For the following challenge – in Paris, this time – I decided to recruit Isadora. We had to fine-tune our act, because Louis’s goal was far from easy. We rehearsed a little mother–daughter number that was totally insane. Ordinarily so poised, sensible and friendly, Isadora had to give a credible performance as a temperamental teen, swear like a trooper and vent her frustration with tears and tantrums. Truth be told, Isa was having the time of her life. Contrary to what she’d told me during our football training, she was not a terrible actress at all, and in fact played the part so well that she frightened her father. Isa flew into a rage when Edgar said he didn’t have the two euros she wanted to buy her favourite magazine. She stamped her foot, flushed crimson and began to sob. I applauded her performance, she bowed and we burst out laughing at Edgar’s half-astonished, half-relieved look. For a moment, he’d really believed that his daughter had completely lost it.

Having perfected our number, we put on our glad rags and headed for the N.R.J. Music Awards party, which was taking place that evening, 14 February, Valentine’s Day. Once inside the building, we marched determinedly towards the stage door. As expected, it was guarded by two giant bouncers. Isadora was chewing gum outrageously, keeping her nose glued to her phone. She seemed to be developing a taste for her role. Edgar would have to watch out, in a few years’ time . . .

The Hégémonie group was one of the event’s sponsors. So I flashed my old business card, which said I was the company’s marketing director. A card with a gilt logo, like that, intimidated people. I acted the stressed-out, borderline-hysterical executive, swearing I’d left my accreditation in the taxi, and I dropped a few names of senior people in the company – I’d done my homework thoroughly. I kept this act up for ten long minutes, and, faced with the bouncers’ reasonable refusal to let me past, I produced my trump card: my daughter for the evening. Isadora began to yell, calling on the security guards as witnesses, telling them that not only did she never get to see me because of my job, but – worse – every time I promised her something, I screwed it up. That I’d promised to take her backstage, and a promise was a promise. In a final theatrical flourish, she sat down on the floor and sobbed her heart out. A young woman with a V.I.P. badge came over to us, said a few words to Isadora, then turned to the security guards and said, ‘They’re with me; let them through.’ Bingo.