Stelios had spent all of the previous evening sitting in the bar of the White Hotel, drinking martinis and shooting off his mouth about the rich buyer he represented who was interested in buying the statue of Venus, no questions asked, if it existed at all. Having pricked their interest and, he hoped, spread the word about, he planned to go again tonight – only this time with Nell, as the glamorous assistant of the secretive would-be buyer.

‘But how would they know if the buyer was genuine?’ enquired Karl.

‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ reassured Stelios, with one of his trademark grins. ‘I am used to dealing with shady rich people who want to acquire antiquities because their gut tells them they have to possess them at all costs. They pretend it’s all above board, even to themselves, when they know perfectly well the object has been stolen. It is a game I am used to playing. I can convince your friend all right.’

‘Good, good.’ Karl slapped him on the back. ‘I knew we had found the right man in you!’

But Stelios wasn’t listening. He was staring behind him, his mouth like a heron’s beak when it spots a minnow in the stream below. Karl turned, and instantly saw his point.

Nell had just walked into the room. She wore an oyster pink Chanel jacket in bouclé wool with the signature black braid round the collar, over a pale silk blouse and tight black pencil skirt. Her dark hair was beautifully arranged into a French chignon. Black eyeliner lined her lids in a fabulous, seductive sweep. And to complete the ensemble she wore huge Chanel sunglasses.

‘Nell!’ shrieked Dora. ‘Where did you get that jacket? I’ve wanted that all my life!’

‘Oxfam in the King’s Road. Eighty quid. Charity shops in posh areas are the ones to go for designer bargains. Do I look OK?’

They all lined up to admire her.

‘You look amazing!’ congratulated Penny.

‘Stunning!’ seconded Dora. ‘Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s to the life!’

‘Who knew you had legs?’ marvelled Moira.

‘And such wonderful legs!’ agreed Penny.

‘I’m channelling my inner Leslie Caron. You don’t think I’m more Cruella de Vil?’

‘No!’ they all insisted.

‘Wait for this.’ She pouted her lips, twitched her shoulders into the tiniest slouch and looked around her haughtily. ‘Monsieur Stelios, êtes-vous prêt?’ she demanded with just the right degree of bored impatience.

‘Wow,’ Dora demanded, ‘a French accent! Where did that come from?’

‘I went to finishing school in Paris. It’s never been useful before. Do you think it’s a little de trop?’

‘I think it’s perfect. What do you reckon, Stelios?’

But Stelios was already standing, looking totally bewitched, holding his arm out for her to take.

‘Enchanté, madame,’ he bowed with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Allons-y!’