It was Christmas Eve. The old house creaked and groaned in the wind, and she wondered anxiously whether Santa’s reindeers would be able to land on the roof. And then she heard it: the unmistakable sound of bells ringing, faint at first but getting louder. Her heart pounding with excitement and terror, she slid lower under her soft quilt, until only her peridot-green eyes were peeping above it, round and shining with anticipation. Santa was coming . . .

What was that noise? Marie-Claire woke reluctantly from her delightful dream, half expecting to see the glow of the fire in the darkness that surrounded her. Her mouth was dry, her arm stiff where she’d laid her head on it. A mobile phone was tinkling somewhere – not reindeers’ sleigh bells – and it took a few moments to realize that she was on the small sofa in the recording studio, which was now in complete darkness. She’d come into the studio to listen, as twilight was falling, to a particular inflection that the actress who had been recording an advert earlier had got just right in one recording. Marie-Claire wanted to isolate that perfect tone and splice it into the voice-over, and the quiet of late afternoon was her favourite time to shut her eyes and listen to the recordings.

She could see it was snowing outside. Soft white flakes drifting and dancing down.

What time was it? How long had she been sleeping? She’d to go home and doll herself up. She and her partner, Marc, were having dinner in Edulis. He’d booked a table in November when he had taken her there to celebrate White Truffle season. Marc liked the good things in life. There’d be caviar and champagne on the table tonight, knowing him.