I stepped closer and examined my face: the shadows under my eyes, the faint frown line between my brows. I shivered, but not from the cold. I thought of the girl Édouard had left behind two years ago. I thought of the feel of his hands on my waist, his soft lips on my neck. And I closed my eyes.

He had been in a foul mood for days. He was working on a picture of three women seated around a table and he could not get it right. I had posed for him in each position and watched silently as he huffed and grimaced, even threw down his palette at one point, rubbing his hands through his hair and cursing himself.

‘Let’s take some air,’ I said, uncurling myself. I was sore from holding the position, but I wouldn’t let him know that.

‘I don’t want to take some air.’

‘Édouard, you will achieve nothing in this mood. Take twenty minutes’ air with me. Come.’ I reached for my coat, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and stood in the doorway.

‘I don’t like being interrupted,’ he grumbled, reaching for his own coat.

I didn’t mind his ill-temper. I was used to him by then. When Édouard’s work was going well, he was the sweetest of men, joyful, keen to see beauty in everything. When it went badly, it was as if our little home lay under a dark cloud. In the early months of our marriage I had been afraid that this was somehow my fault, that I should be able to cheer him. But listening to the other artists talk at La Ruche, or in the bars of the Latin Quarter, I grew to see such rhythms in all of them: the highs of a work successfully completed, or sold; the lows when they had stalled, or overworked a piece, or received some stinging criticism. These moods were simply weather fronts to be borne and adapted to.

I was not always so saintly.

Édouard grumbled all the way along rue Soufflot. He was irritable. He could not see why we had to walk. He could not see why he could not be left alone. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know the pressure he was under. Why, Weber and Purrmann were already being pursued by galleries near the Palais Royale, offered shows of their own. It was rumoured that Monsieur Matisse preferred their work to his. When I tried to reassure him that this was not the case he waved a hand dismissively, as if my view was of no account. His choleric rant went on and on until we reached the Left Bank, and I finally lost patience.

‘Very well,’ I said, unhooking my arm from his. ‘I am an ignorant shop girl. How could I be expected to understand the artistic pressures of your life? I am simply the one who washes your clothes and sits for hours, my body aching, while you fiddle with charcoal, and collects money from people to whom you do not want to seem ungenerous. Well, Édouard, I will leave you to it. Perhaps my absence will bring you some contentment.’

I stalked off down the bank of the Seine, bristling. He caught up with me in minutes. ‘I’m sorry.’

I kept walking, my face set.

‘Don’t be cross, Sophie. I’m simply out of sorts.’

‘But you don’t have to make me out of sorts because of it. I’m only trying to help you.’

‘I know. I know. Look, slow down. Please. Slow down and walk with your ungracious husband.’ He held out his arm. His face was soft and pleading. He knew I could not resist him.

I glared at him, then took his arm and we walked some distance in silence. He put his hand over mine, and found that it was cold. ‘Your gloves!’

‘I forgot them.’

‘Then where is your hat?’ he said. ‘You are freezing.’

‘You know very well I have no winter hat. My velvet walking hat has moth, and I haven’t had time to patch it.’

He stopped. ‘You cannot wear a walking hat with patches.’

‘It is a perfectly good hat. I just haven’t had time to see to it.’ I didn’t add that that was because I was running around the Left Bank trying to find his materials and collect the money he was owed to pay for them.

We were outside one of the grandest hat shops in Paris. He saw it, and pulled us both to a standstill. ‘Come,’ he said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Don’t disobey me, wife. You know I am easily tipped into the worst of moods.’ He took my arm, and before I could protest further, we had stepped into the shop. The door closed behind us, the bell ringing, and I gazed around in awe. On shelves or stands around the walls, reflected in huge gilded looking-glasses, were the most beautiful hats I had ever seen: enormous, intricate creations in jet black or flashy scarlet, wide brims trimmed with fur or lace. Marabou shivered in the disturbed air. The room smelt of dried roses. The woman who emerged from the back was wearing a satin hobble skirt; the most fashionable garment on the streets of Paris.

‘Can I help you?’ Her eyes travelled over my three-year-old coat and windblown hair.

‘My wife needs a hat.’

I wanted to stop him then. I wanted to tell him that if he insisted on buying me a hat we could go to La Femme Marché, that I might even be able to get a discount. He had no idea that this place was a couturier’s salon, beyond the realms of women like me.

‘Édouard, I –’

‘A really special hat.’

‘Certainly, sir. Did you have anything in mind?’

‘Something like this one.’ He pointed at a huge, dark red wide-brimmed Directoire-styled hat trimmed with black marabou. Dyed black peacock feathers arced in a spray across its brim.

‘Édouard, you cannot be serious,’ I murmured. But she had already lifted it reverently from its place, and as I stood gaping at him, she placed it carefully on my head, tucking my hair behind my collar.