He showered quickly, towelled himself off, and selected a new shirt and suit. The meal was delivered very promptly, and Montfort ate it with relish, although when it came to it he drank only one glass of the wine. Everything was spectacularly delicious, and he made a resolution to come to France more often, merely to eat. A Mercedes had been ordered for him and was waiting patiently when he stepped out of the heavy gilt doors of the hotel at quarter to three, and at 3 p.m. precisely, he was walking into the Mayberry showroom on rue des Princes, alive with excitement and the scent of the deal.

Although it was a Wednesday afternoon, Montfort was pleased to note, the place was jammed. Crowds of tourists peered into the brilliantly lit glass cases; Japanese and Americans he could identify instantly, but he thought there were also at least ten Frenchwomen. He could further see that although the store was very full, their carefully designed layout was working. There was no sense of a cattle market.

The hushed, pale grey colour inside the stores, a hue he had chosen himself, reflected its calming palette everywhere, from the soft carpeting that deadened the clicks of ladies’ heels to the silvery, moth-coloured background of the gem cases and the walls that looked as though they had been washed in moonlight. The cases were all small and well spaced out; Mayberry jewels, Hugh had decreed, were not to be jumbled together in one huge box. Each range would be separate, displayed to its best advantage.

For a few moments he watched the women cooing over the pieces. The brightness of the displays played up his fresh, hip brand. Unlike every other jewellery store, you didn’t have to guess at the prices here. They were not invisible, or written on tiny paper tags. They were displayed, electronically, on screens beside each piece, along with information on stones and carat weights. The greatest crush was around the Molten Sun collection, his Oscar triumph, but he noticed other lines doing well: Bloodlust, the ruby and spinel line, was attracting the attention of the Frenchwomen, and the Japanese ladies were interested in Onyx Moon, which, of course, contained no onyx; it was a selection of chokers and brooches in jet, opals, and black diamonds.

Perfect; it was fashion, and the dedicated followers were out there, hunting not just for the famous line, but for the next big thing. As he watched, eight more women entered the store, but it was at capacity already, and they murmured to themselves, then left again.

His annoyance mingled with anticipation. Yes, of course customers left if there was no room for them to see the merchandise. It was a scene likely repeated in Mayberry stores around the world. He needed space, and prominence. He needed the stores of that dinosaur, House Massot.

“Monsieur.”

He turned; fat little Louis Maitre was standing there, smiling and rubbing his hands.