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.

And then it was the supporting roles.

Mercy Williams’s co-star didn’t win. But that was probably a good thing. They would never give Oscars to two black actors in one year. That just wouldn’t happen. The field was still clear. Mercy could still win.

Not that it mattered. That’s what Will would tell her: the job was done, they’d been on the red carpet, they had arrived. They had achieved the impossible – from graduation to the Oscars in less than two years. They had done what no other British designer had done before them. The next few years were going to be Mercy, legendary, the stuff of dreams.

That’s what he would tell her when she saw him, later, after the show, after laughing off whatever disaster had befallen him, good old Will, always some adventure to recount.

‘And the nominees are . . .’