Greetings from the Big Apple! Poppy had written on the back, in curly turquoise ink. Having a wonderful time so far. You must come and stay when you can spare a minute from your glamorous schedule – it’s time we repaid your hospitality! Loads of love, P&D xxxxxxxxxx

And then she saw it. Picking up the cheap white envelope, she felt the all-too-familiar fear begin to snake around her heart. There was no address, just her name, written in black felt-tip pen. In Cyrillic lettering.

Quickly she tore open the envelope with her mother-of-pearl-handled letter opener and scanned the single sheet of paper. After memorizing its contents, she screwed it into a ball, and made her way to the interior of her yacht, where she took a lighter from an Art Deco enamelled coffee table and set fire to the noxious missive, letting it fall into a cut-glass ashtray.

After pouring what was left of her breakfast mineral water onto the charred remains, she walked on until she reached her bedroom cabin, with its walk-in wardrobe. Here she changed out of her gaudy Chanel matelot gear and into a cream jersey-knit narrow maxiskirt that completely covered her stupendous legs. A nondescript navy-blue T-shirt skimmed her slender torso. Both garments were Calvin Klein and exquisitely comfortable – this was the closest Natalia got to dressing down. She didn’t do jeans – even designer ones. What was the point on spending silly sums of money on what was, essentially, peasant-wear? When she’d worked so long and hard to leave that life behind? Besides, jeans were never long enough and she’d always found them fiendishly uncomfortable.

With her hair tied back into a simple plait, and a floppy wide-brimmed straw hat covering half her face, she bore little resemblance to the glamorous socialite of minutes earlier. This was her uniform on her yearly visits to the women’s refuge and hospice back home. She hoped it would serve the same purpose of relative anonymity here. Natalia wasn’t what you’d call famous, but she was enough of a fixture in the gossip columns and society pages to act with extreme caution where certain individuals and situations were concerned.

Her journey to the seedy bar on the edge of town would have been enjoyable, had her mission not been such a distasteful one. The food markets, with their brightly coloured array of fruit and veg, the divine-smelling patisseries and boulangeries, the pretty squares where elderly gentlemen played boules – some parts of Saint-Tropez were so vibrant at this time of day, such a feast for the senses, that Natalia reflected she should get out and explore some more. Much as she loved her new yacht, there was more to life than sitting on deck and counting one’s money.

Despite herself she laughed at the thought, looking about 25. Then she steeled herself for the task that lay ahead and composed her features once more.

The bar was more like something from downtown Marseilles than anything you’d expect to find in Saint-Tropez. A couple of black-toothed men sat smoking and nursing Pernods on metal chairs at Formica tables. Some lairy youths were cursing and thumping an ancient pinball machine in the corner of the room. There was a strong stench of cat’s piss.