When Poppy returned with a margarita in her hand, she was slightly glassy-eyed.

‘Your mum does make the meanest margaritas,’ she said to Jack, who laughed.

‘Sorry, babe, should’ve warned ya. It’s her Hispanic roots, y’see.’

He and Ben were lying on adjacent sun loungers. Clambering up the tree towards the hammocks would have proved way too problematic after the amount they’d had to drink tonight.

‘Congrats again, Pops,’ said Ben, smiling benignly. Poppy had won Best TV Newcomer, and had called Damian in New York as soon as she’d found out. As the TV footage of the awards wasn’t going to be shown until the following evening, Damian had been out on the town with Lars.

‘Oh, my darling, well done!’ he’d shouted, sounding completely shit-faced but endearingly pleased for her. ‘I can’t believe I’m married to such a clever thing. I LOVE YOU!’

‘I love you too, darling,’ Poppy had said. ‘But I’ve got to go and mingle now. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Course not! Enjoy your success! Can’t wait to see you and give you the most enormous hug – and the rest of it!’

Poppy hadn’t intended to come back with Ben and Jack, but it had transpired that the ultimate after-party, the really important one, frequented by industry insiders, had for the past couple of years been held at Jack’s Spanish-style villa, and Marty had insisted.

‘You gotta be seen at all the right places, babe,’ he’d said.

Poppy had duly sparkled and twinkled and schmoozed the big cheeses, networking her pretty little feet off. At last, most of the guests had gone, and she, Ben and Jack had retired to his parents’ quarters at the back of the house.

So now she found herself swaying slightly in front of the two people her husband would most hate to see her with. As she wasn’t planning to do anything untoward with either of them, she excused herself in her own mind and plonked her tiny frame down on the ground between their loungers.

‘OK, Ben, I’ve waited long enough,’ she announced dramatically. ‘Who is this amazing woman I apparently know, who has brought about this transformation in you?’

‘Poppy …?’ Jack looked at her as if to say, Is this a good idea?

‘It’s OK, Jack. I’d like to talk about her to somebody who knows her. It’s Natalia, Pops. Natalia Evanovitch.’

‘Natalia?’ Poppy couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d said it was Hillary Clinton. ‘What the fuck? How on earth do you know her? Oh, tell me, please please please!!!’

‘We met in Saint-Tropez …’ Ben took a long drag on his spliff.

‘Good start,’ said Poppy approvingly.

‘If you’re going to interrupt every five seconds, I’m stopping now …’

‘Oh, sorry, please carry on. I promise I won’t say another word.’ Poppy did a zipping-up motion across her mouth and Jack laughed, looking at her affectionately.

‘As I said, it started in Saint-Tropez …’ And Ben told them the whole story, from the night he first noticed Natalia’s beautiful back outside Bar Sénéquier, to his discovery that she was being blackmailed, to the sad little note that she had left him. When he came to this last bit, he reached into his wallet.