Not hard enough.

‘Well, he’s not going to do the same to us. Fuck him. I won’t let it happen. I’m going to take him to court and get that money out of him if it fucking well kills me. Joel will just have to face the music. I can’t let Isabelle down.’

Now Dan drained his drink. ‘How’s she getting on?’

‘Fine.’

‘I saw her in the papers with that . . . singer.’

‘Mike Christian. Yeah.’

‘Is it serious?’ Dan looked far more worried by this than the prospect of Cissé being ruined by a ruthless maniac.

‘Don’t know. She doesn’t tell me much any more.’

They sat in gloomy silence for a while.

‘Fancy a pint?’ said Dan, and mooched off to the bar.

They spent a surprisingly pleasant few days together at Le Mûrier, walking on the beach, having lunch in Sainte-Maxime or Saint-Tropez, occasionally running into people that Victoria knew, or people who recognised Leanne, but mostly unmolested. They slept together, but chastely; Leanne had not initiated sex since discovering that Victoria was pregnant. They cooked, slept, and went for long, companionable drives through the countryside, or along the coast, or up into the Massif des Maures, the beautiful mountains to the north of the gulf. Dave left them with a little Renault runaround, full of petrol. Victoria was still on the boss’s insurance, he said. And the boss would be coming out next week.

Next week. She had to get rid of Leanne by next week.

‘Surely you have things you should be doing,’ said Victoria, as they drove along the looping, switchback mountain road towards Fréjus. ‘Paintings to work on, deals to make, all the stuff that kept you busy when we were in London.’

‘You trying to get rid of me, babe?’ said Leanne, her arm resting on the open window. ‘It’s quiet this time of year. Besides, I could do with a holiday. It ’s nice here. I might take a house myself, do some painting. Bit of landscape. Maybe bring a class out here.’ She chuckled. ‘They’d pay a bloody fortune for this. Beautiful countryside, good wine, good food, and Leanne fucking Miller. Five grand a head, easy.’

‘Good idea,’ said Victoria, nervous about the idea of Leanne and Rivelli coming face to face.

‘Don’t worry, babe, If Loverboy takes care of you, I’ll fade into the background as your good, devoted friend. I’m not the stalking type.’

Victoria laughed, but wondered.

She flew to Nice . . .

‘Oh, how beautiful,’ said Leanne, as they crested a ridge, struck by a sudden view of tree-cloaked slopes, Aleppo pines, holly, cork oaks, chestnuts. ‘Stop the car for a moment.’ Victoria slowed while Leanne rummaged for her camera. ‘Wow. Pull over here.’