They were staying at Villa Francois, and it was just as high-end as Jordan had imagined. Not that she was surprised. She’d been to Marcus’s family home. To Marcus’s house on the edge of their estate. Met his mother. Seen how well laundered Marcus’s shirts were. There was a precision and order to the Montgomery family. This wasn’t their house, but Abby had told her it was the house of some good friends who had a love for modern stylings. Those stylings had been very evident when their minibus rolled into the spacious driveway and the group saw the house.

The villa sat in the hills of Super Cannes, the exclusive neighbourhood where all the rich people played. Close to Cannes and the beach, the property came with staff, along with floor-to-ceiling windows where it counted. Plus, of course, the back of the house, the pool and terraces overlooked the incredible Cote d’Azur, its wide expanse glittering below. The inviting pool was big enough to do laps in. There were multiple jacuzzis. There were enough striped, cushioned loungers underneath crisp white umbrellas for everyone. Jordan had no doubt the towels would be extra-fluffy, too. This was a hen do where no detail had been spared.

The towels had been put away by the staff, and the hen party was now back at the villa after the first night out, which had been deemed a success. Relief slid down Jordan as she walked onto the terrace overlooking the pool, tastefully lit with low lights and candles. Below them, the exclusive neighbourhood glittered, and the French Riviera air wrapped itself around them. The air even smelled French, if that could possibly be a thing.

“I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m stuffed.” Abby patted her non-existent belly as she approached the large outdoor table, where Jordan held out a chair for her. She was wearing cute culotte trousers, a green top and wispy chiffon scarf, not unlike a 1950s socialite. The effect wasn’t lost on Jordan.

Abby gave her a smile as she sat. “Thank you, long-lost bridesmaid.”

Jordan performed a curtsy. “Anything for the bride-to-be,” she replied. “Can I get you a drink?”

Someone walked up behind her. “Did someone say drink?” Gloria’s Scottish accent had got thicker as the evening had worn on. “Have the staff gone home?”

Jordan nodded. “They clock off at nine. Seeing as it’s after ten, we’re on our own. But as a bridesmaid, I’m at Abby’s beck and call.”

“You hear that, Delta?” Abby shouted, leaning back in her seat. “Jordan is offering to get me whatever I want because she’s my bridesmaid.”

A hoot of laughter from Delta as she appeared on the terrace, along with the rest of the hen party. “That’s because she’s paid…”