‘Ah, another dark-eyed and hot-blooded woman from that exotic land of yours,’ commented one gentleman, who Bel was sure was wearing lipstick.

The men would pause and stare at her face until she knew she was blushing as pink as the radishes in her untouched chef’s salad. She was far too exhilarated to eat.

‘Yes, I can paint you,’ some would say languidly, ‘and I will immortalise your beauty forever. Margarida knows where my studio is.’ Then the artist concerned would give a small bow and leave the table. Every few minutes, a waiter would appear with a glass of strange-coloured liquid, and announce ‘with the compliments of the gentleman at table six . . .’

‘Of course, you will pose for none of them,’ said Margarida pragmatically. ‘They are all Surrealists, which means they will only capture the essence of you and not your physical form. In all likelihood, your image would turn out to be a red flame of passion, with your breast in one corner and your eye in the other!’ she giggled. ‘Try this one, it’s grenadine. I like it.’ Margarida proffered a glass full of scarlet-coloured liquid, then said suddenly, ‘Izabela, quickly! Look over there by the door.’

Bel drew her uncertain gaze from the glass in front of her and turned it towards the entrance of the café. ‘You know who it is?’ asked Margarida.

‘Yes,’ she breathed as she took in the slight figure and dark wavy hair of the man Margarida was indicating. ‘It’s Jean Cocteau.’

‘Indeed, the prince of the avant-garde. He’s a fascinating, albeit sensitive, man.’

‘You know him?’ said Bel.

‘A little, I suppose,’ shrugged Margarida. ‘Sometimes he’s asked me to play the piano in here.’

As Bel focused her attention on Monsieur Cocteau, she didn’t notice a young man emerge from the melee in the café and make his way over to their table.

‘Mademoiselle Margarida, I have missed your presence for too long. And Mademoiselle Izabela, is it not?’

Bel dragged her gaze back from the Cocteau table and looked up, straight into the eyes of Laurent Brouilly. Her heart began to beat hard against her chest at the sight of him.

‘Yes. My apologies, Monsieur Brouilly, I was miles away.’

‘Mademoiselle Izabela, you were feasting your eyes on a far more fascinating personage than myself,’ he said as he smiled at her. ‘I didn’t realise that you two ladies knew each other.’

‘We’ve only recently begun to,’ explained Margarida. ‘I am helping to introduce Izabela to the delights of Montparnasse.’

‘Which I’m sure she appreciates very well.’ Laurent cast Bel a glance that said he clearly remembered every word of their last conversation.

‘As you can imagine, every artist in the café has begged to paint her,’ continued Margarida. ‘But of course, I’ve told her to beware.’

‘Well, for that I must thank you. Because as Mademoiselle Izabela knows, she was promised to me first. I’m happy that you have preserved her artistic virtue for me,’ Laurent said with a smile.