The champagne fountain had flowed like water all evening, and rare beluga caviar, imported from Russia, had been handed round as freely as if it were cheap salgadinhos from a street vendor.

After an extravagant dinner of lobster thermidor accompanied by the best French wines, Rio’s most fashionable dance band had performed on the terrace. The huge swimming pool had been covered over with boards so that the guests could dance under the starlight.

Antonio had refused point-blank to countenance any samba, which, although increasingly popular, was still considered the music of the poor in Rio. However, he had been persuaded by Senhora Santos to allow a couple of energetic maxixe numbers on the basis that the racy dance steps were these days considered the height of chic in the sophisticated clubs of Paris and New York.

Bel remembered being partnered on the dance floor by a series of men, their touch on her bare shoulder as insignificant as a mosquito she would immediately flick away.

Then Antonio himself had brought across a young man to meet her.

‘Izabela,’ he had said, ‘may I introduce you to Gustavo Aires Cabral. He has been admiring you from afar and would like the pleasure of a dance.’

Bel knew immediately from his surname that this diminutive, whey-faced man represented one of the most aristocratic families in Brazil.

‘Of course,’ she had said, lowering her eyes deferentially. ‘It would be my honour, senhor.’

She couldn’t help noticing Gustavo was so short that his eyes were barely on a level with hers, and as he had bent to kiss her hand, she was afforded a view of the already thinning hair on top of his head.

‘Senhorita, where have you been hiding yourself?’ he’d murmured as he led her to the dance floor. ‘You’re surely the most beautiful woman in Rio.’

As they’d danced, Bel didn’t need to look at her father to know that he was watching them with a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

Later, when her ten-tiered birthday cake had been cut, and everyone had been served a further glass of champagne from the fountain in order to toast her, a sudden blast of noise assailed Bel’s ears. Like everyone else on the terrace, she had turned her head in the direction of it, to see a boat floating on the waves close to shore, firing off hundreds of catherine wheels, rockets and starbursts. The coloured fireworks lit up the night sky above Rio, and everyone had gasped at the spectacle. With Gustavo hovering at her shoulder, Bel could only muster a false smile of gratitude.

Bel woke at eleven the next day and, having written to Loen – whom she knew would be desperate to hear news of the party – at the fazenda, she emerged from her bedroom and made her way downstairs. The Bonifacio party had not arrived home until well after four in the morning, and she found her parents taking a late breakfast looking distinctly bleary-eyed.