Bel folded the page neatly and placed it in the envelope to be posted. She sat back in the chair, wishing she could share with her parents her true feelings about the city she was growing to love, about the new freedoms she was enjoying and the people she was meeting. But she knew they would not understand. More than that, they would worry that they had made the wrong decision in allowing her to go.

The only person she felt she could truly confide in was Loen. Taking a sheet of paper, she penned a very different letter, pouring out her true emotions, telling her of Montparnasse and, of course, of Laurent Brouilly, the young assistant who wished to sculpt her . . .

Thanks to Margarida, Bel woke up with a wonderful sense of anticipation every morning. The classes she attended were indeed informative, but it was the lunches at La Closerie des Lilas afterwards that she looked forward to most.

Every day was different there, a feast for the creative senses, as artists, musicians and writers filled its tables. Only last week, she’d seen the author James Joyce sitting at a table outside drinking wine and poring over a huge stack of type-written pages.

‘I glanced over his shoulder,’ said Arnaud, a would-be writer acquaintance of Margarida’s, breathless with excitement. ‘The manuscript was entitled Finnegans Wake. It’s the book he’s been writing for six years!’

Even though Bel knew she should be content with the fact that she was brushing shoulders and breathing the same air as these luminaries each day, Margarida and she still spent most of their walk from the school to Montparnasse hatching fruitless plots to escape during the evening, which was the time when the Left Bank really came to life.

‘Of course it’s impossible, but I can dream,’ Bel would remark.

‘Well, I suppose we must count our blessings that we have freedom during the day at least,’ sighed Margarida.

Bel looked at her watch, realising that Margarida’s car would be here to collect her at any moment. Dressing in a navy blue gabardine sailor dress, which she’d taken to wearing as it was the plainest item of clothing she possessed, she combed her hair, added a dash of lipstick and shouted a goodbye from the hall as she closed the door behind her.

‘You’re well this morning?’ Margarida asked her as she climbed inside the car.

‘Yes, very well, thank you.’

‘Izabela, I’m afraid I have bad news for you. Professor Landowski has confirmed that he’s prepared to offer me an internship in his atelier in Boulogne-Billancourt. So I will no longer be attending classes at the Beaux-Arts.’

‘Congratulations, you must be thrilled.’ Bel did her best to raise a smile at her friend’s good fortune.

‘Yes, I’m delighted of course,’ said Margarida. ‘But I do understand that this puts you in a difficult position. I’m not sure that Senhora da Silva Costa will allow you to continue attending lessons at the school alone.’