So what then? Only one thing makes sense: Noah lied to me; Sabine was not just a model. They had had a relationship and seeing him with me pissed her off. She wanted his wife to know.

And fuck, fuck, fuck.

Because I’m just starting my career as an art and culture writer. The industry is small. And Agnès Bisset is a gallerist; according to that caption, an ‘international’ one. From the fact that her name is listed first, she’s also an important one. That means she’s well connected. And, if the diamonds sparkling from her neck and her flawless skin are anything to go by, she’s wealthy. Wealth means success, and success means clout. But more unsettling than any of that is something else: she’s spoken to me. She’s seen me up close. My cheeks flush hot as I remember her gaze sweeping over my cheap outfit at Noah’s exhibition. If she sees that video she’ll recognise me. I know she will. Which is all fine and good right now, while she doesn’t know who I am, but what about when our paths cross again, which they surely will? Be it in six days, or six months, eventually it’s bound to happen, and when it does, she’ll know it was me, she’ll realise where I work, and nothing good will happen after that.

The chances of me getting out of this unscathed and unidentified just got significantly smaller.

I reach for my phone, pull up Camilla’s number and press ‘FaceTime’.

Briiinnngg, briiinnggg, briiinngg…

‘Bonjour,’ Camilla says in an accent that’s even worse than mine. I’ve caught her off guard. She’s chewing a piece of toast at her kitchen table, staring into the camera lens. She’s wearing a white She-Ra T-shirt under a turquoise satin kimono, her dark hair is back in a ponytail and her cheeks are shiny like she’s just put on face cream. I can see her flat in the background and I’m filled with a pang for home.

‘Hey,’ I say. My voice comes out dry.

‘Are you okay?’ she asks, tilting her head to the side. ‘You look weird.’

I shake my head in reply. ‘No. I think I really fucked up.’

Three minutes and a short summary of last night later, Camilla has concurred that, yes, I definitely have fucked up. She’s sipping peppermint tea, her eyes wide as she says: ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, taking a sip of what is now cold coffee while I stare at my own face in the little screen and adjust the angle so the bags under my eyes aren’t quite so bad.

‘Well, even if that girl does upload it or his wife sees it,’ she says slowly, like she’s thinking as she goes, ‘you’re just some random woman, how will anyone know who you are? And if nobody knows who you are, they can’t tell your boss, can they?’

‘But I’ve spoken to her, the wife,’ I say. ‘If she sees that footage she’ll definitely recognise me. And even though she doesn’t know where I work right now, I’ll bump into her again, I know I will.’