Long after I say goodbye to a glowing, giggling Rachel, I’m still half-laughing at how she called me a silly twat before I could even get the words out myself. And I’m still dabbing my eyes and blowing my nose with the flood of tearful emotion that overcame me as soon as she told me that it was all fine, that she understood and that she just wants the best for me, for me to go easy on myself, not push myself so hard. And that she loves me no matter what. And she knows her growing little bump is going to be so proud of her ‘amazing’ Aunty Kate.

There was such relief in coming clean, in being open with her, in not pretending that everything is perfect when it’s not. I never realised how exhausting being defensive can be, being constantly on guard and fighting unfounded, imagined judgements that only ever existed in my own head. Constantly pre-empting criticism and formulating answers to protect myself when the truth was that those who cared about me just wanted me to be happy. Not perfect, not ultra-successful, not the best: just happy. I told Rachel everything, truthfully, from how losing Martha brought back so many memories of losing Mum, to realising that I was becoming more like Jean-Michel in all the worst ways by putting the restaurant before everything else, and how even though it’s taken me until now to fully grasp it, I miss Ben and I wish I’d done things differently.

But I also have happy tears in my eyes. I have uploaded my dad’s house on several sales and rental sites, I’ve got my fourth Irish coffee ordered, and I feel like there’s more to do.

There’s another call I could make right now, even though Pip said he’s not answering and he cut me off the last time I tried. But if there’s one thing I know about Jean-Michel, it’s that everything changes very quickly. Yesterday he may have wanted to be alone but today he might want to be centre-stage. I know Pip told me to wait. But this is my future at stake as much as that of the restaurant and Jean-Michel.

I raise my finger to the tiny screen and then pause. He may not answer at all or, worse still, he may absolutely throw the mother of all tantrums, a shitstorm at me down the phone. I bite down on my lip. If he does go on the attack, what am I going to say? Well, in the tiny possibility that he does answer me, that’s a risk I’m willing to take. I can always hear him out and, if it gets too much, I can just hang up. My finger hovers over the call button. He can be a scary, unpredictable bastard. But I need to know where I stand one way or another. I’m going to take charge and ask what’s going on, what does the future hold seeing as it’s all in his hands. He’s the only one who can give me the answer on this. And I want to know if he’s okay, I want him to know that I’m there for him. If he wants to let me in and let me help him, I’ll try to do that, I’ll try my best. I’ve always given Jean-Michel my best and when he’s in need like this, I’ll not give up on him. I know from my own restaurant closure that burying my head in the sand, ignoring the problem and not asking for help is the surest way to compound failure.

I select his number.

I’ve got to try. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to help.

The phone begins to ring and I feel my stomach actually flip and fall flat. Second ring. Third. I take a deep breath.

Almost with relief, I invent a new rule of phone etiquette called ‘more than four rings is rude’ so I’m ready to hang up and send a text instead.

‘Hello?’

Dear God. It’s him. It’s Jean-Michel.

‘Katie, is this you?’ He sounds groggy, like I’ve just woke him up.

‘It’s me. I’m sorry the line’s bad, I’m at home in Ireland. I just— I wanted to see if you were okay?’

Silence, then a heavy sigh.

‘Jean-Michel, are you okay?’

‘Non,’ he says, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘Can you come?’

This is not what I was expecting. I’d never expected to hear such vulnerability from Jean-Michel. Never.

‘Of course. I can come,’ I tell him. My dad and the house are on their way, Rachel and I have reconciled and I’m ready to go back. And this time, find a better way forward.

He clears his throat. ‘Merci, Katie. I need… I need to speak to you – face to face. Meet me at the restaurant tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be on the next flight. And until then, I don’t want you to worry, okay? Everything is fine.’

‘It will be. Soon,’ he says and the line goes dead.