Three days after the momentous slap, brandishing my letter of dismissal for serious professional misconduct, I went to see a lawyer and told him what had happened. He pulled a face, implying that I was in big trouble . . . until I revealed the trump cards I’d been carefully keeping up my sleeve: fifteen years of excellent and loyal service at Hégémonie, glowing appraisals, dozens of clandestine audio recordings of everyday sexism in the company, and – an unhoped-for extra – the spontaneous sympathetic email from one of the few women who had been at that fateful meeting, saying she’d be prepared to testify in my favour, on condition of anonymity.

My lawyer’s face brightened. I’d done a good job, my case was cast iron: never would a group like Hégémonie, whose business relied entirely on the trust of women all over the world, run the risk of a sexual-harassment scandal that could cost them a boycott, tens of millions of euros in losses and a major P.R. crisis. He would start negotiations with them that would see me financially secure for many years to come. In his view, I could easily obtain some half a million euros or more, but we could aim higher by putting the frighteners on the great behemoth.

And so the recording of one of the commander-in-chief’s favourite jokes was sent to Hégémonie’s lawyers. Mic on, the scene begins. The marketing team is presenting a new ad featuring Jennifer Preston-Conwell, triple Oscar winner, with some thirty million social-media followers. Mr Head Honcho unceremoniously interrupts the speaker.

‘Your Jennifer’s beginning to age. She’s costing us a fortune in photoshopping. She needs liposuction, if you ask me.’

Pause. Palpable embarrassment. Silence. Mr Head Honcho begins to laugh.

‘And how can she have such tiny tits and such a fat arse? Inflate her breasts, shave off her arse; it’ll be OK for this time, but, after that, find a new muse. Otherwise sales of our body-care products will plummet, and you’ll go down with them.’

‘Bingo,’ crowed my lawyer, his eyes gleaming with mercenary tears.

*

On the ninth day, the medical team decided to halt Louis’s treatment. The infections were cured, the bruising reduced. I wanted to believe that Louis was making progress, but the doctors continued to say that his true level of consciousness needed to be assessed now that he was no longer being maintained in an artificial coma. It was now that we would find out whether Louis was showing signs of awareness. How long would it take to know this? In two days’ time, we would have a good idea of the situation. Patience. Be brave.

*