Paris 1984: The old lady made her painful way up the stairs to her tiny, squalid apartment. Although it was the summer, she was cold; she was always cold.
She doubted that she had long for this world, she’d been born with the century.
Everything she owned, mostly mementoes from the past, was kept in a battered tin trunk. She lived on charity now but once she had been wealthy and the most famous woman in France. Now, no-one knew her name.
Oh, the parties she’d attended. The acclaim...