Apart from the stacked, labelled boxes in the second, tiny cupboard of a bedroom occupying what space there was in it, furniture and trimmings were kept to a notable minimum. Sometimes, there was a vase of flowers, a coat cast onto a chair, a French novel in a yellow dust jacket but, usually, the effect was extreme minimalism.

Finding anywhere to live in Paris was a nightmare and a flat, however small, was a flat. Admittedly somewhat joyless, the anonymity of the place suited her plus it was only a short walk to work.

In the courtyard below, Madame Poirier, the concierge, conducted one of her conversations punctuated with explosive syllables. ‘It’s against regulations, monsieur,’ she was saying.

Which ones this time? Laure wondered. (Madame Poirier’s regulations came and went.) Which monsieur was she bullying? In truth, Madame never shut up, but, like the ugly doors and windows, she was part of a set-up into which Laure had inserted herself. The quasi-bullying, the tiptoeing around the regulations, the irritations were anchors. They were the ingredients of the life she had chosen.

Having washed up the coffee pot, she put it out to dry on a tea towel spread out over the drainer and checked that the one sharp kitchen knife was back in the drawer. Not content, she reopened the drawer and stuck a cork onto the tip of the knife, just to be sure. Sharp knives made her uneasy.

She rarely cooked or entertained and possessed only four pieces of good furniture, including the sofa. But hardly anyone ever slumped down into it for a late-night drink or to read the Sunday papers. Sometimes her English friends – including Jane back home in Brympton – commented on how unlived-in it felt.

Charlie, her younger brother, was more forthright. ‘You could at least unpack the boxes, Laure.’

‘They’re fine as it is. I want it light, free from clutter.’

‘Most normal people have something. A photo, some books, the chair Granny gave them. You might as well live in an egg box.’

Laure eyed him. Charlie was not much of a home-bird either and their mutual amusement held more than a tinge of irony. ‘Pot and kettle?’

‘The very ones.’

If it was a modus vivendi which struck the English as odd, the French saw nothing peculiar about it. They were not curious as to how Laure chose to live and, if they wished to eat a meal together, they met at a restaurant.

Listening to the news with half an ear, she drank her coffee and dried her hair. The meteo predicted 26 degrees at midday and she hoped no higher because her hair would suffer. Dommage. She gave it a final blast from the dryer, threaded drop pearl earrings into her ears and inspected her nail varnish, an exciting dark red that required upkeep. But, the colour of riot and sex, it was worth it.

She tilted her head at the image in the mirror.