‘Especially when it gets daily results from a three-billion-dollar, publicly funded research programme while only publishing its own results once a year,’ said Hunter. ‘It’s confusing to let people patent someone else’s work. Besides, socialism in America was never intended for some schmuck to shadow the most conspicuous global science project of all time; it has to be ideologically purified by only being given to its most ferocious opponents in the Pentagon or on Wall Street. If someone wants to start an illegal war or get bailed out after bringing the world’s economic system to its knees, then, by golly, if the beneficiaries are already rich and powerful, we can show the world what a welfare state really means.’ Hunter glanced at his phone, throbbing on the broad arm of his deckchair. ‘Guest alert, Gilles has just turned on to the Cap. He’s got Los Tres Amigos in the car. Anyhow, as long as MacDonald has got something better for us than a crystal garden, and less “public domain” than the secret of life, we can buy him out.’

‘You don’t like crystal gardens?’ said Saul. ‘They’re my happiest childhood memories.’

‘I hope your therapist is qualified to deal with that level of trauma,’ said Hunter.

‘Are you sure it was a good idea to invite Bill Moorhead now that he’s completely sold out of YouGenetics?’ asked Saul.

‘A good idea? It’s a great idea. It’ll be like watching a bullfight, with two beautiful female matadors torturing a pompous old bull.’

‘I guess it’s good to be closing the matador gender gap,’ said Saul, ‘and it’s more humane than watching gladiators hacking each other to death.’

‘I hope not,’ said Hunter, with one of his big laughs. ‘If Lucy doesn’t finish him off, we can count on Kraftwerk freaking the hell out of him, when he’s used to rocking atheistically to Thomas Tallis in the college chapel.’

‘Kraftwerk,’ said Saul, ‘cool. Robotics Central.’

‘Tomorrow night. Don’t tell any of the guests. Only you and Jade know.’

‘They must be expensive.’

‘Not as expensive as Elton John, the local talent.’

‘OMG,’ said Saul, ‘you got Elton John?’

‘Are you kidding?’ said Hunter. ‘“Candle in the Wind” – get a torch!’

Olivia was having that feeling, rare since adolescence, that her life had turned into a film. She was reclining next to her best friend in the bulging seat of a night-blue convertible, as it flitted past the hedges and driveways of Cap d’Antibes. They were on their way to a house named (irrelevantly, she hoped) after a murderous thriller, also shot on the Mediterranean coast. The Cap was looking especially photogenic in early May, before the convoys of tourists and the flotillas of sewage and jellyfish, supported by The Airborne Melanomas, moved in to secure the hedonistic headland for the summer.