I Remember Paris

by Lucy Diamond

Genres: Family Life; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

'I enjoyed it SO much!' MARIAN KEYES

'With glorious characters and a dreamy setting, I couldn't have loved this book more' THE SUN, ***** 5 STARS

Back to the city of dreams . . .

Jess Bright, single mum and journalist, feels her life has stalled. So when she's offered a writing job in Paris for the summer, she leaps at the chance to go. Hasn't she always felt that she left a piece of her heart in the city years before?

Her subject is the iconic artist Adelaide Fox, whose personal life has been steeped in scandal and intrigue. Now approaching eighty, she's ready to tell her side of the story - and serve up some scalding-hot revenge in the process.

Amidst a stormy working relationship, Jess and Adelaide must face up to their pasts. As passionate affairs, terrible betrayals and life-changing secrets surface, there may be more surprises in store than either of them dared imagine . . .

Set in the city of love, with two unforgettable protagonists, I REMEMBER PARIS is a glorious, life-affirming novel about second chances, unlikely friendships and finding your way back to yourself.

'Escapist, romantic and a little bit scandalous, this is Lucy Diamond at her page-turning best' VERONICA HENRY

'As multi-layered, rich and enjoyable as a giant mille-feuille. You will adore it' MILLY JOHNSON

'Heartfelt and escapist' WOMAN & HOME

'Lucy's best book yet' 5* READER REVIEW

'I loved it!' KATIE FFORDE

'Escapist, romantic and scandalous' SUNDAY POST

'Such a treat' 5* READER REVIEW

'Escapist, thoughtful' MY WEEKLY


READERS LOVE LUCY DIAMOND

'I love all of Lucy's books' 5* reader review

'Lucy writes with such warmth and sympathy' 5* reader review

'Pure escapism' 5* reader review

'So uplifting' 5* reader review

'I can't put Lucy's books down' 5* reader review

Release date: November 28, 2023

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 432

Sample

Chapter One

Is it him again? ­Adelaide wonders, seeing a figure approach the building. The floor-­length windows are on the grimy side but even so, there’s no mistaking his height, his gait, the way his head twists on his neck as he looks up towards her. She feels a lurch inside, nausea rising. How did he know where to find her? And why won’t he leave her alone?

She hears him try the door – it’s unlocked – and now he’s in; easy as that. What should she do? This has all escalated at unnerving speed. A couple of months earlier the man was merely a face in the crowd, someone she noticed staring at her in the Prince of Wales from a few tables away. Then she kept seeing him: a lone figure waiting on the same Tube platform, browsing the shops outside her studio, loitering near the bakery where she always buys bread. Coincidence, she told herself, the first time it dawned on her that he seemed to be everywhere she was. Or maybe he was a shy fan, hovering as he built up the confidence to say he admired her work. She did get them, after all. But as time passed and she kept on noticing him – outside a gallery or a theatre, in the same train carriage as her – a creeping sense of dread set in. A conviction that this would surely only get worse.

So it has proved. Last week, she was upstairs closing the bedroom curtains when she saw him perched on the wall of the house opposite, staring intently in her direction. It felt as if a boundary had been crossed. What does he want with her? ‘That man’s there again,’ she said to Remy, but he merely flung back the bedcovers, revealing his naked body, and said, ‘The only man you need to think about, baby, is right here.’ ­Adelaide is not a woman given easily to scares but it proved hard to sleep that night, wondering who her watcher was, and what he might do next.

‘Speak to the police,’ Margie urged when ­Adelaide confided in her, but the suggestion seemed too far-­fetched to take seriously.

‘And say what? They’ll laugh in my face. He hasn’t done anything,’ she protested.

‘Yet,’ Margie replied darkly. ‘You be careful, Ads. Promise me.’

That ‘yet’ rings round ­Adelaide’s head with horrible prescience because now he’s here, at remote Little Bower, the place she has always come to get away from everything. Formerly a farm building, it’s become a home from home for her and her closest friends, with this particular room used as shared studio space. It’s a peaceful spot, surrounded by fields and hedgerows, with a meandering stretch of river nearby where she likes to swim on hot days. At night there are owls and bats, the sky darker than she’s ever known it, punctured by the glitter of stars. But the tranquillity of being here alone has now been shattered and her adrenalin surges as she hears footsteps on the stairs. She glances around the room – dusty and messy, paints and brushes littering the surfaces, the radio tootling jazz – and wonders what will happen. How this will end.

Her heart is beating faster. Take control, she tells herself. Interviewers always describe her as fierce, as if she’s some kind of wild animal; let’s see if she can use that in her favour. Then he appears in the doorway, and a hot rush of fury courses through her.

‘What on earth,’ she shouts, striding across the room towards him, ‘do you think you are doing here? Answer me immediately!’

He stops and stares, one hand reaching behind him for the solidity of the door frame as if he has lost his nerve. Good.

‘Miss Fox,’ he says, then breaks off. She has never heard him speak until now, she realises. Never been so close to him either; he’s always lurked in her peripheral vision, a shadowy figure on the sidelines. He’s in his thirties, she guesses, taking in his rumpled brown hair, the wide-­spaced eyes and large nose, the pockmarked skin on his face. There’s something shabby about him, unkempt. He’s a loser.

‘What?’ Her eyes blaze. ‘What’s this all about? Because I’m sick of seeing you wherever I go. And I refuse to put up with it any more, do you hear me? This is private property; you are trespassing.’

‘I . . .’ He is still staring and the effect is unsettling.

‘Well?’

He takes a step towards her. Her instinct is to move back, keep her distance, but she forces herself to hold her ground.

‘Don’t you remember me?’ he asks.

She has absolutely no idea who he is, what he means. ‘I would like you to leave,’ she commands. ‘Before I telephone the police.’ This last is a bluff, of course. There is no phone here, no means of communication whatsoever when it comes to the rest of the world. This is the way they’ve always preferred it, the way she’s been able to work best. Until today, anyway.

‘But it’s me,’ he says plaintively. ‘From the gallery.’

‘What gallery? What are you talking about?’ Her hands curl and uncurl by her sides, adrenalin spiking. She doesn’t like this at all.

‘We love each other,’ he says simply. He’s even blushing a little as he says the words, his eyes shifting away from hers. ‘­Adelaide, you know we do.’

He’s deluded, then. And dangerous with it? she wonders, feeling a prickle of vulnerability. Is it too late to grab something as a makeshift weapon?

‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken,’ she replies as frostily as she can muster. ‘Now, I’m a very busy person as I’m sure you know, so if you don’t mind—’

‘I just want to be with you,’ he says, edging closer. His eyes are wet and so is his big red mouth. He’s not going to try and kiss her, is he? She takes an involuntary step back. He wouldn’t actually put his hands on her or hurt her. Would he?

‘Go away,’ she orders, but he continues towards her. He’s smiling, he looks happy, he’s reaching his hands out, his gaze locked on hers. Now she’s really frightened. ‘GO AWAY!’ she yells, and then—

­Adelaide wakes up with a jerk. The nightmare again. She blinks, registering that Jean-­Paul, her squat brown Staffie, is standing on the pillow beside her, his warm breath on her face. The room takes shape around her – early morning, soft pink light outlining the shutters – and she reaches out to pet his compact muscular body, her heart rate gradually subsiding from its frantic gallop. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she murmurs, taking comfort from his loyalty. She has been plagued by this same nightmare for years now, and it never gets any less terrifying. It’s partly why she wants to get that awful day written down, in the hope that she can finally let it go. What she’d give to be rid of this particular ghost once and for all.

 

A short while later, she and Jean-­Paul set out for their usual walk. It’s a golden summer’s morning in Paris, the light glittering from the windows of Place des Vosges as they stump along beneath the linden trees. So much for the image of ­Adelaide being a tough old bird; the public would soon change their minds if they knew what a soft touch she is with Jean-­Paul. He has an excellent diet of choice cuts from the local boucherie, plus he is allowed to sleep on her bed every night (she has had a small ramp made for him to climb up there, now that his ageing legs are less springy than they once were). But he’s worth all of it. She had no idea it was possible to love a dog quite so much.

This is their daily constitutional: a diagonal stride across the centre of the square, so that Jean-­Paul can make use of the grass there, followed by a slow circuit around the edges. The waiters at the brasserie respectfully bow their heads towards her, occasionally appearing with a sausage for Jean-­Paul, or trying to tempt her to take a seat and enjoy an espresso. ‘Our gift to you, Madame!’ they wheedle even though she always turns them down. She passes the fancy hotel and the galleries, Victor Hugo’s house and all the tourists queuing with their oversized backpacks and loud voices. Sometimes – not so much these days – she might hear her name mentioned. Hey! Isn’t that ­Adelaide Fox? Look! It is her, right? She has also – less flatteringly – heard the follow-­up comments: Wait, she’s still alive? I thought she was dead!

‘Not yet, dear,’ she enjoys replying tartly whenever this happens, just to see their expressions afterwards: sometimes awkward and apologetic, other times thrilled.

No, not yet, she repeats to herself now. Although sometimes she wonders why she bothers to stay alive. Old age – she’ll be eighty before she knows it – is no place for weaklings. For her, the last few years have felt like the Badlands of a life – bleak territory, with precious little to get out of bed for. If it wasn’t for her dog, then . . . She glances down at Jean-­Paul, who has stopped to sniff around a bench with unerring optimism. He once found the remnants of a ham baguette at this particular spot and always makes a point of returning, despite having been disappointed every time since. At least one of them still has a positive outlook on life, she supposes.

A small girl sidles up. Jean-­Paul is something of a magnet for small girls, not least because ­Adelaide has made him a sparkly collar fashioned with pieces of colourful clear plastic that look like jewels. It is ridiculous but it makes her smile. The girl is dressed in cheap-­looking pink leggings, a T-­shirt with a pattern of yellow flowers and those unattractive white trainers that have flashing lights in the heel. Dreadful.

‘What is your dog called?’ the child asks in French.

­Adelaide gives the girl a terrifying glower. ‘He is called “I eat children”,’ she replies sternly and stalks past, but not before she has seen the child’s face crumple. Serves her right. Maybe she’ll think twice about talking to a stranger next time.

A wail goes up behind her but ­Adelaide does not look back. She is an artist, this is what she has always done: create a moment, impact, drama. Over the years, her work has forced others to see the world in a different light – and if her memoir ever gets off the ground, she’ll one day be doing that in print too.

She frowns at the thought of this seemingly doomed project. There have been many publishers over the years sniffing around for her stories but she has perpetuated a haughty silence – a woman has her secrets after all. But then six months ago, there came a savage article in Le Monde, in which the journalist basically rubbished her life’s work as infantile and narcissistic. Feeling bruised, she didn’t immediately delete the persuasive email that arrived the same day, by chance, from yet another commissioning editor. We’d love to help you recount your story in your own words, the editor had coaxed. Remy told his side of the tale, but what about yours? Wouldn’t you love to set the record straight?

Later, as she set about furiously sketching the Le Monde journalist on a torture rack with pencils jabbed into his eyeballs – not so smug now, are you, dear? – she found herself reflecting on the many other revenge fantasies she’s captured in paints or charcoal over the years, how cathartic it has been to dish out vengeance with her brushes. Maybe there could be something in this memoir business after all. A new weapon with which to take down her assailants. The Art of Revenge, she’s calling it in her head, and the title feels satisfyingly apt.

Her nephew Lucas, a corporate lawyer, has been very helpful with the contract and paperwork so far, and, following a recent redundancy, has rented a flat nearby, so that he can assist with hiring a suitable ghostwriter, as well as sorting through her neglected archive of paintings and associated paperwork. With a bit of luck, they can organise a new exhibition to coincide with the book’s publication – or so they originally hoped. Alas, neither task has proved straightforward. What a lot of Moaning Minnies they have met and discarded so far in the hunt for a decent writer. Carping on about working conditions, dis­agreeing with her about content and focus . . . Good riddance, frankly. They barely deserve to say her name aloud, let alone be entrusted to tell her life story to the waiting world. As for the archive, let’s just say that Lucas has his work cut out for him. A methodical, punctilious person by nature, he couldn’t actually speak for several minutes when first presented with the Belleville rooms stuffed haphazardly with decades’ worth of her art plus heaps of correspondence and other documents. ‘It’ll keep you busy,’ she told him bracingly, kicking a pile of canvases only for them both to start coughing at the resulting dust cloud that swirled into their faces.

She passes the brasserie – almost home – and Jean-­Paul stops to drink, with his usual splashy gusto, from the metal dog bowl the waiters always leave there. Her bothersome knee is starting to ache, her hip too; this body of hers protesting with each step. ‘Hurry up now,’ she tells the dog, because sometimes she feels as if she will seize up like a rusty old machine if she stops moving for too long. ‘Let’s go home, come along.’

Home to the quiet apartment, with her memories and her secrets, and the grudges that silently smoulder. But not for much longer, she tells herself, reaching the door and fumbling for her key. Once she has settled on a writer who can actually stay the course, out will come all of those stories, scorching the pages on which they’re told. And after that, nobody will have any doubts about whether or not she is still alive. Because her life – and those who have crossed her – will be all the world is able to talk about.

Chapter Two

Sitting on the Eurostar as it starts to glide out of the station – next stop, Paris! – Jess Bright can’t help the feeling that any minute now, a heavy hand will clamp on her shoulder – a train guard, a police officer, even – and she’ll hear the gruff words, ‘Excuse me, madam. You seem to be in the wrong life here.’

Forty-­seven, and impostor syndrome is still deeply entrenched within her. Cut her in half and you’d probably see the words ‘Not That Good Really’ printed all the way through, as if she’s a stick of Margate rock. She’s a freelance journalist and frazzled single mum of three teenage daughters, nothing special. But today, to everyone’s surprise, Jess is on her way to Paris to meet famous artist ­Adelaide Fox in the hope of writing her memoir. It’s the job of her dreams. Can it really be happening? Astonishingly, it appears so.

Her lips purse as she remembers her ex-­husband’s reaction to the news last week. ‘No offence, but why do you think she’s asked you?’ he’d mused aloud, when she mentioned the opportunity.

No offence, David, but why do you think I don’t want to be married to you any more? she’d felt like retaliating. (She didn’t. See how far she has evolved! Besides, she needed to keep him on side so that he’d have the girls while she’s away.) Instead she calmly reminded him how, years earlier, back when Mia was still a twinkle in the womb, Jess had interviewed the reclusive artist for the Sunday newspaper where she worked at the time. ‘And now that she wants a memoir writing, her nephew got in touch to ask if I’d be interested,’ she said. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, David.

God, she had loved that old job. As a journalist on the Culture team, her life had been a whirl of gallery openings, author interviews and film premieres. She’d had clout, she was making a name for herself. But then she became a mum – first to Mia, then Edie, then Polly – and has been freelance ever since, picking up bits and pieces of work wherever she can. She’s written an advice column in one of the Kent newspapers for years (‘Look on the Bright Side’) plus a parenting column for Glorious, a monthly glossy (‘Mum’s the Word! Dispatches from the Frontline of Motherhood’). Okay, so the Press Industry Awards committee hasn’t exactly been beating a path to her door, but she’s made it work this far. Until a month ago, anyway, when Glorious magazine decided to move to a digital-­only model, shucking off a handful of faithful columnists along the way. No more motherhood dispatches from Jess. (‘Thank God,’ Mia had exclaimed theatrically when Jess broke the news over dinner. ‘I’m sick of people finding that nits story online and calling me Lice Girl.’)

Her daughters might have complained about Jess parcelling up their antics as humorous content on a monthly basis but the column had covered much of the household expenses which, in this post-­separation landscape, was not to be sniffed at. And to be fair, most of her columns were complete confections anyway. She never mentioned Mia’s run of panic attacks before her exams last summer, nor the miserable toxic friendships Edie keeps finding herself trapped in, nor indeed the unpleasant revelation that Polly had been stealing classmates’ belongings for two whole terms back in year six. Whatever – since losing this tent pole of income, she’s profoundly grateful for the serendipity of one Lucas Brockes, nephew of ­Adelaide, emailing about the memoir, and hopefully saving them all from imminent destitution. Would Jess be willing to come to Paris, accommodation provided, to work with ­Adelaide on a memoir, initially on a week’s trial, with the possibility of returning for a month? Hell yes, Lucas.

It feels as if Fate has given her a lucky break for once. That’s if she’s up to the job, anyway. Writing a serious biography is something of a leap from her mum column and agony aunt page, isn’t it? She can’t help feeling a bit . . . well, rusty, for one thing. Intimidated for another.

‘Here’s an idea,’ David had said, all those years earlier when she first went on maternity leave. ‘I put my career first, while you take some time out, say for a couple of years, then you can do the same when you’re ready to go back to work, and I’ll support whatever dreams you have.’ He’s a sports journalist, and at the time of this suggestion, was keen to shadow a senior colleague on an Ashes tour in Australia. Keen to bugger off for four weeks while Jess slaved alone for a grizzly three-­month-­old who hated sleeping, more like, but the offer of being able to call in a similar favour for her own ambitions had kept her going. One day she would be able to cash in her promised time, guilt-­free, and work on something really meaningful, she fantasised. A stirring, highbrow novel, perhaps, in contention for numerous literary prizes. An incredible screenplay that would see her wooed by Hollywood directors and mingling with the beautiful people. Or a searing set of journalistic investigations that would change society for the better; her own legacy bequeathed to the world.

Only it never happened like that. There was always something else more pressing that prevented them from putting Jess’s career front and centre – various issues with the girls, David’s parents becoming ill one after another, the cricket tours abroad he was contractually obliged to go on as his star rose. It’s just not the right time, he would say apologetically, and she’d started to believe, following their separation, that this elusive, mystical ‘right time’ would never happen now. But might this be Jess’s time at last? What if this is the job that turns everything around for her?

Sipping her coffee as the Kent countryside rushes past the window, she finds herself remembering the promotion she’d once applied for back at the Sunday newspaper, how she’d walked down the corridor after the interview thinking it had gone pretty well only to then remember in a fluster that she’d left her bag behind. Back she’d gone, reaching the interview room just in time to hear her boss Lucinda and the HR woman Maxine discussing her. The thing about Jess, Lucinda had said, is that she’s very lowbrow. Does she have the gravitas to be credible with our readers?

These words have long since been branded across Jess’s mind, impossible to forget. Imagine, though, if she gets the nod to write ­Adelaide’s memoir and it’s published as a gorgeous, upmarket hardback book. The first chance she gets, she’ll be marching into the Culture office with a personal copy for her old boss. That enough gravitas for you, love? she’ll say, letting it drop from her hands on to Lucinda’s desk with a thud. God, that will be a good, good moment!

She glances down at her notes, filled with renewed determination. Jess is a grafter: she will work her socks off to make a success of this opportunity. ‘Hard work is your ticket to a good life,’ she is fond of telling her daughters, although, alas, none of them seem to have taken this advice to their hearts yet. Mia would rather be out with a gang of noisy friends (‘her squad’), Edie can (and does) spend hours, literally hours, lying in bed watching YouTube videos, whereas Polly is smart and quick, coasting through homework with the least amount of effort she can get away with. ‘Done!’ she carols, snapping the exercise book shut and tossing it to the floor with evident relief each time.

Retrieving a pen from her bag, Jess underlines a couple of words in the notes she’s made. ‘­Adelaide Fox? She’s that wild feminist one who was part of a really cool set of female artists, right? Didn’t she smash up her husband’s exhibition in Berlin or something too?’ her friend Becky had summarised when Jess told her about the offer of work.

There’s so much more to her than that, though. According to Jess’s research, the young ­Adelaide left home and school at sixteen, and moved into a squat with a group of friends, before making a name for herself in her twenties with a groundbreaking show called Work. She went on to become a key figure in the so-­called London Bohemian movement, a collective of women at the forefront of the sixties’ wave of counterculture who became noted conceptual artists, designers and sculptors, mixing in radical underground circles.

Then come a few gaps in the online versions of her bio­graphy. Jess remembers, from her previous interview research, coming across various rumours about ­Adelaide – tempestuous love affairs, a mysterious child, addictions of one kind or another, and some kind of rift with Margie Flint, a fellow artist; the two of them still apparently estranged all these years later. There’s also a spell in Berlin (a nervous breakdown?) plus the mysterious suicide of a man at a rural house used as a studio by the Bohemians.

­Adelaide’s been an enigma for decades. Despite the numerous articles and interviews, she’s somehow managed to flit between questions without ever revealing too much. When Jess met her before, she was interesting, sparky company, but very much there to talk about her Tate exhibition and little else. She was initially a little prickly too, upon discovering that the interview would be conducted by a junior writer (Jess) rather than the newspaper’s lead arts correspondent, as promised (Lucinda, who had unfortunately come down with a bout of gastroenteritis). Full disclosure: Jess had used the words ‘coming out of both ends’ when trying to explain why her boss really really couldn’t be there. (In hindsight, this was perhaps rather unsisterly of her, but Lucinda would never know, at least.)

‘Wow, what a life,’ Becky said, on hearing the stories. ‘You’ve got to do this, Jess. A work trip to Paris, you lucky cow! Watch out, because I might start hating you if this gets any better.’

Despite Becky’s encouragement, Jess has had a few qualms about going away for so long – what with that boy Zach appearing unexpectedly out of seventeen-­year-­old Mia’s bedroom the other morning (‘God, Mum, we’re just friends, don’t look at me like that!’), and the fact that she recently found a small gold anklet in Polly’s skirt pocket that definitely wasn’t her daughter’s (‘Someone gave it to me, Mum, I’m not lying!’). Strangely enough though, now that she’s on the train, the qualms are melting away, like butter into toast. It will be like revisiting the gap year she spent in Paris post-­university, she thinks happily: the wonderful freedom of doing exactly what she wants in her spare time. Long evening walks through the old streets as the brasseries fill with diners, Sacré-­Coeur gleaming like a beautiful pearl from the dark hillside, lights spangling the Eiffel Tower for a million tourist photos . . .

And everyone will manage perfectly well without her for a few days, she reminds herself. Becky has promised to feed Albertine the cat, while the girls will be fine with David. Besides, he’s gone abroad for work enough times, leaving her to cope single-­handedly. She finds herself thinking again of the slog of those weeks alone with a tiny not-­sleeping baby, while he lived his best life in Brisbane. Having an amazing time! he would message periodically and she would feel like throwing her phone out the window. He owes her big-­style.

Mesdames et messieurs, the train announcer says at that moment. Nous arrivons à Paris maintenant, and a thrill sweeps through her entire body. This is happening. This is really happening!

 

Of course, Jess has been to Paris with David and the girls at various times over the years – weekend trips, a Euro Disney break, stopping off for a few days en route to campsites further south – but she’s always been looking after other people on these occasions. Their wants and needs have taken priority – Mickey Mouse winning out over a leisurely Louvre wander, for instance. David’s insistence on them slogging up the steps of the Eiffel Tower in protest against the lift prices, when her preference would have been not only to take said lift, but also to splash out on an overpriced glass of champagne at the top.

Now look at her, arriving alone in the city, wheeling her case along the platform with a fizz of sheer joy pinballing inside her. Breezing through the ticket barriers and into the station like she’s never been away, images of her twenty-­two-­year-­old self striding alongside her. That had been such a happy period of her life, fresh out of university, determined to enjoy some time abroad before she had to think about anything too grown-­up like finding a proper job. She’d worked a stint in an ice cream shop (who knew it was possible to get sick of ice cream?) then took a job chambermaiding at a glamorous hotel in the chi-­chi 6th arrondissement, close to the Jardin du Luxembourg. She’d fallen in love with Georges, a handsome older man who educated her in all sorts of interesting ways – sexual ways first and foremost, but also by taking her to see opera and ballet at the Palais Garnier, and teaching her about French wine. She’d also hung out in grungy bars with her new friend Pascale, mastered cycling along cobblestoned streets and perfected her French, complete with shrugs and hand gestures.

As well as having her sign a contract and confidentiality agreement, ­Adelaide’s nephew Lucas has also arranged hotel accommodation for Jess in the Marais district, and she navigates the metro system to emerge at Saint-­Paul. Stepping out from the station, the warmth of the city settles upon her skin as she gazes around to orient herself. It feels like a dream as she takes in the elegant, ivory-­coloured buildings with their shutters and balconies, the canopied cafés and tobacconists, the children’s carousel turning with jaunty music on a central paved area right in front of her. A couple are drinking champagne in long-­stemmed glasses at a bar across the road; cyclists skim by, legs scissoring; women wearing chic trouser suits and sunglasses glide past her, leaving wafts of tuberose perfume in their wake.

Hello, Paris, you beauty, Jess thinks, momentarily overcome. Even if this only turns out to be a week-­long gig, it feels like the best kind of gift, one she didn’t know she needed until now. Checking the map on her phone, she turns and starts walking.

The hotel is a charming old building on a quiet street, ten minutes from the metro. There are sprays of pink cherry blossom around the front door – fake ones, obviously, but the effect is very pretty nonetheless. Her room, it turns out, is on the top floor. ‘Madame, I apologise, but the lift, he is not working today,’ the man behind the reception desk says, handing over the key with an expressive flex of his dark eyebrows. He seems determined to speak to her in heavily accented English, even though she has so far spoken only in French to him, and with decent fluency as well, she thought. Also she’s unquestionably a ‘Madame’ now, she realises, and can’t help feeling a pang for her ‘Mademoiselle’ days before telling herself she’s being ridiculous.

Heaving her case up five flights of ageing, well-­trodden stairs, Jess has broken into a sweat by the time she reaches her room. But then she opens the door, sees the sweet white-­painted attic space with its original oak beams across the ceiling, shutters at the window and tiny en-­suite bathroom, and she forgets her tiredness. She drops her case and hurries to the window, through which she can see a small cobbled square with trees and benches in its centre, plus what looks like a crêperie, boulangerie and brasserie set around its sides. There are Orangina umbrellas outside a café, and she can hear music and voices, children’s laughter, the buzz of a moped nearby . . . It’s perfect, she thinks, almost tearful with a sudden rush of happiness.

Arrived safely – her