‘Okay,’ he’d said, with an awkward grimace.

She hadn’t realised he was about to invite her to the bar he was heading to with the others.

‘You have friends there?’ he’d asked, surprise and disdain in his voice as he appraised her again, making a fresh assessment of her family and economic circumstances: her smart black suit trousers, her pin-striped shirt, the delicate pearl earrings gifted from her godmother, which she now regretted wearing.

‘Hm, sort of,’ she’d shrugged. Not wanting to lie, nor to tell the truth.

She cursed herself again, as she scanned the lobby, her fingers tightening around The Economist. The truth was, people-watching was a hobby of hers. She loved to observe people when they thought no one else was watching. Enjoyed overhearing conversations and imagining the context, the stories they divulged. And nowhere was better to people-watch than the annual le Bal at the Hôtel de Crillon. When Julia had realised she’d be in Paris for it, she’d marked it in her diary in capitals and underlined it. The people she could watch! Like the couple over there. A tall, handsome boy in white tie, with a pretty, slightly chubby girl in a blue, lace dress with capped sleeves and a full, tiered skirt, cinched round her waist with a wide satin sash. She was trying her best to tease him about something, but the flush on her cheeks and the way she kept angling her body towards his was giving her away. They were looking around them, for a parent perhaps, or a friend. What were their worries right now, she wondered? Was he bored? Roped into this by a relative? Perhaps she had a boyfriend – because it seemed to Julia as if everyone else in the world had a boyfriend except for her – but she liked this boy better?

Across the lobby, she noticed a hotel manager watching her closely. She’d arrived after work and in her smart attire had walked straight inside, but that was a couple of hours ago and the lobby was beginning to fill with photographers and guests. She sensed it was time to leave. She wasn’t sure how much more she’d be able to see anyway; she could hardly sneak into the ballroom where le Bal was held. Would it be weird if she joined Valentin at the bar in Le Marais now, turning up late when she’d told him she had other plans?

She stood quickly and made her way to the restrooms, but a queue had formed. She continued walking, in no rush and enjoying the buzz around these people who were, in theory, quite close to her world – she was at one of the best independent schools in the country, after all – but in practice were aeons away. Someone like Julia would never be able to gain entry to an event like this. If only Jennifer, her best friend and the other scholarship pupil in her year, could see her now. Jennifer was obsessed with the London socialites, poring over Tatler the same way Julia did the Financial Times in preparation for her future secondment interviews. She had a clear career trajectory mapped out: Cambridge and then financial analyst at one of the large investment banks in the City.