Matthew had an art gallery in Notting Hill. He spoke French with a charming accent, and had a slightly caustic sense of humour. So British. How could a man like that still be single? He hadn’t found his princess, that was all, but he hadn’t given up hope. Paris was the capital of love, wasn’t it? Matthew wanted to go up the Eiffel Tower, at night. See the city at his feet. He asked me to go with him. I warned him that there’d be long queues, that we’d have to wait ages. Matthew was better informed than I was. At the last minute, he managed to book a table at the fine-dining restaurant at the top of Paris’s emblematic monument, which allowed us to jump the queue of tourists. A very expensive privilege, but so romantic.

I fell in love with Matthew that first evening. I’d just started working at Hégémonie. My first job. I gave myself, one hundred per cent, to my employer, not knowing that fifteen years later it would still be the same. Matthew and I had a passionate long-distance love affair. Twenty-three months, to be exact. We met once a fortnight. Two entire weekends each month – usually, one in Paris, the other in London. Matthew actually visited Paris regularly, and knew the city inside out. I learned much later that the Lonely Planet on his table was part of his baiting strategy. That I wasn’t the first Parisienne to fall into his trap.

In Paris, he usually came to my place, but sometimes he preferred to go to a luxury hotel, and we’d spend the entire weekend between the bed, the private pool and the restaurant. When he was in Paris with me, he was with me. ‘A matter of principle, beautiful.’ Matthew called me beautiful. I’d never felt as beautiful as when I was in his arms. Nothing was too good for his princess. I was his spoilt baby. We spent our time blissfully locked away together.