Bel suddenly realised that his lips were moving and a sound was coming out of his mouth. She realised he was asking her name. Shocked at her own reaction to his presence, she dragged herself out of her daydream, trying to pull herself together and speak lucidly in French.

‘Mademoiselle, are you feeling well? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘My apologies, I was . . . elsewhere. My name is Izabela, Izabela Bonifacio.’

‘Ah, like the old Queen of Spain,’ the assistant nodded.

‘And the late Princess of Brazil,’ she interjected quickly.

‘I regret to admit I know very little about your country and its history. Apart from the fact they rival us here in believing they produce the best cup of coffee.’

‘Certainly the best beans at least,’ she said defensively. ‘Obviously, I know a lot about your country,’ she said, wondering if she was sounding as witless as she felt.

‘Yes. Our art and culture have crossed the globe over many hundreds of years, whereas yours is still to emerge. And I have no doubt it will,’ he added. ‘Now, as you seem to have been abandoned by the professor and your friend the architect, perhaps I can offer you some lunch while you tell me more about Brazil.’

‘I . . .’ Bel glanced out of the window, vaguely nervous about the inappropriateness of the situation. She had never met this man in her life and she was alone with him. If her father or her fiancé could see her now . . .

The young man saw her concern and waved it away with a dismissive flick of his hand. ‘I can guarantee they will forget all about you while they are deep in discussion. And they may be gone for hours. So, if you do not wish to starve, please, sit yourself down at that table over there and I will prepare our lunch.’

The young man turned from her and began to walk across the atelier towards the kitchen she had glimpsed earlier.

‘Pardon me, monsieur, but what is your name?’

He stopped and turned. ‘Forgive me, how rude I am. My name is Laurent, Laurent Brouilly.’

Bel sat down at the rough wooden bench placed in a small alcove in a corner of the room. A small chuckle escaped from her lips as she thought of the circumstances she found herself in. Alone with a young man, and not only that, one who was currently preparing lunch for them both. She had never seen Pai enter their kitchen, let alone prepare a meal.

A few minutes later, Laurent came towards her carrying a tray loaded with two sticks of the delicious freshly baked French bread she so loved, two hunks of strong-smelling French cheese, an earthenware jug and two glasses.

He set it down on the table, before drawing a piece of old curtain that ran on a track nailed to the ceiling. ‘To keep the dust from the atelier off our food,’ he explained as he emptied the contents of the tray onto the bare boards of the table. Then he poured a generous amount of a pale yellow liquid into the two glasses and passed one to her.