‘I often think about him,’ Lola told me. ‘The things he used to say. He’s still here, in a way, if we remember him, isn’t he?’

‘That’s good. I’m glad you do,’ I managed to say.

‘I do as well,’ Jack muttered.

After a minute or two, the startling pain subsided to an ache.

‘We shouldn’t have come here, Mum. I didn’t know it was going to upset you.’ Lola glared at the Museum’s door, as if the curators were responsible.

‘It was right to come.’ Here and to Grasse. Both were right. I felt as if a river that had been dammed might start to run again with clear water.

‘Can we go and get something to eat?’ Jack muttered.

We walked down to the old stone-flagged flower market that I had loved so much when I was fifteen and ordered crêpes and salad at a restaurant in the shade of the stone arches. There were citrus trees in pots against the medieval walls, and a view down steep steps to an alley snaggled with iron balconies and washing lines. Even in the middle of the day it was cool here out of the sun.

‘It’s beautiful.’ Lola sighed. ‘You’re right. I’m glad we came. Are you okay now, Mum?’

I smiled at her.

Later, while they were eating ice cream, I slipped inside the restaurant. There was only one public telephone at the campsite and no phone book. But here, right at the back next to the toilettes, I found a telephone cubicle complete with a dog-eared local directory. I riffled through the pages, certain that I would find nothing. Yet here was the name, clearly listed and a number right here in Grasse.

Philippe Lesert.

I dialled the number and a woman’s voice answered. Yes, he was at home.

Of course he was – it was the hour for déjeuner.

I gave Mme Lesert my name. A moment later Philippe picked up the phone.

‘Oui?’ It was a heavy, rather tired-sounding voice. I began my careful explanation of who I was but he interrupted me in disbelief. ‘Sadie? C’est toi?’

‘Oui, Philippe.’

We laughed at one another’s surprise. I tried to explain and apologise for my long silence and sudden reappearance, but Philippe wouldn’t hear of it. ‘And you are right here in Grasse?’ he repeated.

‘Yes. Yes, on holiday with my children.’

‘We must make a rendezvous, please. I should like very much to meet your husband and family.’

‘Only my son and daughter.’

I learned that Stéphanie Lesert was a writer of children’s books and was so unfortunately busy this week that Philippe could not ask me to their home. But, perhaps, I would be willing to meet him for lunch?

We made a date for three days’ time.

‘Who were you talking to, Mum?’ Jack wanted to know.