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She wanted Nicolas to fight for her – she might even have changed her mind if he had – but Nicolas had too much dignity for that. He wasn’t going to plead and beg.

Camille tried to justify her behaviour by telling herself that she had finally found her grand amour, her true love, and she was helpless in the face of fate. Yes, she loved Nicolas, and felt overwhelming guilt at what she was doing, torn between the two men. But ultimately, Camille knew that what she had with Andre was different. Andre himself was like no one she’d ever met before.

Nicolas took the news with good grace, as though he’d never expected that Camille would stay with him, always knowing that one day she would leave.

‘I love you, Camille, and I always will. If you ever need anything at all, come to me. I’ll be here for you, I promise.’

‘Thank you, Nicolas.’ There were tears in Camille’s eyes as she hugged him goodbye, preparing to leave him alone in the apartment they’d once shared. Andre was waiting downstairs in the car, which was filled with Camille’s things. ‘You’re a good man. You’ll find someone better than me.’

‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I won’t.’ As Camille turned to go, Nicolas said, ‘I hope he makes you happy. That’s all I want for you.’

Camille stayed silent, unable to reply. Then she walked out without looking back.

It was harder to move on from Nicolas than she’d imagined. They had friends in common, they hung out in the same bars and cafés, and she found herself grabbing coffee with him from time to time. A platonic friendship grew between them, as Camille discovered that she valued his advice and appreciated his calm, rational way of thinking when Andre was being hot-headed. The three of them had grown close over the past few months. Andre had come to like and respect Nicolas, learning that beneath his sensible exterior, he had a wry sense of humour, and offered a balanced approach to Andre’s volatility.

Nicolas dated occasionally, but there never seemed to be anyone serious or permanent, no one he moved into his apartment within weeks in a giddy flush of romance, the way he had with Camille.

On New Year’s Eve, the last day of 1969, the trio found themselves at the same party, in an elegant, expansive apartment in the eighth arrondissement, with a stunning view across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower. It belonged to a mutual friend whose wealthy parents were ringing in the new year at their chalet in Val d’Isère, and right now there was dancing on the parquet floors, the remains of joints stubbed out in the pot plants, and the drinks cabinet had been raided and depleted.

Camille made her way out onto the balcony, in search of fresh air and a break from the mass of bodies and thumping music inside. The night was freezing, the pavements twinkling with frost, as boats packed with revellers ploughed up and down the river. In the distance, near the Tour Montparnasse, someone had let off fireworks early, and the inky sky was lit up with explosions of red and green stars.

‘Cigarette?’

Camille turned to see Nicolas. He was wearing a moss-green sweater paired with tan-coloured trousers, and looked somewhat out of place amidst the bright colours and crazy patterns sported by the rest of the partygoers.

‘I didn’t realize you were out here. It’s crazy in there,’ Camille smiled, gratefully accepting a Gauloise. She leaned in close as he lit it and saw his eyes skim over her.

‘You look beautiful, by the way,’ he told her. She was wearing a flared jumpsuit in crushed red velvet, and she grinned at him.

‘Thanks. Designed and made it myself.’

‘Naturally. Was that at work?’

Camille pulled a face. Since graduating from university, she’d found a job with a small atelier catering to the bourgeois set. There was little creative freedom, and it was a long way from the design career she’d dreamed of. ‘Of course not. All I get to do there is make dreary dresses for society girls or twin sets for old ladies.’

‘It’s a start.’

Camille raised her eyebrows, unconvinced. ‘How about you? How’s your new job?’

‘Long hours, lots of detail. It’s … fine,’ Nicolas shrugged. ‘Uninspiring.’

Camille took a drag on her cigarette, watching the smoke curl into the night sky. ‘Not quite where we thought we’d be, hmm?’

‘Hey, there’s still time to take over the world,’ Nicolas grinned.

‘There you both are!’ Andre emerged onto the balcony, bringing a blast of noise and warmth from the inside as he opened the door. He was carrying an unopened bottle of Dom Pérignon, and was clearly in a jovial mood, full of energy. It appeared he’d partaken of more than just alcohol.

He looked devastatingly handsome in a fitted floral print shirt that was unbuttoned to the waist, and yellow flared trousers that fitted snugly round the crotch, leaving little to the imagination. He kissed Camille and slid his arms around her waist, pulling her close. ‘What are you two talking about?’

‘How life hasn’t turned out the way we expected.’ Nicolas didn’t take his eyes off Camille and she felt a shot of regret, suspecting that he was referring to more than just his career.

‘Tell me about it,’ Andre sighed dramatically, as Camille held her cigarette to his lips and he took a drag. He’d been working in a men’s clothing store since graduating, an upmarket boutique at the smart end of the Rue de Rivoli, but – like the rest of them – he was hungry for more. ‘But it’s a new year. A new decade. 1970,’ he exhaled, gazing out over the city. ‘We can be anything we want to be.’

Camille smiled wanly, while Nicolas said nothing.

‘I mean, screw it,’ Andre exclaimed, letting go of Camille to gesture with his hands, waving the bottle of champagne wildly. ‘Why not start our own company? Our own fashion house? Camille designing, Nicolas the numbers guy, me … everything else.’

‘You always were a dreamer, Andre,’ Nicolas said ruefully.