‘I’m sure,’ agreed Bel with feeling, as the streets began to narrow and they passed cafés teeming with customers sitting at small wooden tables outside, shaded from the midday sun by colourful parasols. The air was heavy with the rich aromas of tobacco, coffee and alcohol.

‘What is that liquid in small glasses that everybody seems to be drinking?’ she asked Margarida.

‘Oh, it’s called absinthe. All the artists drink it because it’s cheap and very strong. Personally, I think it tastes disgusting.’

While a few men glanced appreciatively in their direction, here their status as two unaccompanied ladies without an older chaperone did not raise so much as an eyebrow of disapproval. Nobody cares, Bel thought, her mood lifting at the heady reality of being in Montparnasse for the first time.

‘We’ll go to La Closerie des Lilas,’ Margarida announced, ‘and if we’re lucky, you may see some familiar faces there.’

Margarida indicated a café that looked similar to the ones they had just passed and, after weaving a path between the heaving outdoor tables that were crammed together on the wide pavement in front of it, she led Bel inside. Speaking in rapid French to the waiter, Margarida was shown to a table in the front corner of the room by the window.

‘Now,’ she said as they sat down on the leather-covered banquette, ‘this is the best vantage point from which to watch as the residents of Montparnasse go about their business. And we will see how long it takes them to spot you,’ Margarida added.

‘Why me?’ Bel asked.

‘Because, chérie, you are astoundingly beautiful. And as a woman, there is no better currency to trade with in Montparnasse than that. I give them ten minutes before they are over here, eager to know who you are.’

‘You know many of them?’ Bel asked in awe.

‘Oh yes. It’s a surprisingly small community here, and everyone knows everybody else.’

Their attention was caught by a man with swept-back grey hair who was moving towards a grand piano, cheered on by the table he had arisen from. He sat down and began to play. The entire café fell silent and Bel too listened spellbound, as the wonderful piece of music slowly, tantalisingly, built to a crescendo. As the final note hovered in the air, a roar of appreciation went up and the man was cheered and stamped back to his table.

‘I’ve never heard anything quite like that,’ said Bel, breathless with enjoyment. ‘And who was the pianist? He is truly inspired.’

‘Querida, that was Ravel himself, and the piece he was playing is called Boléro. It hasn’t even had its official premiere yet, so we’re honoured indeed to hear it. Now, what shall we order for lunch?’

Margarida had been correct in her assumption that they would not be left alone for long. A stream of men, ranging from young to very old, came to their table and greeted her, then promptly enquired who her beautiful companion was.