‘Yes,’ says Nathalie, trepidatious.

‘No,’ Hyacinth says. Short. Sharp. Definite. ‘It’s boring. Too done. What else have you got?’

Nathalie’s cheeks go from pink to red, as she looks down at her list.

‘We could hire a Porsche or a Ferrari for a day and drive it through Paris, taking pictures… we could do a few things like that. Show how easy it is to fake an influencer lifestyle.’

Hyacinth shakes her head. ‘No.’

Nathalie’s voice is crackling, strangled. ‘What about writing up a sober rave?’

Hyacinth thinks for a moment and the room rings with silence. We all feel bad for Nathalie but none of us want to end up in Hyacinth’s crosshairs.

‘Okay. But keep brainstorming.’ Her gaze moves to me. Shit.

‘What have you got, Harper?’

The words come out fast, ‘There’s a Charlotte Gainsbourg concert?’

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘But find an angle.’

‘Claudia?’ comes Hyacinth’s voice. I can hear Claudia telling her about how some celebrity or other is in town and rumoured to be staying at Le Meurice, about how she can get tickets to some sort of after party, but my gaze has moved to Stan. He catches my eye and smirks, and I look away. Down at my notes. Like I don’t know what he’s up to. I circle Charlotte Gainsbourg a couple of times and my phone glows with a message. My eyes snap to the screen. Maybe it’s Thomas. Maybe he’s found something…

But no.

It’s another text from Camilla: What are you going to do?

I weave my way through the darkening street, my pulse all semi-quavers. I can see my destination just up ahead, past the traffic lights. According to my sat nav, that’s where the PI has his offices. I’m not really sure what I’m going to say to him, but I want to walk through that door and have him see my face and know I’m onto him. It’s that, or just let him keep shadowing me. I move past a grocer to my left, watching the little blue dot on my phone move towards the address. And then I’m here. It says I’m here.

I look around and across the street, frowning and looking up at the stone walls for a number. This is it: number 349.

And it’s a nail salon.

There’s a small woman watching me from inside. I pull the door open – it jingles with a bell – and smile at her.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘Bonjour,’ she replies.

And so in French I say, ‘I’m looking for this.’ And then I show her the card.

She shrugs and her mouth does that French pfff thing, her eyes widening as she looks down at it and then up again. ‘Is not here,’ she says in English.

I look around. Is she lying? Is there a back room?