“It’s a big responsibility. Of course, my advice gets ignored half the time, but I take my position very seriously.” She curls her lips into a smile. “But one of my mantras for this trip was to talk about work as little as possible. Even though it’s inevitable when you travel alone, meet people and make casual conversation. It’s usually the first thing that comes up.”

“That’s the world we live in. We’re defined not by who we are but what we do.”

“Very true.” She holds up her hands. “So please excuse me for asking, but what is it that you do?”

“I’m a television presenter. I interview people.”

“Like a chat show?” Not even a cool Frenchwoman can resist perking up at finding out she’s sitting across from someone who gets her face on television.

“A bit more in-depth than that. My show is not a promotion vehicle for actors and the like. We have one guest per week and the actual interview takes hours to produce. The research takes weeks.”

“You must know a whole lot about many people then.” She leans back in her chair.

“Too much at times.” I smile at Camille. I like her. There’s something very disarming about her.

“Do you get recognized all the time?”

“Not that much, actually. This is not America. People are still pretty discreet. And my show doesn’t have a big viewership among the selfie generation.”

Camille jots out her lip and nods. “Looks like I have some googling to do.”

“There should be complimentary wi-fi in the apartment,” I say. “I hope it’s working.”

“It is.” She cracks a smile. “Don’t feel too bad about the smoke detector. Your place is really nice. This is coming from someone who has sampled a vast array of accommodation all over the country the past couple of months. I wanted a really nice place to stay for my last stop and I’m not disappointed.”

“Thanks for saying that.” I make eye-contact for a brief moment.

“So please explain to me how a TV personality is sitting here having coffee with me this morning after trying to change the batteries in the smoke detector. Somehow, it doesn’t compute.”

“I’m a very down-to-earth kind of girl who likes to get her hands dirty.” Camille seems like the sort of person who can appreciate a joke.

“Right.” She nods, her face serious. “I could tell as soon as you climbed onto that chair. Such confidence.”

We both chuckle. “The person who usually deals with all of this for me has pneumonia. Poor thing.”

“Good morning, Zoya and friend.” Kristin appears next to our table. “Can I get you anything else?”

I jump at the opportunity to introduce Camille to Kristin, who knows everything there is to know about Darlinghurst—where to drink, where to eat, and where to have coffee, of course.