‘No, perhaps you’re right.’ He smiled lazily at her. ‘But it’s the perfect excuse to have your company. Don’t you agree?’

It was the first time Laurent had made a direct comment that confirmed he desired her presence for more than artistic reasons.

She lowered her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she answered.

Laurent said no more, and worked on silently for the next hour. Then he stretched and suggested it was time for a break.

As he went to the kitchen, Bel stood up and walked around the atelier to ease her stiff back. She glanced at her unfinished sculpture and admired its simple lines.

‘Would you recognise yourself?’ Laurent asked as he brought through a jug of wine and a bowl of olives and she followed him to the trestle table.

‘Not really,’ she replied honestly, studying the sculpture as he poured the wine into two glasses. ‘Perhaps when you have finished my face I might. I look so young at present, almost like a little girl from the way you have had me pose.’

‘Excellent!’ said Laurent. ‘I have had in my mind the image of a closed rosebud, just before it begins to open and blossom into a perfect flower. The moment between childhood and womanhood; on the threshold of the latter and contemplating the delights it might hold.’

‘I’m not a child,’ Bel retorted, feeling patronised by Laurent’s explanation.

‘But neither are you a woman yet,’ he said, eyeing her as he drank his wine.

Bel did not know how to reply. She took another sip of wine from her glass as her heart rate increased.

‘So, back to work,’ he said briskly, ‘before the light fades completely.’

Two hours later, Bel rose to take her leave. Laurent followed her to the atelier door. ‘Safe return home, Izabela. And you must forgive me if you felt what I said earlier was inappropriate. You’ve hardly spoken to me since.’

‘I . . .’

‘Hush.’ Laurent put a gentle finger to her lips. ‘I understand. I know your circumstances, but I can’t help wishing that things were different. Goodnight, my sweet Bel.’

As she was driven home, Bel knew that in his own way, Laurent had been telling her that if she was free, he would want to be with her. But that he also understood her situation and, as a gentleman, would never cross the line.

‘Even though he wishes to . . .’ she murmured to herself in rapture.

Over the course of the next few evenings at the atelier, there was no further innuendo from Laurent. If he spoke, it was to do with the sculpture, or idle gossip about Montparnasse and its inhabitants. Ironically, the more neutral his conversation, the higher the emotional and physical tension rose within Bel. It was she who began to make the odd comment to him, noticing a new shirt he was wearing and how it suited him, or praising his talent as a sculptor.