Christine adjusted her wig, shook out the folds of her gown, and turned away from the mirror, ready to deliver the coup de grâce to another dying marriage.

Victoria stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. She loved this time of day – late afternoon, early evening, her skin still warm and tingling from the sun, a gentle buzz from a good lunch and a couple of cocktails, the promise of a party to come. She dabbed the water from her face, patted her hair and wrapped it up in a towel turban, then set about the long, sensuous process of ‘getting ready’. Ever since she was a teenager, Victoria had loved getting ready – the anticipation, the self-indulgence, the pampering, awakening her body and mind to the possibilities of the evening. So many evenings, so many possibilities, so much pleasure to be enjoyed and given . . . And tonight, here at Le Mûrier, Massimo’s ‘hideaway’ villa in Sainte-Maxime, she would step into her rightful place by his side, playing hostess to his friends and colleagues, more than just the mistress. Here, in France, she could be what she really wanted to be, at least for a few days: his wife.

She unscrewed the lid from a jar of subtly fragranced white cream, scooped out a good handful, rubbed it between her palms and made a start. Arms first, feeling the firmness in the muscle that she’d maintained from all those Pilates classes. Then the shoulders, still as smooth and rounded as a marble statue, up around the neck, where a few damp tresses of dark blonde hair escaped from the towel and clung to her nape, then swooping down to her breasts. Ah, her breasts, her best friends, her weapons, her nest-eggs – they deserved extra special care. She dabbed a little blob of cream on to each nipple, shuddering slightly as she worked it outwards, finally taking a breast in each hand and working the moisturiser in until they shone. Then down the gentle curve of her stomach, her thighs, calves and feet, good enough to eat.

Still naked, Victoria stepped into her slippers – all of her shoes had a heel, even these – and trotted into the bedroom. The windows were wide open, letting in a soft, pine-scented breeze, the buzz of insects, the occasional whirr of a passing bird. She could see right across the bay to Saint-Tropez – ‘that vulgar resort’, as Massimo called it, where they sometimes went at night to laugh at the excesses of the nouveaux riches. She stepped out on to the balcony and felt the heat from the last rays of the evening sun before it dipped down behind the hills. There was perhaps half an hour to go before sunset and that sudden drop still surprised and delighted her.

Massimo was down by the pool, stretched out on a lounger, naked but for a towel wrapped round his waist. The garden was shielded from the road by a thick stand of conifers, and was cleverly oriented to avoid being overlooked by the other villas that studded the hillside – and so, when there was no company, they could swim and sunbathe naked, even make love by the pool, in the pool, the sun beating down on their tanned skin, the smell of chlorine and pine resin and rosemary mingling with the animal scents of sex. Massimo loved that pool. Whenever they arrived at Le Mûrier, the first thing he did was strip off his clothes and dive straight in. It was more to him than just a swimming pool – it was a symbol of his success, the first real luxury he indulged himself in when he hit the big time. ‘When I built that pool,’ he told Victoria, ‘I knew that nothing could stand in my way.’