But there had not been time even for that. They had a plane to catch, back to the airport, up up and away to Cagliari . . . Well, this was more like it, thought Victoria, who had also packed resort wear, and was looking forward to some leisure time in Porto Cervo, maybe a spot of property hunting, with frequent use of the pronoun ‘we’ and verbs in the future tense . . .

But even Sardinia was disappointing, the friends that they were staying with a ghastly couple who drank like fish, and who seemed to be constantly on the brink of suggesting an orgy, and, worst of all, lived in the kind of house that made an English WAG’s palace look like quite good taste. If these were the only friends to whom Massimo felt he could introduce her – an ageing roué and what looked like his ex-prostitute wife – then life on Sardinia seemed to have lost its lustre. It was with some relief that Victoria repacked her bag when Massimo announced that they would spend the last two nights of their holiday in the good old south of France, ‘too popular’ or not. Sardinia was not mentioned again.

And there, waiting for her on the bed at Le Mûrier, was a box bearing the Roberto Cavalli logo. Massimo was a magician. She did not ask how he’d known. She simply modelled it for him, and then, when necessary, hitched that expensive sky blue silk up around her waist and straddled her generous benefactor. If nothing else, she had a wardrobe full of expensive couture. Surely, if push came to shove, he wouldn’t have the gall to ask for that back? The jewellery, maybe, but not the frocks . . .

The wind was getting up, and a shiver ran across Victoria’s shoulders. At this tail-end of the summer, the weather, even in Provence, was unpredictable. Hot days could be followed by cold nights, cloud, even rain. She finished her drink and went inside to change.

Massimo was on the phone, on his laptop, didn’t even turn around when she came into the bedroom, just gestured with a hand, clicked his fingers, pointed to the floor, to say ‘stay’, rather as you would to a dog. She ignored him, made to move away, and he grabbed her wrist. Not hard – but very firmly.

He rattled away in Italian – what little she understood seemed mostly to be figures – and moved his hand from her wrist to her waist, toying with the elastic of her bikini bottoms. She got the message, and stepped out of them. She knew that Massimo got a kick out of conducting business on the phone while eating her out. It was a little act of defiance to ‘the rules’ – and it was about as far as he was prepared to go, like a schoolboy wanking at the back of the class.

He concluded the call, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said ‘Hey, baby.’ He pulled her to him, and she sat on his lap; he was hard, of course. ‘Put on something pretty tonight. I’m buying you dinner.’