‘Deal!’ repeats Tomas, and we all laugh, Tomas the loudest. I can see happiness returning slowly to Stephanie. This place has a knack of putting people back together. Thank you, Petit Mas, I think, as we flip through the pages of the book.

Tomas starts to drag a chair over towards the work surface. Stephanie stops him.

‘No,’ she says, putting the chair back.

His face crumples and he starts to cry.

‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I say. I used to stand on a chair beside my mother in the kitchen. He looks at me hopefully, the tears stopping. But maybe it wouldn’t be safe to have him there.

‘Sorry, it’s not my place,’ I say. ‘I …’ I don’t know how to get out of the hole I’m digging for myself as Tomas’s cries start up again. He tugs at the chair, which Stephanie is holding.

‘Whatever you think best,’ I say.

She gives it a moment’s thought. ‘Okay – mais fais attention,’ she tells Tomas and helps him pull the chair to the counter. She and I stand at either side of him to stop him falling off. I pull the book towards us and turn the page. Tomas points to a picture and shouts, ‘Ça! Ça!’ I prop the book up, hoping we can make a dessert that will suit Henri and please Tomas, our chief taster.

‘Right.’ I take a deep breath. I look at the recipe. ‘Looks like we’re making chocolate and lavender cake. We’ll need flour, eggs and the big mixing bowl.’ Stephanie, keen to please, dives for the box of cookery stuff and so do I. We collide.

‘Désolée.’

‘Sorry,’ we say at the same time.

‘I tell you what,’ I say. ‘You read out the recipe and hold on to Tomas. I’ll get the ingredients.’ After that, things go a little more smoothly, although when it comes to the flour, Tomas ends up covered with it from head to toe as he tosses handfuls in the direction of the bowl, himself and the floor.

Eventually, we’re proudly pulling our cakes from the oven. ‘It’s such a big order,’ I say, as we dust icing sugar over the chocolate and lavender cakes, with lavender sprigs and flowers stripped from the stems, just as the recipe told us when Stephanie read it aloud. ‘I’m sure he won’t sell it all.’

‘Henri always makes plenty.’ Stephanie smiles. ‘Enough for everyone.’

‘How do you know him?’ I ask, as we put the cakes out of Ralph’s reach on the work surface.

There is a moment of silence. Then she says, ‘Henri was there when I needed him most. It’s what Henri does. He catches people before they fall.’

Lovely kind Henri. Isn’t that exactly what he’s done for me?