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.’

Her brows lifted in interest. I had not mentioned the letter in a bottle on the phone, and it was unlikely that she would have known anything about it. If she had looked me up on the internet she would not have found any link to letters in bottles. It was not that I wanted to test her, it was more that I wanted her to come to the subject free of preconceptions and uninfluenced by my previous investigations.

‘Can I open it and read the letter?’ she asked.

‘I’d prefer you to tell me what you can before reading the letter,’ I answered firmly.

She nodded, unperturbed. ‘First I’ll see if I can pick up your signal or not. I’ll tell you whether I can feel anything.’ She handed me a pack of picture cards. ‘Shuffle these well,’ she instructed me.

They were not tarot cards, but various crudely drawn pictures, well thumbed and patched up with Sellotape around the edges. When I queried what they were, she explained, ‘They are my own special cards. They are just an aid to clairvoyance, my way of working. The cards help me. I don’t believe in them as such, it simply helps one to get in the mood, to make a connection with you, then afterwards it’s clairvoyance. If you don’t have the sight, these cards are completely useless.’

I was a bit disappointed, having promised myself crystal balls and dark muslin. I tried to concentrate as instructed, cut the pack and passed it to her.