He gave me that fawning smile of his, the one he uses when Zozie is around. I know from Zozie that he is alone – no family, no children on Christmas Eve. And although I don’t especially like the man, I can’t help feeling sorry for him, with his starched yellow collar and hungry-dog smile.

‘You’re welcome to join us, of course,’ I said. ‘Unless you’ve got other plans.’

He frowned a little, as if trying to recall the details of his frenetic social calendar.

‘I might be able to make it,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot to do, but—’

I hid a smile behind my hand. Laurent is the kind of man who needs to feel that he’s doing you a tremendous favour by accepting one himself.

‘We’d love to see you, Monsieur Pinson.’

He shrugged magnanimously. ‘Well, if you insist . . .’

I smiled. ‘That’s nice.’

‘And that’s a very becoming dress, if I may say so, Madame Charbonneau.’

‘Call me Yanne.’

He bowed again. I caught the scent of hair-oil and sweat. And I wondered – is this what Zozie does, every day while I make chocolates? Is this why we have so many customers?

A lady in an emerald coat, shopping for presents for Christmas. Her favourites are caramel swirls, and I tell her so without hesitation. Her husband will enjoy my apricot hearts, and their daughter will love my gilded chocolate chilli squares—

What’s happening? What’s changed in me?

A new sense of recklessness seems to have caught me, a feeling of hope, of confidence. I am no longer quite myself, but something closer to Vianne Rocher, to the woman who blew into Lansquenet on the tail of the carnival wind—

Outside the chimes are totally still, and the sky is dark with unshed snow. This week’s unnatural mildness has lifted, and it’s cold enough to make breath plume as, in the square, the passers-by like grey columns blur past. There’s a musician on the corner; I can hear the sound of a saxophone, playing ‘Petite Fleur’ in its lingering, almost-human voice.

I think to myself – he must be cold.

It’s a strange thought for Yanne Charbonneau. Real Parisians cannot afford such thoughts. There are so many poor people here in this city; homeless people; old people bundled up like Salvation Army parcels in shop doorways and back alleys. All of them are cold; all hungry. Real Parisians do not care. And I do want to be a real Parisian . . .