Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the excitement of simply being a part of this incredible new world, but Bel shivered in pleasure at his words.

A deeply tanned young man had appeared simultaneously with Laurent and now stepped forward to make a request.

‘Mademoiselle Margarida, we at Monsieur Cocteau’s table are asking for you to entertain us with your marvellous skill on the piano. He is asking for his favourite. You know the one?’

‘Yes.’ With a quick glance at the clock that hung over the central bar, Margarida acquiesced. ‘I would be honoured, although I could never match up to the superb keystrokes of Monsieur Ravel,’ she announced as she stood and bowed her head in the direction of Ravel’s table.

Bel watched Margarida as she swept through the crowd and sat down on the stool which Ravel himself had only recently vacated. A cheer went up from around the room.

‘May I sit down so I can enjoy her playing?’ Laurent asked Bel.

‘Of course,’ she replied, and Laurent joined her on the narrow seat, his hip pressed against hers as he squeezed in beside her on the banquette. Bel once again marvelled at the easy physical intimacy these people took for granted.

As the resonant opening chords of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue filled the café, its occupants quietened. Bel watched as Laurent surveyed the many glasses, most still sitting untouched on the table, chose one and clasped his lean, strong fingers around it.

Under the table, Laurent placed his other hand casually on his thigh as any man would. But as the minutes passed, he moved it so that it came to rest in the crevice that was formed where their thighs touched. Bel held her breath, half convinced that the touch must be accidental, but she was sure she could feel his fingers gently caressing her thigh through her dress . . .

Her entire body tingled, and the blood began to rush wildly through her veins as the music rose to its own climax.

‘Mademoiselle Margarida is truly gifted, is she not?’ Bel felt Laurent’s warm breath on her ear and she nodded dumbly in agreement.

‘I had no idea of her musical talent,’ she said as the room once again erupted in applause. ‘She seems to have so many different gifts.’ Her own voice sounded strange to her – muffled, as though she was swimming under water.

‘I’m a great believer that when one is born creative,’ commented Laurent, ‘it’s as if your soul is a sky filled with shooting stars; a globe that is constantly turning towards whichever muse captures your imagination. Many of the people in this room can not only draw and sculpt, but they can write poetry, encourage beautiful sounds out of instruments, make audiences weep with their acting skills and sing like the birds in the trees. Ah, mademoiselle.’ Laurent stood up and bowed in admiration as Margarida returned to their table. ‘You were a virtuoso.’

‘Monsieur, you are too kind,’ Margarida said modestly as she sat down.