, we’d like you to stop by every morning,’ I say warmly, as warm as the smell of the freshly baked bread. I look at the array of baguettes, the baskets of croissants and pains au chocolat and my mouth waters.

We carry the table and chairs from the kitchen out to the terrace where Stephanie and I drink coffee and eat bread and croissants. Tomas has warm milk and a pain au chocolat, swinging his legs contentedly. Ralph never leaves his side. After breakfast, we move back into the kitchen and wash our hands. Tomas wants to help us work.

‘I have an order to make for Henri at the bistro,’ I tell her. ‘He wants desserts every day, bakes, like tuiles or shortbread, to go with his ice cream.’

Stephanie looks worried. ‘But you know I can’t cook. I didn’t have that kind of home life growing up.’

‘Don’t worry.’ I pick up the old recipe book, feeling a flicker of excitement just from holding it. I put it in front of Stephanie on the work surface. ‘You teach me how to read this book and speak French, and I’ll teach you to cook!’ A smile creeps across her face. ‘Deal?’

‘Deal,’ she agrees.