Down at the bottom of the valley, Franck had not lost heart. She was reminded of a man struggling to keep up with the times. Over the past few months, she had realised that he was worried. He was uncomfortable with the direction cinema was taking, the trend for young people to watch films on increasingly small screens. She had known for a year now that he felt that he was making old-fashioned cinema. Things were also going badly with his two new partners, two men in their thirties who didn’t talk about film, but about content, and dreamed of one thing only: a co-production with Netflix.

Franck was a stubborn man. He had vanished from her field of vision ten minutes ago. She thought how ironic it would be if he spent his three weeks here just searching for somewhere to get a signal. She walked out onto the perfect little south-facing balcony and decided that this was where she would set up her easel in the morning. When she had started painting again two years ago, she had promised herself that she would have her first exhibition next year, whether she had a gallery or not, and there was no lack of inspiration here. From this viewpoint overlooking the hill, she decided she would do her hour of meditation among the reeds and box beside the water tank as soon as the sun came up. She would relax in the shade of the big lime tree. In the evenings she would paint under the great oak tree. Everywhere she looked, she was happy; everything was full of the promise of activity. Franck finally came back into view. He appeared from the undergrowth at the very bottom of the hill and began to climb back up to the house, no longer looking at his phone. She called out to him again.

‘Well?’

He replied with a weary gesture. The slope was clearly steep. It was strange to see Franck in this environment, with his polo shirt and trousers that he had obviously just torn in the brambles. The grass was taller than it looked, and he had to lift his knees up to get through it, as if he was wading through water. He did not look like a man who could cope with this, especially not in his calfskin moccasins. He was out of breath and soaked in sweat.