‘Try it on,’ her father urged her, motioning to his wife to fasten the necklace at the back.

When Carla had done so, Bel’s fingers went to her throat and caressed the cool smoothness of the stones. ‘Does it suit me?’

‘Before you look, we must add the earrings,’ said Antonio and Carla helped fasten the delicate teardrop-shaped gems to her ears.

‘There!’ Antonio steered Bel directly in front of the mirror which hung above the sideboard. ‘They look wonderful!’ he exclaimed as he surveyed his daughter’s reflection, the jewels luminous against the creamy skin of her slender neck.

‘Pai, they must have cost a king’s ransom!’

‘They are from the emerald mines of Minas Gerais and I myself inspected the uncut stones and chose the best.’

‘And of course, querida, your gown of cream silk, embroidered with emerald thread, was planned especially to show off your birthday present,’ Carla added.

‘Tonight,’ Antonio mused in satisfaction, ‘there will be no woman in the room wearing adornments more beautiful or expensive. Even if they are wearing the crown jewels of Portugal themselves!’

Suddenly, all the girlish, natural joy at receiving such a magnificent present evaporated. As Bel stared in the mirror at her reflection, she realised that the jewellery had nothing to do with Antonio wishing to please his daughter on her birthday. It was just another way of impressing the many important people who would arrive tonight at her party.

Now, the gleaming green stones around her neck seemed vulgar, ostentatious . . . she was simply a canvas on which to exhibit the trappings of his wealth. And her eyes filled with tears.

‘Ah, querida, don’t cry.’ Carla was immediately by her side. ‘I understand you’re overwhelmed, but you mustn’t upset yourself on your special day.’

Bel reached instinctively for her mother and rested her head on her shoulder as fear for the future surged through her.

Bel looked back on her eighteenth birthday party at the Copacabana Palace – the night that she and, more importantly, her father were emphatically launched into Rio society – as a series of vivid, jumbled snapshots.

Gabriela had obviously made the right offering to Our Lady as, although the heavens had opened for the entire afternoon, at four o’clock, just as Bel had bathed and the hair stylist had arrived to pile her thick glossy mane on top of her head, the rain stopped. Strings of tiny emeralds – a further gift from her father – were woven through her chignon. And her gown, made of duchesse satin sent especially from Paris and expertly fitted by Madame Duchaine to accentuate her breasts, her slim hips and pan-flat stomach, clung to her like a second skin.

When she’d arrived at the hotel, a crowd of photographers, paid by her father to attend, had sprung into action as she’d emerged with Antonio from the car. A barrage of flashbulbs popped in her face as he led her inside.