She approached the closed door, her heart tap-dancing in her chest, and rapped her knuckles against the wood.

‘Est-ce que ça va?’ she asked – Are you okay? Not knowing what she would do if the occupant replied in rapid-fire French.

She stood there for a moment, excited to have stepped out of her comfort zone but apprehensive, silence permeating the space. She tapped over her forehead gently, moved her fingertips in small circular motions over the hot lumps before realising she’d need to press powder on to them again. She couldn’t have known this moment would change her life and yet she was holding her breath.

‘J’ai besoin d’aller dans ma chambre,’ the voice replied tearfully, in staccato, faltering French. The voice belonged to someone young, perhaps a similar age to Jules. As she translated in her head – She needs to go to her room – her sense of intention dissipated. Why am I getting myself involved in this?

‘Okay…’ she said aloud, thinking through her response. Behind her she heard someone else enter the restroom. She glanced over her shoulder, distracted, and saw the girl in the ruffled blue dress. The deb! Oh God. She hated speaking French in front of other people. Mortifying. ‘Um… avez-vous…’ She closed her eyes, heat flushing her entire face. She’d really have to go to town with the powder after this. ‘No. Um, desolé. I mean… Um…’

‘Can I help?’ the deb asked, appearing beside her, a keen, interested look on her face. She was beautiful up close, with soft creamy skin and arresting sapphire eyes. She smelt of roses and hairspray, her chestnut-brown hair swirled and secured around the nape of her neck, a thick wave of fringe curving over one side of her perfectly clear forehead. ‘I speak French.’ Of course you do, thought Julia, picturing chateaus in France and al fresco dinners at long tables laden with fresh flowers and red wine.

At their interaction, a gasp erupted from behind the door. ‘You’re English?’

‘Yes!’ Julia said, turning back and placing her hands on the closed door. ‘You too? Are you okay?’ she called into the wood.

She heard a loud sniff and nose-blowing from inside the cubicle. ‘Can you help me? I need to get up to my room, without anyone seeing me, and I don’t have my room key. I’ve made a mistake. Un gros mistake! Oh dammit,’ she muttered. ‘Why am I slipping into French? I’ve been trying to speak French all week and I can’t!’

*

Alice was trying not to look too excited by this exchange. She’d only popped into the loo because she needed some air before the ceremony, but now there was this poor girl crying, and this other girl, who was dressed like a middle-aged accountant but appeared to be around her age, seemed out of her depth. She was tall, her face blotchy, red heat battling with a thick layer of make-up and winning. She had oval eyes that glowed a pale green, their rapid movement reminding Alice of dragonflies darting over the lake at her family’s estate in the summer. Her anxiety was palpable.