“Perfect, just perfect,” says the stout man.
He scrutinises me, his suit pinching across his rotund torso, and I assume that this is Monsieur Durandeau, but he doesn’t introduce himself. Instead he walks around me in a circle as I stand still and awkward in the middle of the sitting room. A faint perfume lingers in the air.
Perfect: no one has ever described me like that before.