Bel was silent as the heat rose to her cheeks, betraying the truth Laurent had just spoken.

‘Monsieur Brouilly, you don’t understand,’ she said eventually. ‘Things are different in Rio. It is my father’s wish that I make a good marriage. My fiancé is from one of the highest-placed families in Brazil. And besides,’ she added despairingly, ‘I have no talent like you with which to earn a living. I am completely dependent on my father and, soon, on my husband for everything I have.’

‘Yes, mademoiselle, I understand and sympathise with your plight. But sadly,’ he sighed, ‘it is only you who can do anything to change it.’ He put his pencil down and contemplated his sketches for several minutes while Bel sat tensely, unsettled and frustrated by their conversation.

Finally, Laurent looked up. ‘Well, seeing these, I can assure you that you could earn your own living as an artist’s model in Montparnasse. Not only do you have a beautiful face, but underneath the layers you wear on your body, I’m sure you are the very epitome of womanhood.’

As his eyes swept over her, Bel felt once more a strange heat spreading up from her chest and into her face.

‘Why so embarrassed?’ he asked her. ‘Here in Paris, we celebrate the beauty of the female form. After all, we are all born naked, and it’s only society that dictates we wear clothes. And of course, the weather in Paris in the winter,’ he chuckled, looking up at the clock. ‘And don’t worry,’ he added, appraising her once more, ‘I will be sculpting you in exactly what you are wearing today. It is perfect.’

Bel nodded silently in relief.

‘So, now that I have forced you to reveal your inner soul, it is already noon. I will prepare some bread and cheese and bring you some wine as your reward.’

Laurent collected the coffee cups and walked across the studio in the direction of the kitchen, pausing to ask Margarida if she would join them for lunch too.

‘Thank you,’ she answered, and left her sculpture to wash the clay from her hands. Bel sat alone, gazing out of the window at the beds of lavender, feeling shaken and vulnerable. Somehow, Laurent had coaxed her to reveal her true feelings about the future.

‘Are you all right, Izabela?’ Margarida came to sit next to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, her expression one of concern. ‘I heard snippets of your conversation. I hope Monsieur Brouilly didn’t push you too far in his quest to portray you honestly. And I hope,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘that it really was out of professional motives.’

‘What do you mean?’

But Margarida had no time to reply as Laurent arrived with the tray.

Bel sat quietly during lunch, listening to Margarida and Laurent chat about their mutual acquaintances and gossip about the latest antics of the colourful crowd they knew.

‘Cocteau has set up a back room in a building on the Rue de Châteaudun, and invites his cronies there to drink cocktails that he has made and named himself. I hear they are lethal,’ said Laurent as he took a large gulp of wine. ‘They say his new fad is holding séances.’