It was getting dark now, the wind off the sea was colder. She shivered.

‘I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched.’

‘Out here?’ He laughed, rocking her in his arms. ‘There are only the birds and the seals. They will not tell. You must relax.’

‘It’s not an easy habit to break. We have to watch ourselves twenty-four hours a day. What we say, what we do . . .’

‘And who we do it with?’

‘Precisely. If anyone found out . . .’

‘They will not. It’s so easy to . . . disappear. You get in a car or on a plane and you are far away from everything. Invisible. Nobody sees you. Nobody knows you.’

‘Do you really believe that, Massimo?’

‘Of course. We are in control of our lives, not them.’

‘Whoever they may be.’

‘The millions of little pairs of eyes and wagging tongues. We are bigger and better than they are. We have the power . . .’

The power to disappear . . . To be invisible . . . To do exactly what you want, without fear of consequence . . .

She huddled against Rivelli, let his warm arms enfold her.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We go in. You are hungry?’

‘I’m starving.’

‘Good.’ He kissed her on the neck, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘I will cook for you. You like Italian food?’

‘Yes,’ said Christine, who could already taste the garlic. ‘I love it.’

She followed him across the dark fields towards the house, her hands shaking slightly – from the cold, she told herself, but she hoped very much that they could have a drink.

‘How do you know her, then?’

‘Who?’

‘Isabelle Cissé.’

They sat snugly in the bar at Soho House, drinking Whisky Sours which Victoria would put on the Rivelli account – if she could. Out of his chavvy sportswear, dressed in a plain open-necked white shirt and narrow-legged black trousers, Joel did not look out of place – in fact, heads were turning to check him out.

‘Oh, I just met her a couple of times,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she liked me very much. She’s a bit stuck up. Sorry. You’re probably going to tell me that she’s your best friend.’

‘Not at all,’ said Victoria, cosying up a little closer. ‘I suppose you know her professionally. I mean, what are you, when you’re not serving drinks and managing to look incredibly sexy even in that really horrible crap that they made you wear? A model, maybe?’

‘Me? Nah.’

‘A photographer then . . . or perhaps a photographer’s assistant.’

‘Not me, nope.’

‘What then?’ She wasn’t going to let the guessing game go on – she didn’t want him to think that he was interesting.

‘I’m setting up my own company.’

‘Oh yes.’ She’d heard this one a thousand times before. ‘And what might that be?’

‘A chain of gyms . . .’

‘So you’re a trainer.’

‘Not any more, no. I’m more on the business side of things now.’