“What the bleeding hell are you doing?” he says, poking his head out of the window. He’s in his fifties with a florid complexion.

“I will give you five hundred pounds to take me to Dover,” I gasp.

“What? Are you drunk, mate?”

I draw myself up to my full height. “I am as sober as you hopefully are. I need you to take me to Dover right now. I can’t fly because it might distress the dog, so I have to catch a ferry. I will pay you five hundred pounds to get me there.” His gaze tracks to Endof, who is attempting to strangle himself with his lead. “I will, of course, add another hundred pounds if you allow the dog,” I say silkily.

“For six hundred quid, mate, I’ll even let him sit on the seat.”

“Then we have a deal,” I say, coaxing Endof into the taxi and throwing myself in after him. “Time is of the essence. Let’s go.”

Chapter Seventeen

Mags

It’s early evening when I park the hired car in Saint-Paul-de-Vence. The sun is low and gilding the honey-coloured stone of the houses in this charming medieval village. I breathe in the scent of flowers from the baskets that are everywhere. It’s still very hot, and I bless the fact that I had time in Dover to shop for a couple of changes of clothing. Despite that, my outfit of khaki shorts and a sky-blue short-sleeved shirt look as if I’ve slept in them for a week.

I shake my head in despair. I had plenty of time during the ferry ride and the endless drive here to wonder what has become of me. A few months ago, I was Magnus Carlsen QC. Dapper, debonair, and never without a young man on my arm. Now I’m dishevelled, wearing cheap clothing, and I probably smell. How the mighty have fallen. And I’ve done all of this with no real idea of why. I might be in love with Laurie, but I have no reason to hope that he feels the same. The elation of his mother’s words had faded at midnight while driving on the trunk road charmingly titled the Route de la Mort during the holidays.

I square my shoulders and climb out of the car, stretching and feeling my bones creak. I look over at Endof, who is sitting in the passenger seat that he claimed as his own as soon as I hired the car in Calais. “We should try, yes?” I say. He wags his tail, and I grimace. “I surely cannot be more embarrassed at myself than now.”

He looks a little dubious, and I can’t blame him. I could have a great deal more embarrassment coming for me.