I told Liam, a film lawyer who knows my friends very well, about my plight. I’ve had a crush on him for ages and there is a connection between us, but he has a girlfriend. “I have a two-bedroom suite and one of our other lawyers may be leaving tomorrow, so I may have room,” he said. I spent my first official night in Cannes crashing on my friends’ floor.

The next morning, I started scrolling through sites like Gumtree for last-minute accommodation. What I found on the seamier side of Cote d’Azur rentals was shocking: There were ads for “free accommodation for women who have nowhere to go” and were “open-minded to new experiences and flexible”. This sure didn’t sound like a soup kitchen.

A quick Google search revealed that this was only the tip of the iceberg. French journalist Ondine Millot recently exposed the property-in-sex trade.

Advertising for “contre services”, when a room is offered as a barter for things, isn’t illegal. But the “service” can be anything from gardening to something shadier. I have no problem with consenting adults making their own decisions, but I can’t help feeling sorry for women who find themselves in a position to have to respond to these ads.

In prostitution, there is a clear process. Sex for a vacation rental is incredibly vague. I wondered what would happen when the blow-job ratio didn’t match up. Just as I was about to book a room 50 miles away, Liam called and said I could stay in his. “You are a lifesaver,” I told him. “How much do I owe you?” “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s paid for on expenses.”

Maybe my sex-surfing had made me paranoid, but would he be expecting something from me? Ten vodka tonics, one beach party and a Mike Tyson sighting later, I found myself back in Liam’s room. I'd slipped into my night gown when he knocked on my door, brandishing bottles from the mini-bar.

Then he blurted out that things weren’t going well with his girlfriend and that he “really likes me”. “I like you, too,” I said. The angel on my shoulder was screaming that this was wrong, while the rest of me fought the urge to pour the mini-bottle of champagne all over his naked body. I said, “If you have a problem in your relationship, you need to talk to your girlfriend.” Then I said goodnight.

In the morning, I left the cash for the room by his stuff. Call me a cynic, but nothing in life is ever free.