Isabelle found her place, and placed her bag on the empty seat beside her. He might yet arrive, out of breath, grinning, some ridiculous story at the ready.

Huge video screens relayed the arrivals, the red carpet highlights.

They were all here – somewhere among those tiny shiny dots down there, each arrayed in tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of borrowed finery, were the most famous people in the world. Among them Mercy Williams.

Mercy Williams in a Cissé dress.

She came up on the screen – an oven-ready turkey dancing and posing her way up the red carpet, her face almost bare of make-up, just a touch of silver around the eyes, a dark purple lipstick highlighting her mouth, her hair brushed out in a natural afro.

‘She could be your mom,’ said someone behind Isabelle, tapping her on the shoulder.

She could be your mom . . . She couldn’t wait to tell Will that one.

Why isn’t he here? He should be here. He got us here.

‘Mrs Fairbrother.’

‘Miss, actually, but . . . Yes.’

They all spoke such good English, she felt quite ashamed of her mangled attempts at French.

‘You say something about Massimo Rivelli.’

She was prepared for a fight. If the Capitaine looked like one of Rivelli’s cronies, his superior, a Commandant, looked like Rivelli himself.

‘That’s right. I have reason to believe that he was responsible for an accident involving a friend of mine.’

‘You have some proof, of course.’

‘No.’

The two men looked at each other.

‘Monsieur Rivelli is not unknown to us.’

Here we go. The old pals act.

‘I believe he has property in this area.’

‘Yes.’

‘And perhaps you are aware . . .’

‘Madame . . . pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle, I must ask you why you suspect this.’

This was no time for beating about the bush. ‘Because Mr Rivelli is a crook. A . . . oh God, what . . . un criminel.’

‘Crook I understand. And you believe that he has . . .’ The Commandant gestured in the air like a magician. ‘Somehow he has arranged for a little accident.’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I believe.’

‘Bien.’

Don’t you dare throw me out.

‘You will excuse us for a moment, mademoiselle.’ The two officers stood. ‘We need to make a call.’

She stopped worrying about Will, and started concentrating on the awards. There was all the usual song and dance, a hundred miles away on the stage, as if she was looking down the wrong end of a telescope, much easier to see on the screens. She had crossed oceans and continents just to watch the Oscars on TV.

She tried not to fidget during the writing awards, the visual effects, the sound mixing, editing, art direction and cinematography, and started thinking about Will again. She perked up a bit for make-up, and took a good deal of interest in costume design, and made a mental note to win that at some point in the not-too-distant future. Another goal to focus on.