Next up, I'm handed a white jumper with a three-inch wide sheer panel down the front. "So what would a French girl do about the bra situation here?" I ask like a true prudish Brit. "You can wear a white one, but usually the French just wouldn't wear one," Adèle shrugs. Apparently even brunch is an opportunity to free the nipple in Paris.
After I've put on my jumper and jeans (and reluctantly taken off my bra) Adèle starts her Parisian magic. She rolls up the cuffs of my jeans, telling me that this is how all the girls style their denim right now, and she hands me a pair of red two-strap stilettos. These are heels that a Londoner would most likely save for a smart event or for going out-out, but she tells me over Le Channel that it's far cooler to wear white trainers on a date and save heels for a Sunday morning coffee.
Then we approach a family of basket bags, and she hands me the one that looks like it could house my fortnight's laundry. "It's best to go super-big with your baskets…" even if it's just to carry my credit card, keys and a token bunch of straw, emphasising the "It's a Sunday and I'm running errands" vibe. I'm carrying some wheat—the French are not gluten-free yet.