‘Bugger me, where’d you learn to do that?’ Mark laughed.

‘I was a teenager in the sixties, darling, was married to Justin Brown, and spent an awful lot of the seventies in Morocco. May I?’

Mark nodded and she lit it and toked, inhaling deeply.

‘Gosh, that really makes Bella’s colours look cool,’ she said, gazing at her daughter’s paintings on the wall, and Mark and Sam both laughed.

‘Sam, darling, you’re awfully pretty. Oh, of course, you’re the one who dabbles in modelling. I did that donkey’s years ago, though I was slimmer then …’

‘You’re still beautiful,’ said Mark and Sam simultaneously, and Olivia laughed.

‘Past my prime, I’m afraid.’ She turned her hypnotic gaze on Sam again. ‘I imagine modelling’s very different these days. We used to make up our own faces, and sometimes we even wore our own clothes, you know.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard about that,’ said Sam, wondering exactly how much Bella had told her mum about the nature of her modelling, and trying to ignore the smirk on Marky’s face.

‘I don’t have any of that old shit,’ said Big Sean, the obnoxious DJ that Poppy had poached from Pacha for a small fortune, rolling his eyes. As he was about five foot seven, the name was presumably meant to be ironic – unless his Napoleon complex was seriously out of control.

‘Find it then. It’s my wedding and I’m paying you enough,’ Poppy said steelily. ‘And I’d like you to dedicate it to Natalia. If that’s not too much trouble.’ The little cunt looked as if he wanted to throw himself off the cliff, then looked once more at the opulence of the villa and Poppy’s intransigence and took out his BlackBerry.

‘José, mate, I’m dealin’ with people who want old shit.’

He rolled his eyes again and Poppy whispered to Bella,

‘Once he’s played the music for Natalia, we can all chuck him in, fucking CrackBerry and all.’

Bella giggled and jumped back into the pool, feeling as wonderfully mad as good mad can feel. Poppy joined her and they swam over to the island for another line. The entire party was rocking now, the best (or worst) of London’s media twats splashing about in the water, smoking dope in hammocks or just ecstatic at the sounds of their own voices as they pontificated. Poppy worked in TV production, Damian in the men’s magazine world; it was hardly surprising that a large proportion of the guest list was very pleased with itself indeed. Most of them had started believing their own publicity years ago.

‘Oh, Pops, I love you.’ The girls exchanged soggy and effusive hugs on the island. ‘HAPPY WEDDING!’

‘Yay! Happy my wedding too!’ Poppy lay back on the deck in her virginal white bikini and said, with all the seriousness that a drunk and coked-up bride could muster, ‘But also, babes, I’m so happy you’re so happy with Andy. He’s a wonderful man.’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Bella dreamily. Then she laughed. ‘Just listen to us. It’s your wedding. Damian’s a wonderful man too, and I’ve never seen you look so beautiful.’