‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

‘No? Oh well, just beautiful then.’

Christine didn’t feel very beautiful, in trackie pants and a sweat-wet t-shirt, but it was the first compliment she’d been paid for a long time, and it felt rather nice. But remember, she thought, he wants your business. Wealthy older women are bread and butter to young men like this. Dumb hunks who just have to bat their absurdly long dark eyelashes at an old biddy like me and we’re handing over hundreds of pounds a month to be tortured on a mat.

Trying to remember that, she followed Joel to a piece of equipment that looked like a giant’s version of the device that was used to measure one’s feet in the old-fashioned shoe shops of her girlhood. A wooden box-like structure, with a graded scale of black lines marked on its angled top.

‘Right, Christine, now we’re going to test your flexibility.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Don’t worry. You look pretty supple to me.’

Did he just wink at her?

‘Just sit yourself down on the mat, that’s it, and put your legs straight out in front of you, your feet here.’ She obeyed, and he squatted at her side, grabbed an ankle. ‘Shuffle in a little bit closer. That’s it.’ His hand rested on her shin. ‘Now, what I want you to do is lean forward, taking it gently, keeping these legs on the floor’ – he pressed gently down – ‘and see if you can touch my other hand with your fingertips. There you go. Breathe out and stretch . . . Great.’ Christine managed, without too much difficulty, to reach Joel’s hand.

‘Now we’re going to try a series of progressive stretches.’ He stood up, positioned himself at the end of the box, feet spread, legs apart, his crotch somewhat thrust forward. ‘In your own time, breathing out. That’s good.’ He wrote something on his clipboard. ‘And again . . . Little bit further. That’s great.’ Scribble, tick. ‘And one more time, really breathe out, keep those legs glued to the mat . . .’ Christine felt the tendons behind her knees stinging, but eased herself up and forward, conscious of the fact that her face and Joel’s groin were now about a foot apart. ‘And hold it there for a moment, six, seven, eight, and let it go, gently, gently, and relax back on to the mat. Very good. Very good indeed. Now we’re going to try some spinal rotations . . .’

The last appointment was finished, the table was littered with notes and business cards and empty takeaway coffee cups from the café two doors down.

‘What happens now?’ asked Isabelle, whose head was swimming.

‘Onwards and upwards. We’re on our way. They know we mean business. They know the Cissé name.’

‘And you really think . . .’

‘Listen for a moment. I’m going to tell you a story.’ Will held out a seat for Isabelle, made her comfortable, and paced around the studio. ‘Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess, whose name was Isabelle Cissé. She lived in a castle with her mother, who was a wicked and very powerful queen . . .’