“Pleasure to meet you.” Steph grabs me gently by the shoulders and kisses me on each cheek. “Please, entrez. Dominique is on the phone to god knows whom.” She quirks up her eyebrows at me. “She’ll join us soon.”

Steph escorts us to the terrace overlooking the garden.

“I was in charge of making dinner tonight, so I apologize in advance.” She paints a grin on her face that manages at the same time to be apologetic and effortlessly seductive. Her dark hair falls in front of her eyes and she brushes the wayward strand away with a casual flick of the wrist. Steph lifts a bottle of wine from the table. “So I shall ply you with some really good wine first. Red all right?”

Camille and I both nod. Christ, I believed Dominique would be the one with the star quality at this dinner. I’m beginning to see why she risked so much to be with Steph. I know the story, of course. And I remember the notorious video they made on the eve of the election campaign frame by frame. But whereas Dominique shone in that, Steph looked ill at ease and as though she’d rather be anywhere else. Tonight, she’s all confidence and swag and sophistication.

The stories she could tell. Her English isn’t half bad either. I remember the nagging wish I’ve had to interview her, and an idea sparks in my head. An idea I will have to shelve until later, because Dominique Laroche arrives, wearing a casual summer dress, no shoes, no makeup.

“Camille, mon amie.” She throws her arms wide and embraces Camille in a tight hug for long seconds while I just stand there waiting, feeling my stress levels rise again, because we may all just be ordinary people, but I do feel as if I’m in the company of extraordinary greatness tonight.

“And you must be Zoya. Enchantée.” She draws me into a hug as well and then, for a few instances that seem to pass in slow motion, I find myself in Dominique Laroche’s warm embrace. Her skin is on mine, her arms pressed affectionately against my back, her perfume in my nose.

“Pleasure to meet you,” I mumble.

“We speak English tonight, I gather?” she asks, after releasing me—because that’s how it feels. As though I had nothing to do with the impromptu hug and she was fully in charge of when she set me free from it. “Or has Camille already given you a crash course in French?”

“I’m taking classes, but we’ve only covered the basics so far, I’m afraid.”

“Sylvie’s daughter Alice is giving her lessons every afternoon,” Camille says.

“Lessons?” I say. “I would describe it more as my daily hour of torture. That girl is so strict with me.”

“You must be misbehaving then. She’s always so sweet to me,” Camille says.