On the outskirts of town, I find an organic food shop with six kinds of tea leaves in buckets, exotic herbs in baskets, nuts and beans in long plastic dispensers, and a wide variety of fresh local vegetables and fruit. I spend an hour browsing and choosing, and another hour when I get home cooking an Indian dal, and storing left overs. Then I call Josh and Ellie, find out what kind of day they've both had, (Ellie 'amazing!', Josh 'good') and finally, I find an action film that promises to have no romantic plot-line.

As I lie in bed, the covers pulled around my chin, gazing at the darkness, Max stares at me in my mind's eye, sunglasses raised. The deep, aching connection stirs in me again, replaying over and over in my head. I tell myself it'll fade. In a couple of nights, it'll start to breakdown, disintegrate, until it's nothing but a watery, vague memory.

On Tuesday, I wake early, make coffee, and watch the sunrise on my front doorstep. Then I open up my computer and write. I don't really know what I'm writing. It's a scene from half-way through my script where the main character has discovered her origins, however they reveal nothing around the mystery of her strange existence. She wanders Berlin desolate and aimless. But at least I'm writing. The story is advancing. I am moving forward.

At lunch I walk up the cliff and lie at the top in the long grass, away from the other tourists. I let thoughts of Max wash over me, because I guess I need to let them out, and better now than when I'm writing. Wave after wave of what-ifs. Our conversations get reruns in my head, like film classics that keep returning to small town cinemas.

Perhaps it's a rebound thing. When I was twenty, I met a boy inter-railing. He was the first boy I ever fell in love with. The only one I truly fell for before Pierre. We split up eighteen months later, and I went back to university and jumped straight into bed with a guy on my film course. I convinced myself that all this love I had needed to go somewhere, so why not give it to someone else?

It only took a week for me to realize I couldn't just replace my ex. After that, I remained single until I met Pierre, three years later.

I gaze up at the corn-blue cloudless sky and shade my eyes from the sun, realizing I need a new pair of sunglasses. My old sunglasses are still stranded on the front seat of Emily's car. In fact, I should probably be trying to find out what's happening to grandpa Volvo.

I text Emily, apologizing that I haven't called for a couple of days. She texts me back two minutes later.

Emily: Was wondering where you got to...

Me: Right now, I'm on Needle Point cliff.

Emily: Everything okay?

I lie back on my elbows, not answering straight away. The thing is, my interest in Max doesn't feel like rebound material. I don't want to replace Pierre or be married again. I don't want a relationship where I'm living with someone and washing their underwear. I wanted to fix my heart and keep it for myself and my kids. At least until it's strong again. How has Max got to me?

Me: Fine.

I pause before sending. Then I scrap the text and leave a voice message.

"Hey, hon. Just let me know when the car's ready and I'll bring it back. Things are okay here. I miss the kids. Actually, I've seen Max Waters again a couple of times," I say, unable to resist mentioning him. "His sister invited me to dinner on Friday. He's suggested making a short film together. I don't think it's going to happen, but it was nice to be asked."

I sigh. I want to say out loud how Max has left me feeling. How I'm reeling like a lovesick teenager just from spending a few hours pretending to be his girlfriend, followed by a few hours talking to him. I want someone else to know that there was a spark between us, even if it's fizzled out before it caught fire.

"Anyway," I say, "call me when you've got a bit of time. It'll be nice to hear your voice and catch up."

I go back to the cottage and spend the afternoon writing. Emily doesn't call. When I reemerge from working at five in the afternoon, I'm about to call her again when there's a knock on the door. I go to open it and blink in disbelief. She's there on my front doorstep, floppy sunhat casting shadows over her face.

"It's me!" she says.

For a second, I take in the rucksack and the silvery flip flops and the mounds of curly auburn hair. Then I'm pulling her into a hug so tight I don't want to let go. I have no idea how she's found me. Well, maybe a little one: Annie and the garage. But I can't believe she's here, on my doorstep, out of the blue, just when I really need to see her.

It feels so good to hug someone I love. It's been almost a week and I've missed it. "Did you wear flip-flops on the train?" I ask.

"That's it? It took me four hours of public transport to get here, and that's your most pressing question?"

I laugh, pull her inside, and close the front door. "What the heck are you doing here?"

"This is cute," she says, looking around. "Beaucoup de charme." Emily loves talking to me in French, even though we're both native English speakers. France is her passion. She, her husband, and her three kids moved here eight years ago from Australia because Emily is in love with Paris.

She spins back around to face me. "I'm here because in your message you sounded like... you needed someone. Besides, I've never been to Etretat before. I thought I'd pick up the car, which is finally ready, and visit a beautiful Normandy seaside town all at the same time!"

She throws down her bag and I show her around the cottage, offering her Ellie's bed for the night. Then I make frappes, cold coffee with milk and ice, which we take outside to the back terrace. Emily wants to find the perfect place for us to have dinner together, so we scroll through a few options and she calls to book us a table for 8 p.m. Once all the logistical things are out of the way, she leans forward on the metal garden table and looks up at me with a concerned expression.

"Tell me everything," she says.

"I'm quite well informed, but alas I don't know everything," I joke, "so I won't be able to do that."

"You know what I mean."

I start from the beginning—the car breaking down, Max helping me get my things to the cottage, the art disaster, and the dinner party. I don't exactly spell out how attractive I found him right from the start, because he's a handsome actor, so it's pretty much a given.

"He knew who Liz Phair was?" she asks while I'm in the middle of explaining how we ended up slow dancing.

"I know," I say, my finger absently tracing circles around the rim of my glass.

"And he wants to make a short film with you?"

"He called at six thirty yesterday morning to go jogging together. I was in pajamas! But he waited for me to change. Then he came back in the afternoon and we went to Le Jardin D'Etretat to discuss ideas. But when he dropped me home, he said he had to go away for a few days. Hadn't mentioned it before. Said he'd be back Saturday." I let my shoulders drop against the chair and take a sip of my frappe, ice cubes clinking against the glass.

"Do you want to make a film with him?"

"I'd be a fool to pass up the chance."

Emily's eyes narrow together as she stirs her coffee with her straw. "Then we have to figure out what happened between 'let's make a film together' and 'I'm busy for the foreseeable future.'" She studies my expression. "Unless you already know?"

"Maybe he realized he could make a short film with anyone."

She shakes her head, and suddenly her expression changes. "You like him!"

"He's an extremely good looking, interesting, talented man. What's not to like?"

"No," she says, her voice lowering. "You properly like him. Him. Not the actor Max Waters, but the real person behind all of that."

"I hardly know him." I cross my arms, resisting the direction this conversation is going. "Besides, he's engaged."

Emily's eyebrows lift, her voice playful but determined. "Admit it. You're tracing circles on your glass and thinking about him."

I stop mid-circle and frown at her. "I'm not—"

"And don't think I missed that tone when you talked about jogging at six thirty in the morning. The woman who doesn't jog! You're practically glowing."

"I am not glowing." I deflate, my body giving in. What's the point of pretending I'm not a fool and that I haven't let my over-active imagination run away with itself? "I'm such an idiot."

"You're a beautiful, talented, warm-hearted idiot, Louise. Maybe he likes you, too."

"He's engaged, remember?" I tell her, voice flat. "He's getting married at the end of the summer."

"Ouch. Well, that explains it. He pulled away before anything happened that both of you would regret."

I pout. "I wouldn't regret it."

She slaps me playfully on the arm. "Course you would. He's done you both a favor."

"You're not cheering me up."

"I didn't say I was here to cheer you up." She leans back, crossing her legs. "I'm here to take care of you."

I can't help but smile, even though the pang in my chest doesn't fully subside. These last few days around Max, the numbness of this year has worn off, but underneath, I'm tender and bruised.

I inhale deeply, watching the clouds drift across the sky, listening to the faint hum of wind blowing through the back streets and small terraced gardens.

"I'm glad you came," I say, reaching out and putting my hand over hers.

She grins, lifting her frappe in a mock toast. "Me too. Now, let's make tonight about us."

I nod. "To us," I toast, and suck cold, milky coffee through my straw.

We sit chatting about the kids for a while. The evening air thickens with the scent of sea spray and barbecues, and I thank the world for good friends who turn up just when you need them.

* * *

On Thursday morning, I wave Emily off in the Volvo and potter around the kitchen. A pang of loneliness creeps in as I wash up two plates, two coffee mugs, and two knives and forks. From today onwards, there'll only be one. But in three weeks, Josh and Ellie will arrive filling the place with mess, Josh's rap music, and Ellie's chatter. Before I know it, my month of silence, reflection, and writing will be over. With that thought spurring me on, I spend the rest of the day writing, go for a long walk, and chat with my sister on the phone.

When Saturday comes around, I try to keep up the routine I've established, and not think of Max. But by 7.30 a.m. I'm washing my hair and blow drying it. And I spend far longer than usual on my make-up, then agonize over what to wear.

By 10 a.m. it's obvious that trying to write is a waste of time. I watch the clock, feeling the seconds stretch out. A part of me knows he won't come, but another part, the part that's clinging to the idea of him, refuses to give in.

Grabbing a light jacket, I head out for a walk. An inner voice worries I'll miss him calling at the cottage, but he has my phone number. He can text. And I can't sit around on the off chance he shows up.

In fact, I think, as I reach the top of Needle Point and keep hiking toward the Falaise D'Aval, all I have to do is get through today. If I don't hear from him, I'll know for sure these last few 'busy days' were his escape plan.

Once I've started moving, I don't want to stop. I pass the Falaise D'Manneport and D'Antifer and end up several miles later on Tilleul Beach. Inaccessible by car, the pebbled beach is a secluded paradise surrounded by steep cliff faces. There are no ice-cream vendors, windsurfers or paddleboat renters. The savage beauty is just what I need.

I sit down on the wide expanse of grey pebbles, knees pulled up to my chest. The silence settles in, the absence of a phone buzz, the absence of him ringing. It's for the best, I tell myself, gazing at the ocean and let its soothing rhythm infiltrate the deepest parts of me.

In the quiet heat of the midday sun, I reflect on the biggest lesson I've taken away from my marriage and it's this: You can't get out of things as easily as you get into them. You jump into something head first because it looks exciting from the outside, but once you're inside, everything changes. I should probably heed that lesson now, instead of spending so much time daydreaming about Max.

When I said 'yes' to Pierre's proposal after knowing him for only a month, I didn't think it was the big deal everybody else thought it was. In my mind, a year or two down the line, or several years for that matter, if it wasn't working, I would leave. That simple. People divorced and left each other all the time. I would return to England with a new adventure story of how, in a whirlwind romance, I married a Frenchman and moved to Paris. How I became bilingual, ate foie gras, (before I became vegetarian) and celebrated Christmas on the 24th of December instead of Christmas Day. It would be another story to add to the collection of wild, adventure stories I enjoyed associating myself with.

Instead, now when I imagine myself in the future looking back at the seventeen years I spent with Pierre, I'm sure I'll wonder how I became so inert. How I let the days drain away, as I got smaller and smaller, folding into the safe routines of wife and mother. What happened to me? Where did I go?

I watch the waves and release the stories. Let the sea carry away the ones I used to tell to sound brave, and the ones I've whispered to myself that make me feel small. I imagine them floating further and further out, until they vanish, leaving me finally able to breathe.

Out here, the world doesn't need a story to justify its existence. The waves crash, the wind blows, the sky stretches endlessly on the horizon. And I don't need to explain myself either, I think, feeling myself unfurl a little, just at the corners. Just enough to take up a tiny bit more of all the endless space out here.

Hello, hello! Yes I'm back, I'm late, sorry about that! Will try to get back on track to posting once a week on Friday. Thanks for reading xx