‘Why did they just fall on me like that?’

‘Ah, as for that . . . pff!’ He squashed the caterpillar between his fingers, wiped the mess on to a napkin. ‘An occupational hazard of standing under mulberry trees.’ He could barely contain his laughter now. ‘Especially with your tits out.’

‘Shut up! I hate you sometimes!’

‘Ah, baby, but remember,’ he said, touching her on the shoulder with the same hand that had just squished the larva, ‘without your disgusting little maggots, there would be no silk. And without silk, there would be no beautiful evening dresses. No couture. And without couture, no garment manufacturing industry.’

She could see where this was going. ‘All right.’

‘And without a garment manufacturing industry,’ he continued, the laughter no longer in his voice, ‘no Rivelli. And without Rivelli, no nice flat for Victoria, no pretty clothes, no holidays in Sainte-Maxime, no skiing in Aspen. Capisce?’

‘Si.’

‘The world is not pretty, Victoria. The world is not a Cavalli dress, a diamond necklace, dinner for two on the terrace. It’s a million million silkworms spewing stuff out their assholes and then getting dropped into huge vats of boiling water to kill them before they can turn into moths. It’s about prices going up and down on the international markets. It’s about cutting your competitor’s throat so that you can bring in the next order just a fraction of a percent lower than the next guy. It’s about crushing anyone who stands in your way – so that you can have all this.’ He gestured towards the swimming pool, the blue water lit by submerged lamps. ‘It’s all built on death. Of one sort or another.’

Victoria shivered, and pulled up the top of her dress. ‘I don’t want to know about that side of things, Massimo.’

‘I know you don’t, baby. But I have to.’

The wind sighed around the house, blowing the crumbs off the table. Summer was definitely over. Victoria went upstairs, blowing her nose, and ran a bath.

Chapter 4

‘A few days in Paris’ sounded lovely to Isabelle – she had not been there for years, and never without her parents – and to go there with Will, even to work, was almost too much pleasure to contemplate. They were staying in a studio apartment that belonged to an ‘old friend’ of Will’s, on Boulevard Rochechouart, the wide grimy street that divides the ninth arrondissement from the eighteenth between Montmartre and the Goutte d’Or. They emerged from the Métro at Barbès Rochechouart, elbowed their way through the crowds outside Tati, where Isabelle’s eye was caught by a sleeveless black top for €1.99, and Will had to wait outside with the luggage while she ran inside to pay. She ran out clutching the pink gingham-checked paper bag above her head, a gleeful smile on her face.

‘It’s an omen,’ she said. ‘The perfect little black number for one ninety-nine. Dress it up with a bit of ribbon, a bit of sparkle . . .’