‘They don’t get on, do they? Maya and Jessica.’

‘Of course they don’t. And from what I hear, Jessica doesn’t get on so very well with Maya’s dad any more, either.’

‘What? I thought they were showbiz’s most loving couple. The old rocker and the gorgeous model.’

‘Not according to the papers. Apparently they’re . . . Oh my God.’

‘What!’

Will grabbed her by the hand and led her through the crowd, so she had a good view of the huge staircase. An elegant woman with loose, shoulder-length blonde hair was coming down, the fingertips of one hand gently skimming the banister, her fingers sparkling with diamonds. She was dressed in a simple sheath in fuchsia pink, slashed to the thigh.

‘Fuck me,’ said Isabelle, ‘she’s wearing Cissé.’

They spent the day making love in every room of the cottage – it was the kind of ‘cottage’ that could sleep eight people in considerable comfort – and then, at twilight, walked through the woods, across a couple of fields, jumping over cowpats, listening to the curlews wheeling above their heads, and down to the beach, a tiny crescent of white sand fringing a perfect miniature cove. They stood at the water’s edge, arms around each other’s waists, looking out to the west, where the last purple light faded over the hills of Jura and into the Atlantic Ocean.

‘Is this all yours?’ asked Christine.

‘Alas, no. Only the house and the woods and the fields. I do not own the islands or the ocean. Yet.’

‘I see. A little rural hideaway. Very nice.’

‘Don’t worry, Miss Fairbrother, my wife knows all about it. It’s all there in black and white on your schedule of assets.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

‘You like it?’

‘It’s beautiful. So far away from everything.’

‘Ah, yes. We must all escape from reality from time to time. You, for instance. How often do you get away from your job? From your tailored suits and your black shoes and your briefcase?’

Christine was wearing an an old red fleece that she found hanging by the cottage door, a pair of Massimo’s jogging bottoms and some battered black wellington boots.

‘Not often enough.’

‘We must always have pleasure in our lives, as well as duty.’

‘Is that your philosophy?’

‘Yes.’

And what does your wife think of that? She bit her tongue, and walked along the sand. ‘You realise how silly this is, I suppose?’

‘You mean you and me, here, together?’

‘Precisely. We’re taking a terrible risk.’

Rivelli shrugged. ‘We take risks every day. Crossing the road, taking a plane. In business it is all one hundred percent risk.’

‘You’re a gambling man, I suppose.’

‘Only if the odds are very much in my favour. And,’ he said, coming up behind her, encircling her with his arms, ‘the prize is worth winning.’