At the back of the room, Maisie watched silently as the price of the painting – her painting – continued to climb. Soon, the price was at ten thousand euros. Then it climbed higher still! Leaping up by a thousand euros at a time, again and again, until the bid rapidly reached twenty thousand. Even then, the paddle-holders didn’t slow, and soon twenty became thirty and thirty became forty!

There was a moment, at forty-five thousand, when a woman in the front row wearing a Chanel suit and jet-black sunglasses, decided to trump all the other bidders and proclaimed in an icy tone that she was raising the bid to fifty-one thousand, and a mutual sigh of defeat swept the room. Then, a grey-haired gentleman in a cravat came straight back at her and proclaimed “Fifty-three!” and the bidding was off again!

All the while, as the price climbed ever higher, Maisie felt more and more anxious. In this room, with Claude’s black eyes staring at her, she was suddenly gripped with claustrophobia and remorse. How ridiculous to come here now when the real Claude was in such pain and the clock was ticking! What had she been thinking?

Maisie turned to leave, but the crowd were pressed together like sardines.

“I’m sorry! I have to go!” She began to try and push her way out, but the occupants of the auction room were so intently focused on the drama that was unfolding before them they refused to budge. Maisie tried again, in French this time. “Je suis desolé! Pardon, pardon …”

Her pleading had no effect. Maisie could feel the room closing in on her, her heart racing in panic.

“Please! I have to go!”

And then, as if by a miracle, the crowd parted, and there was Nicole Bonifait, Maisie’s patron, so-to-speak, right in front of her, clearing the people out of the way, grasping Maisie’s wrist to guide her through.

“It’s OK, Chou-chou,” Nicole said. “Come with me now. I have you!” and Maisie felt Nicole’s arms around her, ushering her through the crush, until a moment later they were out of the room into the foyer and then through the front doors, stumbling down the marble stairs on to the wide Parisian street below. Maisie was taking deep breaths, her hands on her knees as Nicole barked at one of the waiters at a pavement café nearby to bring them one of his chairs. Tout de suite!!

The waiter hastily obliged, and Nicole sat Maisie down in the middle of the street and told the waiter to bring them water.

“Here, drink this.” Nicole gave a fluted glass full of fizzy water to Maisie, who gratefully slugged it back in a single gulp. Her head was spinning.

“I’m fine,” Maisie insisted. “Nicole, I need to go –”

“Oui, oui, Petit Chou-chou Anglaise,” Nicole soothed, “but take a moment first to catch your breath.”