“There’s a little bus that takes you up the hill from the Place Massena—you know, the big square in the middle of town? There are Roman ruins at Cimiez, and the view is delightful, so people take picnics up there.”

“I must go and see for myself,” I said.

“Do come up and visit anytime,” Neville said. “We’re on the Boulevard Edouard VII. Villa Victoria—aptly named, what? I’m sure my aunt would be glad to receive you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I hope to.”

“And thank you for hitching me up with Belinda,” he said, squeezing her shoulder as if testing a ripe melon. “She’s a corking girl. Absolutely spiffing. Even my aunt likes her.”

Oh, goodness, I thought. He sees Belinda as a future wife. I didn’t see her staying with him beyond the end of the week. In fact, I noticed she was watching Jean-Paul’s back as he joked with Coco and my mother. This time she’s not going to get him, I thought, and I was just moving to join him when a stir went through the crowd. It parted as if Moses had just arrived at the Red Sea, and there was Mrs. Simpson, with—miraculously—Mr. Simpson in tow and no sign of the Prince of Wales. I watched, absolutely bewitched, as Mummy came forward to greet her. As these two had been involved in mutual loathing since they had met, I couldn’t imagine what might happen next.

But Mummy, ever the actress, held out her hands. “Wallis, how simply sweet of you to come.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, honey,” Mrs. Simpson said and the two ladies kissed, about four inches from each other’s cheeks.

“How nice to see you, Mr. Simpson,” Mummy said, holding out her hand to him. “Do help yourself to a drink.”

This suggestion was met with a grunt, which was about all I had ever heard Mr. Simpson say. As he moved off, Mummy asked, “So might we be expecting a visit from a special friend later this evening?”

Mrs. Simpson gave an annoyed little shrug. “One never knows which friends will turn up,” she said. “I have so many friends.”

“You know the friend I am referring to,” Mummy said. “I just wondered . . .”

“Was summoned home to England unexpectedly,” Mrs. Simpson snapped. “Apparently his daddy wasn’t happy that he was enjoying himself on the Med while his subjects were suffering. I told him it was nonsense. His subjects would still be suffering whether he’s in England or not. But he said his father’s health hasn’t been the best lately, so he felt he should be a good little boy and run home.” She smoothed back her hair, which was not out of place to start with. “And how about you? I don’t see any burly Germans in evidence.”