‘He used to be the art director on Stadium – you know, the men’s magazine, before it folded. Now he freelances. They’ve been shooting for GQ – that’s why he’s in the South of France, you see.’

‘Is that how you met him?’ Sienna asked, the penny dropping, and Sam nodded. The bus drew up and both girls flashed their Oyster cards at the driver before making a beeline for the back row of the top deck, oblivious to every male head (and a couple of female ones) swivelling in their direction. They were a couple of incredibly pretty young girls.

‘So what does he look like, this boyfriend of yours?’ asked Sienna. ‘Got any photos?’

‘Course!’ Sam giggled. ‘Who hasn’t got photos of their boyfriend?’

She took out her phone and gave it to Sienna. As she started scrolling through, Sienna’s voice got higher and higher.

‘Sam! He’s bloody gorgeous! He looks like Jason Statham! Oh, woweeeewow!’ She clutched Sam’s shoulder and Sam was reminded that, for all her sophisticated ways, Sienna was still actually only 19, just like her. She smiled at her new best friend with enormous gratitude, so glad to have a proper ally for once.

The vieux port at Saint-Tropez had to be seen to be believed. Mark and Justin had been there many times before, of course, but for the ogling, badly dressed day-trippers (soon about to depart, thank the Lord) it was something akin to Disneyland. This tiny bit of legendary celeb-ville was not much more than a small handful of prettily pastel-coloured nineteenth-century buildings clustered around a waterfront teeming with yachts, super-yachts and mega-yachts. The majority of these buildings now housed obscenely expensive boutiques, bars and restaurants. If you just wanted to people-watch, it was possible to sit at one and drink a coffee for 15 euros, though those in the know, and the students who’d read up on St Trop in the Lonely Planet, realized it was cheaper to get a small pression – or draft lager – for less.

Mark and Justin were beyond the stage of caring. After the fifth cognac at Club 55 (all paid for by GQ), they’d decided to repair to their shared room at the Byblos, where they’d snorted at least a gram to keep them going after the day’s excessive boozing.

‘Hahahahahaaaaa, Justin, mate, I now know where Bella gets it from!’ Mark had chortled.

‘She gets her looks from her mother and her stamina from me,’ Justin had responded. ‘I’m so proud of my little girl.’

‘Yeah, Bella’s great. And she’s all right now with that Andy geezer. Good bloke.’

‘Good bloke,’ Justin had affirmed solemnly as he racked out another couple of chunky ones.

Now though, they were sitting at Bar Sénéquier on the corner where the main drag met the seafront, drinking Pernod and checking out the talent.

‘Check out the tits on that!’ said Justin to Mark, as both their eyes followed a ludicrous-platinum-blonde in a skin-tight sugar-pink catsuit trailing a horrible little dog on a bejewelled lead.