The clairvoyant lived in an impressive apartment block near the Boulevard St-Germain, on the Left Bank. Looking up from the pavement, I could see wisteria straddling the gaps along the fourth-floor balconies, running the length of the building. The usual massive communal doors of Parisian apartments led into a mirrored hallway, with a rank of high-powered all-terrain pushchairs parked under the last loop of the staircase. The secretary on the intercom murmured ‘fourth floor’ and I squeezed into a tiny lift that had been cunningly inserted into the stairwell, as nineteenth-century grandeur was sacrificed to convenience. Even alone I felt my personal space was being infringed, although the maximum possible weight was apparently three people. As I emerged from the lift and took a few deep breaths to prepare myself, I bumped into the concierge who was distributing the mail to the apartments.

The door was immediately opened by an elegant, beautifully clad lady in pressed white linen trousers and shirt, who held out her hand in welcome. As I shook her hand and tried to step through the half-open door, my foot tripped on the mat in the hallway, under which the concierge had left the post, including letters and packages. It was not the entry I had planned, but I warmed to the lady as she swooped gracefully down to extricate her mail with some aplomb.

She showed me into her office and disappeared for a few moments, leaving me to organize my thoughts and look around. The apartment was large and high-ceilinged, but crammed with works of art, paintings, sculptures and ornaments, predominantly in the Louis XV style. Behind the desk hung an enormous nineteenth-century portrait of a beautiful woman in a pink dress clasping a posy. Every inch of the walls was covered with paintings, including works signed by Toulouse-Lautrec and other famous artists. In the corner of the room stood a small clavichord. Lying on coffee tables were art books and magazines. Interspersed among the bookshelves were portraits of a handsome young man, clearly the son of the clairvoyant.

I was worried that my scepticism, engendered by the celebrity endorsements on her website, would be immediately apparent and I would be shown the (magnificently rococo) door. But the lady settled herself at the desk, her dark hair becomingly drawn back in a chignon, one impressive ring on her hand, and looked at me in a warm and approachable manner. Her secretary had encouraged me to ‘bring photos of your loved ones, anything you like to show Madame’. I had brought just the bottle with its contents.

I unpacked it and set it on the table before the clairvoyant.

The clairvoyant leaned forward in the chair. I felt curious and cynical. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

‘A letter in a bottle. I would like you to tell me about it.’