In any case, he preferred the more natural look. Maggie rolled out of bed in the morning with no make-up and her hair like a bird’s nest, but he fancied the pants off her every single time. She oozed contentment and happiness and that was sexy in a way that Betina, even with her perfect figure, was not. She looked untouchable, like a priceless piece of artwork, and – as such, she was breathtaking at first sight, but wouldn’t remain interesting for very long.

From Betina Barro’s Facebook page, Jack learnt more about her background: her father owned a chunk of their home country the size of Wales and she had a brother, renowned polo player, Alberto Barro. Alberto seemed to have been a star of the polo world in his younger days, but at 38 was now a player-for-hire with no real loyalty to any particular team; he went where the money took him and, in his career, had played for numerous teams across Europe and in the UK, where he once apparently played against Prince William. It was telling that he didn’t stay with one team for very long, suggesting that he perhaps wasn’t an easy man to be around.

Alberto’s photographs showed a fit-looking, handsome man with coal black hair. But, like his sister, his flawless look made him appear fake. Jack thought the beautiful owner of the Merc, and her playboy brother, would easily blend in among the posh horsey set at the annual equestrian event in the Cotswolds.

Jack made his way back across the road, towards the underground car park, where he was stopped at the barrier by the security guard, who asked him for ID. This was a private car park for Emporium businesses only, and the guard knew that Jack did not belong.

Jack played the affable passer-by. ‘No worries, mate, I just saw the Ferrari pulling in and wanted to see if it was a Scaglietti. Never seen one close up . . .’

The security guard assured Jack in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t going to see this one close up either, and to please move on. He sniggered at his own joke and his friend over on the main door to the emporium, joined in. Jack could see that his tradesman’s attire, that had served him so well in the café across the road, was now letting him down.

Jack did as he was asked. But both security guards’ faces were firmly locked in his memory. At some point, he’d be back to set the record straight.

On his way to the bus stop that would take him home, Jack popped into a local newsagent where he bought copies of Vogue, Tatler and GQ. Then he went to a small, pop-up street booth that specialised in selling all of the things you never knew you needed. Jack bought a packet of cigarillos and a fake Bentley key ring. He loved how London catered so openly for those who wanted to adorn themselves with the trappings of wealth, at a fraction of the price. London was all about looking the part: you didn’t have to actually have anything of substance to back it up.