“But not like Marc-Antoine. And he gave me this little villa just before he was killed. He must have had a premonition, I believe. ‘I want you to think of me and be happy, chérie,’ he said.” And she gave a shuddering and dramatic sigh that would have had the audience weeping in every West End theater.

“This is supposed to be a ‘nice little villa’?” I looked around the spacious foyer, up the wide sweep of marble stairs to the gallery with rooms going off it in all directions. “It looks rather grand to me.”

“Not by Riviera standards. Anyway, it suits me very well. My little bolt-hole, I call it. Whenever the world is unkind, I rush straight here.” She took my hands. “Let me take a look at you. Rather pale and pasty faced. You need sun and fresh air and feeding up. Come on out to the terrace.” She took my hand. “How funny that you didn’t know this was my villa. So you came to see Coco—I can’t think why. You certainly can’t afford her clothes.”

“She wants me to model for her new collection.”

Mummy burst out laughing again. “You, a model? Don’t be silly, darling, you’d be hopeless. Remember how you tripped over your train when you were presented?”

“She says I have the look she wants,” I replied haughtily. It was all right for me to claim I was hopeless, but not other people, least of all my mother.

“If you stood still like a statue, maybe. Not if you moved.”

We emerged to a sun-splashed terrace, built out over the water. Vera and Coco Chanel were sitting at a wicker table, heads together over a sheet of paper. “More like this, I think,” Coco was saying, waving a cigarette in her left hand.

“Look who I have found,” Mummy announced. They looked up.

“Ah, my little model,” Coco said, holding out the hand without the cigarette to me. “So you have met our charming hostess, have you, ma petite?”

“Many times,” I replied. “She’s my mother.”

“But of course. How silly of me. I should have remembered. It’s just that . . .”

“I know, we look nothing alike,” Mummy said. “Poor child inherited her looks from Bertie.”

“And Mummy doesn’t like to admit to me,” I added. “I remind people that she’s old enough to have a grown-up daughter.”

“Silly child. You know I adore you,” my mother said.

“Come and sit beside us, ma petite,” Coco said. “I will show you the outfit we have planned for you.”

“You’re not really serious about using Georgie as a model, are you?” Mummy said. “Coco, darling, the girl was born clumsy. She can’t walk two steps without tripping over her own feet—which are exceptionally large, by the way.”