Paris, December 1974. I am at home with Miriam on a Wednesday morning, reading Love in a Cold Climate, when my husband, Thibaut, calls from his office. He’s just seen an ad in Égalité, his favorite newspaper: a journalist would like to meet young children for an article on TV programs. Her name is Dorine Morton, and she lives on the avenue d’Ivry, just around the corner from us.

“But Miriam never watches television,” I say.

For Thibaut this is a minor detail. “She must have seen some programs at her friends’, or when we stay in hotels. I called Dorine. She’s expecting you. You should go.”

He sounds inordinately eager. Okay, why not? Miriam is getting restless anyway; she’s already asked a few times if we could “do something.” And I’m always ready for a peep into other people’s places, a glimpse of their lives.

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