The trail up to the Falaises of Étretat is steep, the muddy path dried and cracked in the hot sun. Tourists swarm around me, jostling for space as some climb and others descend. A babble of different languages fills the air, but I tune it out, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of my upward stride. The climb pushes thoughts of Pierre and the kids out of my mind, allowing the beauty of the rugged landscape to take over.

As I crest the final incline, the path widens, and the world opens up. The cliff tops stretch before me, windswept and wild, their white, vertical sides plunging into the blue-green sea below. The tourists, who felt so claustrophobic on the way up, scatter across the plateau, finding their own spaces to enjoy the view. There's room to breathe here, room to let my mind wander without any pressure.

I find a spot not far from the edge of the cliff and sink into the long grass. The breeze off the water tugs at my hair and cools the sweat on my skin. I close my eyes for a moment, soaking in the sun and letting the heat seep into my bones. My breathing slows to match the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below.

Up here, with the vastness of the sea before me and the endless sky above, the worries and the doubts that have been holding me back for the last few months seem insignificant. The edges of my mind soften, and the knot in my chest loosens.

I'm not expecting a sudden flash of inspiration or a perfect line of dialogue to pop into my head. It could happen, but I also know that if I can just let go, if I can relax enough to let the landscape fill me up, the ideas will come. They're in me somewhere, in the underworld of my creativity, waiting for the right moment to rise to the surface.

I lie back and watch gulls surfing on the wind. When my phone starts buzzing in my back pocket, I consider ignoring it. But it could be Josh or Ellie. Giving in to the call of the real world, I sit up, shade my eyes with my hand, and check the caller ID: Lila.

I've literally just pressed the green phone button when my best friend in New York starts talking.

"What do you mean, Max Waters gave you a lift? The Max Waters? As in Max Waters, Thirty and Flirty, The Burnout, and Christmas without Yule? I'm so confused. How do you know Max Waters?"

"Hi, hon. How are you?" I say, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. The familiarity of Lila's rapid-fire chatter is a snug warm blanket, even across the miles.

"It's quarter to six in the morning, I'm drinking strong coffee, and trying to understand your text message."

I reach for my handbag, fumbling with the zip. "I'm just putting in my ear pods," I say, fishing them out from the bottom of my bag.

"What the hell are ear pods?"

"Earbuds," I correct with a small laugh, popping them into my ears.

"Oh, well, just say earbuds then. So, I'm looking it up, and Max Waters is single." She says this in a kind of sing-song 'taadaah' way that makes me roll my eyes, even though she can't see me.

I smile, tugging at the strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail. Better not to correct the issue of Max's single status because that would mean having to explain why he was in my kitchen this morning drinking tea.

"Okay," Lila continues, "here's what I'm thinking. You should totally go for it. You're the same age, you're both English, and you both like films."

"Those are three very solid arguments," I say, leaning back on one hand.

"I know, right?" Lila has been married three times, no children. We became best friends at secondary school when we bonded over our die-hard romantic vision of the world, which included writing teenage movies about girls with superpowers who found true love and saved the world. When Pierre proposed a month after I met him, Lila was the only person among my friends and family who jumped up and down with excitement. Everybody else was concerned and confused.

"Okay," Lila says. "I'm smooching you together. Look, what a happy couple."

"What?" I blink at the bright sun, my gaze drifting across the sparkling ocean.

"Hang on, I'm making a photo of the two of you. Just sent it. Check WhatsApp."

I go into the WhatsApp messages and click on Lila's name. A photo of me and a cute Baskerville Hound is in my feed. "Ha, ha. Yes, that looks like the perfect guy for me right now. I'll take him."

"Now hang on, I'm adding champagne glasses. There! What do you think?"

Another photo appears in my WhatsApp messages. In this one, Max and I are head-to-head, smiling goofily and clinking champagne glasses. The sight of us together like that sends a little thrill through me, as if a firework's gone off in my chest.

"I'm hearing wedding bells!" Lila says.

"How are you doing that?" I ask, impressed despite myself. Lila is a Photoshop genius, but still.

"New personal assistant."

"Really?"

"No, it's A.I., of course! Here, wait. I'm putting you into a couple's app to see how you rate."

"I hate to break it to you, Lila, but I'll probably never see him again. Unless it's on my TV."

"Oh my God, you're almost a perfect match! Ninety-nine percent!"

"What's that based on? The shape of our faces and the length of our hair?"

"Pretty much."

I laugh, shaking my head, the sound of the waves and the gulls mixing with Lila's voice. "Listen, hon, I'm on the top of a cliff. I'll call you back later."

"Wait, seriously. You have to come to New York. I will introduce you to some beautiful, creative American divorcees. You could marry one, and then we can live next door to each other."

"Sounds good," I say, my tone affectionate. Moving to the US is never going to happen, but there's a comfort in knowing that Lila would be ecstatic to have me back in her everyday life.

"Yes, it does," she agrees.

I can tell by her voice that she's smiling.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. If I know Lila, she's imagining what kind of parallel reality we could find ourselves in where we'd be living next door to each other in New York.

"Okay," she says finally, "I'm letting you go. Don't fall off a cliff."

"I won't."

"Love you!"

"Love you too!" I hang up and the smile stays on my face.

My theory is, Lila and I came to a point of divergence when I had Josh and she divorced her first husband. Instead of adjusting her expectations of love and happily-ever-afters, she set out to try again. I, on the other hand, had the truly grounding and shocking experience of giving birth to a helpless, tiny human being, and true love took a backseat to the startling wake-up call of motherhood.

* * *

The narrow street feels cooler as I step into the shadow of the stone cottages. My legs ache pleasantly from climbing and exploring the Falaises of Etretat, but the sight of my landlady, Annie, pacing in front of my front door pulls me out of my post-cliff happiness.

She's striding back and forth before the white picket gate, her expression tight, little Miles balanced on her hip. His tiny hands grip her shirt as he squirms, trying to escape her frantic jiggling.

"There's been a bit of a disaster," she says the moment I'm close enough to hear her. My heart skips a beat. What kind of disaster could possibly involve me and my landlady? The water heater? A burst pipe?

"Oh," I say, tentatively. "What is it? What can I do to help?"

"This is really bad, I'm afraid." Miles, wriggling furiously, lets out a high-pitched whine. She adjusts him with a jerky movement that makes me wince. "I'm apologizing now, and please, you have to come to dinner tomorrow night so I can make it up to you."

It's then I notice my canvases stacked against the front door, their backs to the street. They're the three paintings I couldn't fit into Max's Jag.

"You brought my paintings," I say, trying to keep my voice steady as a sinking feeling grips me.

"Yes." She glances nervously over her shoulder at them, then back again.

"Does the disaster have something to do with them?"

She nods. "It does. Please say you'll come to dinner tomorrow night. I'll feel so much better if you do."

I try to peer around her. "Do you want to show me?" I ask, hesitating as I realize she's positioned herself to block my way.

"First, you promise you'll come to dinner. I'm making something delicious."

"Okay." Despite my rather fertile imagination, I'm having trouble figuring out why she's so upset. The closest painting doesn't look damaged from the back.

Annie exhales deeply, as though my agreement to have dinner gives her the strength for what's next. Stepping aside, she opens the gate and allows me to pass. I approach my artwork with a pool of dread in my stomach.

Steeling myself, I turn the first canvas around. The moment I see it, a loud buzzing starts in my ears. The painting is covered in squiggles and scribbles of pink, green, and blue felt-tip pen. A child's chaotic masterpiece.

"Oh my God, oh God, I'm so sorry," Annie says, her voice thick with distress as she sees my reaction. Miles, sensing the tension, begins to wail, his little legs kicking out in protest.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to look at the next one. I turn 'Black on Black' around with shaky hands. It's certainly colorful now, adorned with a blue stick figure and a red scribble that slashes across everything. My heart pounds manically as I reach for the final painting, the finished one, the one that truly matters. Please, not this one.

I squeeze my eyes shut as if that could somehow protect me from what I'm about to see. Annie's apologies become a distant murmur while Miles' cries escalate. When I finally force my eyes open, I can't hide the grimace that twists my face. The felt-tip pen isn't the worst of it. There's a big, jagged hole torn right through the center.

"It's okay," I hear myself say flatly. "It's just a painting. Not the end of the world." But for a moment, all I can do is stand and stare.

I heard on a podcast that success comes in clusters. A success cluster usually only happens once in a person or company's life-time where they experience a series of incredible triumphs in a small space of time, followed by a return to the norm. I'm hoping it's the same for disaster clusters because I'd really like this one to end soon.

I thrust the key into the front door lock and wiggle it a little too furiously, suddenly desperate to be by myself. Annie continues to apologize. I mutter that it's not her fault, but as soon as I'm inside the cottage with the paintings, I tell her I have to go. I shut the door quickly, an injured animal desperate to curl up in its den and lick its wounds.

The cool air prickles against my hot cheeks. Leaning back against the front door, I sink to the ground, bum on the cold tiles. Slowly, I draw my knees up to my chest. Outside, Miles screams and Annie sternly snaps at him to stop. Eventually they leave, voices receding.

This too will pass, I tell myself. The sun shines brighter after a storm and all of that. On the upside, now I don't have to fret over traipsing around art shops and persuading someone to take the painting and sell it for a commission. On the bright side, now all I have to do is concentrate on finishing the film script.

HOPE YOU LIKED THE CHAPTER. Thanks for reading. Have a great weekend!