He released her, smiled, swung round, dived under the water. She waved across to the Film Star who waved back, her mouth full of hairpins.

At the bar, set up beneath the towering figure of Mars under the awning, long white cloth, glasses, bowls, dishes piled with olives, cornichons, wilting radishes, limp potato crisps, tiny tomatoes. In two silver cisterns crammed with melting ice, bottle necks sticking up like skittles. She found one half full and looked for a clean glass among the litter of drooping fern and spilled lemon rings. The barman, who had been bent over a large hamper, stacking things away, hurried to help her.

‘No, don’t bother, Jacques. Carry on with whatever you are doing, I’ll help myself.’

‘It was a good day, I think, eh? We ran out of the Sancerre at five o’clock.’

‘A lovely day … thank you so much, so good of you. Did you manage? For yourself, I mean? Before it ran out?’

‘We still had the Krug.’ He grinned, offered her a glass which he had wiped on his apron. She filled it, drank it down, refilled it.

‘You have a brave thirst, Madame.’

‘I always have had … and after such a brave day.’

She carried the full glass back towards the steps. Behind her the Film Star’s voice high with command. ‘Yeah. Plenty ice; con limone!’

The sound of his bare feet on the wet stones coming towards her.

She went on up the steps, clutching both rail and glass; not looking back.

The picnic had started at exactly 7 am when the caterers from Nice arrived with assorted truck-loads of trestles, boards, boxes, table-tops, crates, spreading themselves rapidly about the silent gardens, terrace, and pool, like an invading army, with Bruna among them, behaving remarkably like a Career General. Almost instantly the place looked as if it had been struck by a tornado. Tonnino’s carefully tended lawns a litter of planks and boxes, straw flying, paper whirling, ropes and poles and scattered piles of canvas, amongst which people hurried in urgent groups, sifting, sorting, pulling, lifting, calling, scolding; rescuers searching for survivors. From her balcony Leni watched the frantic proceedings with half-awake bewilderment.

‘It’s fantastic!’ she said. ‘Like a revolution starting. It’s going to be so huge.’

Marcus put an arm round her neck, pulled her head on to his shoulder. ‘It’s a bit like the croquet game in “Alice”, and Bruna’s the Queen of Hearts: I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see little men on ladders soon, painting the roses.’

‘I don’t know what that means.’

Marcus kissed her gently. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘It’s all for us anyway.’

‘Really for the Italians, I think.’

‘For them too, but really most for us. Cuckoo’s picnic, traditional, and my “birthday” too.’

‘That’s so silly, because it isn’t.’

‘Not silly. Sensible.’

‘It’s all pretending, isn’t it?’