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look at herself in a mirror in the window of a boutique.
    The hat gave her jaw line a new air of distinction; she had put her hair up in a bun to help keep it in place. Perhaps she should always wear it up like this and put on a man’s black felt hat every time she went out. Donning the new accessory had made her feel somehow powerful; it had the same effect as the designer clothes she so rarely treated herself to. Take her Saint Laurent skirt and Rykiel heels, for example. All she had to do was put on the YSL skirt and she immediately felt more attractive. The same went for the shoes, which had cost her almost a quarter of a month’s salary: as soon as she slipped them on anddid up the little straps, she felt taller, straighter and more significant. She walked completely differently, strutting along with confidence, and only she knew it was down to the hidden powers of the Rykiel shoes.
    The rain had stopped and Fanny took off the hat. She noticed two letters embossed in gold on the leather band running round the inside of the hat: F.M. Could fate really have meant the hat for her? Here were Fanny Marquant’s own initials.
    â€˜Well, then … I’m not letting go of you, my friend, no way’, she murmured, stroking the hat.
    Then she tied her hair up, put the hat back on and set off down the road with an even more determined stride.
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    The Batignolles district was deserted but for a few indistinct figures far off in the distance, disappearing into the shadows of apartment blocks. The hotel was not far from here and Édouard would be waiting for her in their room. He would be watching TV or else lying on the bed reading
Le Monde.
    As she walked through the lobby, she passed the receptionist. He nodded at her with a knowing smile. Fanny could not stand the man, who knew all the ins and outs of her love life. With his leering smile and creepy nod, she could imagine him roaming the corridors after dark, listening out for the sighs of lovers forced to meet at this crappy hotel. She began climbing the stairs, dragging her case after her, convinced he was looking at her legs. Second floor, room 26.
    As she reached the door, she could hear the televisionwas on. A fierce debate was raging, a chorus of voices speaking all at once. It could only be
Droit de réponse,
the talk show Édouard liked to watch. The guests sat around the set smoking, shouting and getting worked up; as things got more and more heated, the host, Michel Polac, simply looked on in amusement, puffing on his pipe and narrowing his eyes. Fanny knocked on the door just as the round-up of the week in pictures was starting: Siné, Plantu, Wolinski and Cabu had drawn cartoons to illustrate the news. The actress Monique Tarbès provided the ironic commentary, rounding off with a jaunty ‘See you next week!’ worthy of a market trader.
    â€˜Come in, it’s open.’ Édouard was lying on the bed in his open shirt and boxers, and as Fanny came in he propped a pillow behind his back and stared at her. ‘What’s with the hat?’
    â€˜Nice to see you too,’ she replied, bending down to give him a kiss.
    Ã‰douard kissed her tenderly, stroking up and down her neck the way she liked to be touched. He was about to move up to her hair and brush the hat off, when she stepped back sharply.
    â€˜Hands off my hat.’
    â€˜Your hat?
’ he said, emphasising the possessive with a note of sarcasm. ‘Where did you get it from anyway?’
    â€˜It’s a secret, but it is my hat.’
    On the television screen, a man with a cigar hanging from his mouth was busily stating the obvious. In protest, a small, bald man leapt out of his chair and appealed to Michel Polac, who once again appeared delighted to sitback and watch his programme sliding into chaos.
    â€˜It’s a man’s hat,’ Édouard pointed out. He got up to turn the volume down.
    â€˜So?’ said Fanny, readjusting it over