‘I don’t remember her.’

‘She was wearing Chanel. And you can bet she didn’t pay for it.’

‘You mean . . . Rivelli?’

‘Sure. She’s his . . . what would you call it?’

‘My mother would say “mistress”.’

‘I like your mother. She always has the right word.’

‘Yes. And usually she has the last word as well.’

They carried on around the stalls, but Isabelle’s head was starting to ache. ‘I can’t look at any more,’ she said. ‘I’m going colour blind. I just want to wear beige for the rest of my life. Can we go?’

‘Any time you like. We’ve got what we need. And you may have done yourself a better turn today than you know, charming the pants off Massimo Rivelli.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Hey, if Rivelli fancies you, don’t knock it. Come on. Let’s blow this joint. There’s a bar in Pigalle that we need to go to. They have trannie waitresses.’

Isabelle was not in the mood. Her head ached, her feet were sore, and she could not stop herself from wondering where Will had got to for the missing half hour. God, thirty minutes of mystery and she was behaving like a jealous wife . . . This would never do.

‘Trannie waitresses?’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘How fabulous! Let’s go!’

They made love for the first time right there on the sofa – and partially on the floor – grappling with each other, clinging on as if their lives depended on it, Christine making more noise than she could ever remember making with a man before, crying out ‘Oh!’ and ‘Oh God!’, trying to stop herself, forgetting to stop herself, forgetting everything but Joel and what he was doing to her. He was simultaneously soft and hard, tender and aggressive. He knew exactly how to give her pleasure, taking his time, putting her first, her enjoyment setting the agenda for his.

They lay together for a while, drifting in and out of sleep, kissing, caressing, holding each other.

Eventually they got cold.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ said Christine. ‘You are staying, aren’t you?’

Joel bounced to his feet. ‘Yeah. I even brought my toothbrush.’

They climbed the stairs, arms round each other’s waist. As they reached the landing, Christine heard the key in the lock of the front door.

Ben, who was supposed to be ‘with mates’ for a couple of nights, had come home.

She hurried Joel into her bedroom and prayed that her son and her lover would not meet in the morning. Joel would have to get up early for work – he had a client at eight, she knew – and Ben seldom surfaced before ten.

They did not get much sleep. But Christine, conscious of Ben’s presence, was much less vocal in her apprecation.

Isabelle lay awake as dawn broke over the Boulevards. Will slept in the upper bunk. Every time he moved, the springs twanged a staccato passage and silence fell, but for his deep breathing, a semi-snore. He had kissed her goodnight – this was it, she was sure, her lips parted, his hands heavy on her shoulders, and when she opened her eyes he was staring into them, uncertain, troubled. She moved closer – and he slipped away, elusive as smoke, up the ladder to the safety of his own bed.