“Where’s that one you did the other weekend?” he asked me. “Those two black-and-white horses trotting in the park with the big oak trees overhead? It’s not on the fridge any more.”

I always put my best works on the fridge and then after a week or so I put them away in a drawer in my room. That was where I found the black-and-white horses.

Dad looked at the drawing and smiled. “This will do the trick,” he said. I didn’t know what he meant by that at the time, and I didn’t think to ask.

For the rest of term there was a truce between me and Mrs Mason. It wasn’t as if she started liking me or anything. That would have been too much to hope for. But she didn’t keep looking over my shoulder to see what I was doing either. I think she couldn’t be bothered facing down my dad again.

It was almost the end of term when Dad came home one evening and called me into the living room. There was something about the tone of his voice that had me really worried.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked when I saw him standing there with that serious look on his face.

Dad didn’t say anything. He held out his hand and I saw the envelope. It was made of thick creamy paper embossed with a silver seal that had words in French on it.

“Is it for me? You’ve opened it already,” I pointed out to him. The envelope was torn.

Then I saw he was shaking. There were tears in his eyes.

“Dad, is everything OK?” I was worried now. “What’s going on?”

“You’re in,” he said.

“In what?”

“The School of Arts in Paris,” Dad said. “A school term on a full, all-expenses-paid scholarship.”

“But I didn’t apply to art school,” I said.

And then I remembered that day after the parent-teacher conference, when he’d searched out that drawing I did of the two black-and-white cobs.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to apply to any art school,” I said.

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” Dad said. “It’s a scholarship for an English pupil to study there. They get over a thousand applicants – and only one kid gets picked.”

“And they picked me?”

“They picked you,” Dad confirmed.

“So, Maisie.” He smiled at me. “What do you say? Do you want to go to Paris?”

Chapter 3: The Chance of a Lifetime

We went out to a French restaurant to celebrate. It seemed appropriate, considering.

“The Parisian School of the Beaux-Arts is the most famous art school in the world,” Dad said as the waiter handed us menus. I looked at the prices – eight pounds for a green salad!

“Did you win the lottery?” I asked.

“We deserve a special treat this once,” Dad replied.