‘My sunroof,’ muttered Sally, leaning back against the wall.

‘There’s nothing I can do about this.’ Eggy spoke with a mournful solemnity. ‘And the main reason for that is that I am not Paddy.’

‘Paddy! Paddy! Paddy!’ Phoo continued calling out the name of the character played by the recently deceased beloved Irish actor.

‘For the last forty years she’s loved him.’ Eggy shrugged. ‘And now he’s not here any more.’

‘Eggy! You’ve got to help! That’s my car.’ Sally stood beside Theresa, turning to stretch an arm out towards Phoo. ‘Apart from anything, it’s very dangerous for her.’

‘She won’t come for me. Only Paddy could have got her down.’

‘Oh God, no!’ The imperious tones of Odile de la Warr rang out. ‘The woman’s not still banging on about that tiresome man. She is a complete idiot.’ She pushed through them all and stepped forward to the car. ‘Phoebe! Stop it! Give me your hand, darling. This is neither the place nor the style in which to air your grief.’

Phoo stopped calling out the name Paddy and looked down at Odile. It was as though she was waking from a dream and was not sure where she was.

‘Odile?’

Theresa had a terrible realisation. Phoebe Taylor, one half of the ‘Magical Markhams’, the most constant wedded couple in showbiz, had for years and years been having an affair with Dermott Presley. Dermott Presley! A man utterly celebrated for his ‘family values’ and devotion to his homely wife. A man rarely photographed without his children and dogs at his side, Aran sweater brightening his face from below, always a smile of quiet contentment, adding a twinkle to his tranquil expression. As she stepped forward to help Odile, Theresa decided she would never believe another thing she read in the newspapers.

Sally’s phone rang. She spoke urgently into the handset. ‘Jean-Philippe! Thank God. There’s been a bit of an incident. We’re round the back of the hotel.’

At the same time a bright flash illuminated the dark side street.

Hearing the noise, a gaggle of tourists had gathered to see what was going on. More than one of them had already captured the moment on their phone.

Theresa knew that, even if none of these people recognised Phoo, by dawn those photos would be on Twitter. It wouldn’t take very long for someone to work out exactly who was bouncing up and down topless on a car roof behind the famous Negresco Hotel calling out the name of her dead lover.

Twenty-two

TWENTY-TWO

Theresa woke with a start and looked around her. For a short time she had no idea where she was. She recalled the stalker situation and her heart skipped a beat. Had she been kidnapped?

Then she remembered.