“Nonsense, she will be splendid when I have worked with her,” Coco said. “See, ma petite—is this not a fabulous outfit that I have created for you?”

I looked at the drawing. It was as she had described it—a man’s tweed sports jacket, open to reveal a frilly blouse of ecru lace, black silk pajamas and what looked like an extravagant necklace of pearls and precious stones at the throat.

“Astonishing,” my mother exclaimed, peering over Coco Chanel’s shoulder. “I don’t think I shall ever want to look as masculine as that, darling.”

“Ah, but it is so sexy. You will see the eyes of the men at my collection.” Coco looked up at Vera and smiled. “They will want to rip that jacket off her—and those pajamas too.”

“This is my daughter we’re talking about,” my mother said. “She’s led a very sheltered life.”

“Then it’s about time she learned what the world is all about.” She stood up. “Come. We go to my room and we will try on the clothes.”

She was about to lead me from the terrace when a scream came up from down below, followed by a large splash. I ran over to the railing and looked down.

“It’s only that silly woman,” Coco said scornfully. “No class at all. I grew up poor but I learned to acquire class. She has not.”

I realized that I was looking down onto another property below. There were lovely terraces, full of great terra-cotta urns of spring flowers, and a huge swimming pool above a little cove with private beach. A sleek teak motorboat was moored at a dock and out in the ocean beyond was a vast white and blue yacht. A young woman with brassy blond hair was splashing and wallowing in the pool while a portly older man in a bright red bathing costume stood on the side, laughing at her.

“You beast. You cruel beast,” she was shouting. “Now you have ruined my hair.”

“Is that Sir Toby Groper?” I asked.

“It is. Odious little man,” Mummy said.

“And that’s his wife?”

My mother chuckled. “Darling, you are so delightfully naïve. His wife is somewhere else. That is Olga, his mistress. She’s a Russian émigré, claims to be royal but nobody believes her. She probably comes from the gutters of St. Petersburg.”

“Or she isn’t even Russian, and she comes from the gutters of Paris,” Coco added.

“Why did you call him an odious little man?” I asked.

“Because he wanted Max to go into a joint venture with him building racing cars. Max said he wouldn’t trust him an inch. All he wanted to do was to look at Max’s designs and then steal them for his own cars.”

“So you don’t mix with him socially?”