The elevator came to a sudden, jerky stop and the doors opened and we stepped out into a grand entrance room with an ornate gold ceiling, brilliant green swirly malachite pillars and cold marble floors. It was so huge our entire apartment back home in Brixton could have fitted into it.

“Come this way. Your rooms are in the east wing,” Nicole strode ahead, her boots clacking on the marble floor. “You’ll have your own bathroom and a small kitchen, but there is no need to cook. You’ll take your meals with me and Françoise in the main dining room.”

“Who is Françoise?” I asked.

The answer to the question greeted us in the next room. A girl about my age with flame-coloured hair, who looked very much like Nicole, was lying on a sofa piled high with long-haired caramel Persian cats.

“Maman! You’re back!” the girl leapt up from the sofa and the cats yowled in complaint as they were flung off in her wake.

“You must be Maisie!” the girl rushed to me and kissed me on both cheeks.

“You can’t imagine how excited I am to have you here.” The girl’s eyes were bright. “All the other artists who’ve come to stay have been boring adults. But now we have you, and this is going to be the best summer ever. We can go swimming and have ice creams and …”

“Françoise.” Nicole rolled her eyes. “Maisie is not here for a play date! She is here to attend art school.”

“I know that!” Françoise sniffed. “You don’t have to be boring about it, though! She can still eat ice creams, can’t she?”

Françoise clutched my arm as if I were about to bolt off. “Come on, let me show you the rooms.”

Françoise dragged me away before Nicole could stop her, and we scooted together down the corridors and through a door that led to the east wing. Here, the mood of the apartment changed. No more flashy gold and marble. The room I was standing in now clearly belonged to an artist. The worn parquet floors were spattered with paint. A row of easels in various sizes leant against the wall. Down one wall of the room the windows were almost floor to ceiling, letting in the most amazing light and giving me a view over what seemed to be the whole of Paris. “It’s very basic, I know.” Françoise was apologetic.

“It’s perfect,” I said.

“Really?” Françoise wrinkled up her nose. “I find it a bit drab and grubby, but it’s good that you like it.”

***