‘Yes, I’m sorry I’ve been bad at keeping in touch, Ma. I was . . . busy,’ I said, trying not to giggle as a hand snaked up my naked stomach. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be home tomorrow around teatime. And that’ – I swallowed hard before I announced it – ‘I’ll be bringing a guest with me.’

‘Shall I make a room up in the house, or will she stay with you in the Pavilion?’

‘My guest will be staying with me at the Pavilion.’ I turned to Floriano and smiled.

‘Lovely,’ her bright voice answered. ‘Shall I have supper ready for you?’

‘No, please don’t worry. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know exactly what time we’ll need Christian to meet us.’

‘I’ll wait to hear from you. Goodbye, chérie?

‘Goodbye.’ I replaced the receiver in its cradle on the bedside table and fell back into Floriano’s arms, wondering what on earth he would make of my childhood home.

‘You mustn’t be shocked, or think I’m grand or anything. It’s just the way my life has been,’ I explained.

‘Querida,’ he said as he pulled me into his arms, ‘I am fascinated to see how you live now. But always remember I know where you come from. Now, on our last day here in Paris, I’m taking you to see something very special.’

‘Do we have to go?’ I asked him, stretching my body languidly into his.

‘I think we should,’ said Floriano, ‘eventually . . .’

Two hours later we dressed, left the hotel and Floriano hailed a cab. He even managed to give the driver a coherent address in French.

‘We’re going to somewhere off the Champs-Élysées?’ I confirmed, as much for the driver’s sake as my own.

‘Yes. Do you doubt me and my prowess at my favourite new language?’ He smiled.

‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘But are you sure you meant a park?’

‘Hush, Maia,’ he said, putting a finger to my lips, ‘and trust me.’

Sure enough, we alighted next to the iron railings of a small, square expanse of green just off the Avenue de Marigny. Floriano paid the driver, then took my hand and led me through the gate and along the path that took us to the centre of the gardens. A pretty fountain played there, and Floriano pointed up to a bronze statue of a reclining, nude woman which sat atop it. Accustomed to seeing many erotic images all over Paris, I turned to Floriano askance.

‘Look at her, Maia, and tell me who she is.’

I did as he bid, and suddenly I saw her. Izabela, my great-grandmother, naked and sensuous, her head thrown back in pleasure, her hands thrown out, her palms facing upwards to the heavens.

‘Do you see now?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I whispered.

‘Then it will be no surprise to you that I discovered this sculpture is by none other than Professor Laurent Brouilly, your great-grandfather. I can only believe it is his silent tribute to his love for your great-grandmother. And now, Maia, look at her hands.’