‘When did you come to Paris?’ she managed to ask, the chattering not abating.

‘Last night,’ he said. ‘I booked the next Eurostar after I spoke to Nina and came straight here, but you were out. I stayed at the Lutetia, down the street. I couldn’t tell you this by text and I wanted you to have your friends around you.’

Even as he was leaving her he was trying to protect her. What had she done? Why had she driven him away?

‘Maybe stay on in Paris for a few days with them. I’m sorry. I thought I could give it one last shot, but I can’t. Not now. Another £70,000, Jules. What were you thinking?’

‘How did you know?’ she asked.

He shrugged. A gesture so familiar it made her ache, as though he were already gone. ‘It was how you were behaving on Friday morning. Jittery, jumpy, as if you couldn’t wait to get away. I knew something was going on but I couldn’t put my finger on it. And then I looked out to your car, realised I hadn’t seen you driving it in months, like last time. It all clicked into place.’

‘But I’ve got it all back! Look, I’ll show you. I’ve got it all back so we can start again.’

‘It’s not the money you need, Jules. It’s something else.’

‘A baby! I need a baby!’ she said, hysteria in her voice now as her heart beat faster.

‘You know…’ he said. ‘I’m not sure that’s it. I’ve got to go. I have an early Eurostar. I’m going back to London to pack up my things. I’ll stay at a hotel until I find something more permanent.’

‘But that’s madness! Why? Paul. Please.’

She began pulling on yesterday’s clothes: cigarette pants and a cashmere sweater. She bundled the rest of her things into her case, the capsule wardrobe her personal stylist compiled in disarray.

She was outside, running to keep pace with Paul along the street, her small suitcase clattering behind her. The harsh sunlight reminded her she had a strident headache. Her throat was dry, her skin hot. She longed for water. She strode alongside him, him wiping tears from his eyes, her imploring him, begging him, to reconsider.

Finally, he stopped. He placed his hands on her upper arms and she grabbed at them, trying to draw him closer to her, wanting nothing more than for him to wrap his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay as he had done countless times before. He was her person. And she was his. Why was he doing this to her? Okay, she hadn’t always supported him but why wasn’t he supporting her now? In spite of everything, a surge of indignant anger rose up and submerged her guilt. He was no better than her, if he left her like this?

‘Can we sit?’ she asked, gesturing to a bench. ‘If we could just sit down to talk? Please?’ Hysteria was driving her voice upwards and her overriding sense of shame and not wanting to cause a scene was battling to keep it down. Against the tidal wave of emotion – frustration, anger, fear, shame – Celeste’s voice sliced through, clear and calm: put it all on red. She shook her head free of her thoughts. The streets were still quiet but she was dimly aware of the Parisians who passed them, heads tilted with interest. She sniffed and composed herself, her fingers knotted in her lap.