After the uncomfortable scene behind the Negresco, Sally’s friend Jean-Philippe had kindly driven her and Sally back from Nice to Bellevue-sur-Mer, while the Markhams went with Odile de la Warr. Sally’s car had been towed away by a mechanic. The roof was dented, the windscreen smashed and the ceiling inside now too low to get safely into the driver’s seat.

Theresa had explained to Sally, en route, her fears that Cyril had developed a strange crush on her and that she was frightened to be alone, so Jean-Philippe had offered to walk through Theresa’s flat, checking it out for her. Sally had decided that that wasn’t good enough. She insisted Theresa stay up the hill in her house. And Theresa had willingly accepted.

As she lay staring at the ceiling of Sally’s spare room, she remembered that La Mosaïque was closed all day today, on its weekly congé, and that Sally was due to go off working on the film set. Where could she spend the day?

Theresa did not want to be alone. Whoever was stalking her might be watching, following her, taking photos again.

But she couldn’t stay at Sally’s place. Sally must have things to do and lines to learn.

Theresa got dressed quietly, wrote Sally a thank-you note and left the house, then strolled down to the seafront to take breakfast at the brasserie.

It was a lovely spring morning. The sun had burned through the mist, leaving a gorgeous sparkling day. Theresa wished she had her sunglasses with her.

She took a corner table on the terrace. It was heaven to be able to gaze out at the deep-blue water while feeling the sun warm her through. Taking a deep breath, she leaned her head back letting the sunlight spill over her face.

‘Good morning, Theresa.’ Marcel was poised to take her order. ‘What can I get you?’

‘I’ll have the full breakfast, please, Marcel. Orange juice, café crème, croissant.’

‘Can I bring you the local newspaper?’

‘Thanks. Yes.’

Theresa looked back at the front door of her flat, then cast her eyes up to the windows of the apartment above. She wondered, after the shenanigans of last night, how things were going inside. Sally had implied that Phoebe was a difficult woman but, lord, last night had been a real eye-opener. And to have all her own illusions shattered. So these famous people’s lives were as imperfect as her own.

Theresa couldn’t imagine how the woman had got that drunk. She knew that after three glasses of champagne she herself had been on the tipsy side but . . . well …

Would Phoebe Taylor be paying for the repairs to Sally’s car? she wondered.

Would her affair with Dermott Presley be all over the tabloids?

‘Hello!’ Theresa’s thoughts were interrupted by a woman who she couldn’t exactly place. ‘Mind if I join you?’