Jade was waiting for Hunter’s special guests to arrive at the private jet section of Nice airport, accompanied by two young men from the Plein Soleil team, easily identified by their short-sleeved khaki sports shirts emblazoned with a red solar logo. She didn’t usually come to the airport, but Hunter had asked her to take care of Lucy and her friends from England. Jade had watched many women come and go through Hunter’s life; they were the variables; she was the constant. She was always charming to Hunter’s latest crush, friendly without being familiar, sisterly without being presumptuous, and if she thought he had truly finished with one of them (she was always right), ruthless without being rude. To those who might be recycled, or remained occasional lovers connected with a particular city, she was meticulously polite, but showed, in the total rigidity of Hunter’s schedule, the futility of any hopes they might have of ever being on equal or open terms with such a prodigious human being as her boss. Jade had slept with Hunter, but had made no demands and showed no expectations, no sentimentality and no jealousy. Slowly, slowly, though, she would reel him in, and turn out to be the only indispensable woman in his life.

‘Lucy! Hi, I’m Jade. I feel like we know each other already, after all the emails. It’s such a pleasure. Welcome to France. You must be Olivia and Francis. A pleasure to meet you, too. Hunter has sent his own car, so let’s get you on the road before the other guests find out that they’re not travelling in a convertible Bentley. We don’t want to start the weekend with a riot! Gilles is right outside. Don’t worry about your luggage; we’ll take care of it.’

Jade lowered her sunglasses and led the way to the car, her black hair shining, her white T-shirt, mysteriously burnt open at exactly the right places to reveal glimpses of her perfect body, her tight black jeans, carefully frayed at the ankles, and her vintage cream sneakers, making her impossible to lose sight of.

‘Ah, Gilles, voici les invités speciaux de Monsieur Sterling.’

‘Enchanté,’ said Gilles, opening the back door for Lucy, while Olivia went around to the other side and Francis settled into the front passenger seat.

‘See you guys back at Soleil,’ said Jade. ‘Enjoy the ride!’

‘So, your ceramic guy is flying himself down,’ said Hunter, scanning the guest list, under a canopy of wisteria that shaded his private terrace. The air was motionless and, beyond the edge of his vast lawn, a rearing speedboat slowly unzipped the silky surface of the bay.

‘That’s right,’ said Saul, ‘he’s not the guy with the air ticket, or the guy with the private jet, he’s the guy with the pilot’s licence and his own prop plane.’