Funny: he didn’t seem to care so much. Only her. On and on and on. Oh Christ! Remember? That time just before the Fall: before Dorking. Some party she gave: big deal. One of the ‘Uncles’, Toby Weissberger no less, coming down the stairs with some others. Didn’t see me, I was looking for their coats in the downstairs loo. But I heard him. I remember him. Big ears, small hands.

‘Decca York is the only woman I know who actually screwed her way to the middle.’ He said that. I didn’t exactly know what it meant. Not exactly. Not at twelve. But they all stopped laughing when they saw me. With their coats.

I really want that world now? But come on: let’s face it. It was all a long time ago. Maybe my world, if I got it, wouldn’t be like that. Perhaps more like up at the villa. I don’t see why not. Elegance, grace, good manners, security, knowing who you are. A successful world. Why not?

Never expect failure. They don’t.

‘I Do Not Expect To Fail.’ My new motto. Just invented it. And the alternative? Well: shuttling round the Home Counties with a truck of second-hand furniture: stripping down and dressing up for Gus Bender and his Nikon. There has to be something better than that: hasn’t there? Perhaps there is. Possible. I might find out very soon. And about the Hagel business. He probably tripped over his bootlaces, if I know him. That type. Wet. And Minerva can exaggerate things, get it a bit off beam. Wild. Very American. Overstates. We’ll see.

The car swung down on to the Corniche Inferieure. On his left the whole bay: small coloured triangles idly tacking about in the breathless evening air, a speedboat scoring its way across the water to the end of the Cap; and lying almost dead centre, sleek as a sunning dolphin, the Papageno splendid in her serentiy.

That doesn’t look like failure down there, to me, he thought, Nothing tacky there. It shimmers with success. power, goodies galore.

And I’m on my way. Because he asked me. Because perhaps he’ll think that I am right for his film. I’ve got a bloody sight more going for me than old Hagel. I know that. Not Modest. Not me.

Proof? You want proof, sir? Well: funny you should ask, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I have it all ready to hand. The proof you want, sir? Signorina Sylva Puglia, a great International Star, adored by millions, the Sex Symbol of the Decade. And who does she pick to share her favours with at the biggest picnic of the Season on the Côte d’Azur, France? Marcus Edward Pollock. No less. That’s who. Me. She could have had anyone she liked. Just lift a finger and they’d all have come lurching: they were slobbering after her like a pack of randy dogs all day. But she chose me.