‘And cheers to that,’ Max chimed in, laughing as we clinked our glasses together. ‘Cheers to Kitty’s book.’

I take them seriously. The hospital isn’t going anywhere, and I have my whole life to work. I get off the train at freedom station; the looking-glass between Dr Katarina Holliday and Kitty Holliday the writer vanishes. I follow my reams.

‘Bonjour,’ says one of the builders.

I wave in response and am about to keep walking but decide I should practise my French. I’m in France, after all, and the morning is warm with the day stretching out in front of me into a glorious eternity. For the first time in a long while, I have nothing to do except whatever I like.

‘Il fait très chaud aujourd’ hui!’ I say.

The men all turn to look at me. ‘Parlez-vous français, Madame?’ one of them asks.

I laugh, holding my thumb and index finger an inch apart. ‘Un peu.’

He nods in understanding. ‘You are English?’

I feign a look of horror. ‘Non! I’m Australian.’

‘It is a long way. Are you here for holiday?’

I pause. ‘Sort of,’ I reply.

‘What do you do?’

I look at him. The words I’m a doctor are on my lips, words I’ve waited so long to say. But I’m not in Èze to be a doctor. ‘I’m a writer,’ I tell him. I have a feeling Rachel would approve.

He smiles. ‘Lots of writers come here. Nietzsche—he came to Èze. You must walk the Nietzsche trail; they say he walked it every day for inspiration.’

Nietzsche, the great philosopher, who wrote something along the lines of: He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.

Is this my why? This small French town that I have been led to by the echoes of a dead young woman, the place I have come to write down my story, her story, my friends’ stories—is this my why? Maybe, I think, as the builder goes on to name other writers who have lived in the village, I am meant to be here.

I smile, say goodbye, and continue my walk along the beach.

My phone pings in my pocket. I pull it out. A message from Fabien.

Having fun?

I allow myself a small laugh. For once, he’s stuck back at home working while I’m gallivanting around the world. I don’t know what will happen with me and Fabien, but I’ve decided to listen to him and, like when we ski, just wait and see where we end up. To learn how to enjoy the moment feels liberating and unusual. It makes me smile. I turn my phone off. How times have changed.

I take my laptop from my shoulder bag and, with my little pink book beside me, I sit there on the pebbled shore, and start to type.