‘I’ve told Ollie. He knows. He just has to accept it,’ I say sadly.

‘To new beginnings,’ they both say, and Henri smiles from the kitchen door. The smell of bouillabaisse, the rich tomatoey fish stew with thyme, fennel and garlic, reaches us and tells us lunch is on its way. Henri places a big basket of crusty bread on the table that I know we’ll be using to mop up the juices at the bottom of our bowls. I’m happy. And I can’t help but think Le Petit Mas has had a lot to do with it. Henri was right: it seems to have healing powers for those who stay there.

Carine passes us as we’re finishing our meal and I introduce Rhi and Lou to her.

‘Enchantée,’ she says, shaking their hands.

‘Will you stay and have a drink with us, Carine?’ I ask, pointing to a chair.

‘I’d love to, but I have an appointment. A date!’ She grins naughtily. ‘But I will see you all soon!’ She swishes her smart dark bob and carries on through the town in the direction of le mairie.

After lunch, we walk back unsteadily along the riverbank after our second bottle of rosé, and an extra glass each on Henri, then up the hill towards Le Petit Mas. Ralph bounds up to us, jumping at Lou and leaving his pawprints on her white trousers. But even she sees the funny side. At the side of the house the lavender plants, in the shade, are waiting to be dug into the ground. Tomas runs to us and Stephanie is behind him, wiping her hands on a tea towel, looking very much at home.

‘All okay?’ I ask Stephanie, hoping that a little time on her own has helped her.

She nods. ‘Fabien came. He put together the beds, left the paint in the hall and the other stuff in the kitchen. And the lavender.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘And I made a quiche, for le diner, with salade,’ she says. I think it might be her way of saying sorry. Whatever it is, it fills my heart.

‘Wonderful!’ I say. We made a quiche together one evening – to produce one on her own is a big step forward. I put my arm around her and she gives a huge smile.

‘And Fabien?’ I ask.

‘He had to get back,’ she says.

It’s for the best, I think. No complications, but my heart is still saying otherwise.

That evening we sit outside, listening to the birds and the chorus coming from the river at the bottom of my field.

‘What’s that noise?’ says Rhi, who, having said she’d never be able to eat anything after all that lunch, has tucked into Stephanie’s quiche and salad, then had seconds.

‘Frogs,’ I say.

‘Frogs?’

‘Yes, frogs,’ I repeat. ‘Down by the river.’