It is a gorgeous late winter’s day in Paris, and in a hotel lobby off the Place des Vosges, the picturesque historic square that counts Victor Hugo among its former residents, a sharply dressed concierge asks if I am here to meet Madame Cottin. She guides me to a corner seat by a cosy open fire to wait. It feels very formal, very elegant, very classy.
When Camille Cottin arrives, a few minutes later, she is elegant, too, casual in jeans and a navy blouse, a little nervous, warning me that as we are doing the interview in English, she might ask me to help her find the words. “I feel like I’m expressing myself like an eight-year-old,” she says, apologetically, though I should be the one apologising: it quickly becomes apparent that her English is immaculate and utterly precise.
