‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ Madeline asked. ‘Isn’t it private property?’

‘A rich old guy used to own it, but he died. Now some Swiss property developers want to turn it into a hotel, but the mayor won’t allow them. He’s probably holding out for a bigger bribe, and until he gets it, the place stays empty. Give me your hand.’ He outstretched his arm and hauled her onto the granite wall beside him. ‘Be careful of this plant,’ he warned, indicating the purple bougainvillea that had overgrown the garden of the chateau. ‘It has pairs of sharp thorns.’ He placed his hands around her waist and lifted her into the long grass. ‘The ground slopes down to the sea. Hold onto me.’

The sun had just sunk behind the cliffs, and Ryan had passed out in his hotel room, exhausted after a day spent racing up and down the shingle beach with Johann. Madeline allowed Johann’s hand to stay on her waist even after she had steadied herself.

The chateau’s vermilion tiled roof had partially collapsed. Olive trees and agaves had broken through the plaster on the ground-floor walls. The grand old house had been empty for many years. Between the pines and date palms she could glimpse an indigo triangle of ocean. Rotting tangerines littered the grassy slope. Their sharp citrus scent made her mouth water.

‘Over here, you have to see this.’ He pushed back the branches and allowed her to climb through. There, in a small clearing behind the chateau, was a white stone summerhouse, its roof decorated with stencilled fleurs-de-lis clipped from green tin. A band might have played there on warm summer evenings. He climbed up the steps of the rotunda and swayed from side to side, his head tilted. ‘Listen, you can almost hear the accordion playing.’

‘I don’t hear anything.’ She laughed, joining him.

‘No, really, there is music all around us. There are ghosts in the trees. Look.’ He pointed upward and she smiled in surprise. ‘Fireflies. They always gather here at dusk.’

‘How do you know this place?’ she asked.

‘I came here as a child. I was forbidden to visit the chateau—the old man was still living here then. He was a wealthy member of the old Monaco family, a genuine Grimaldi, but—’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Crazy, you know? One day I found a crack in the wall and climbed through. My mother could not find me. It became my secret place. Everyone needs such a place, where they can be alone with their thoughts.’

In London she was hardly ever alone, passing her days in the steam of tumble dryers and nights in the warm beery fug of the bar, rushing from the Laundromat to pick Ryan up from school or coming in at midnight to release her neighbour from guardian duty. She had never made enough time for herself. Now, though, perhaps there was a chance. She picked up his hand and held it in hers. They sat beside each other on the dusty bandstand floor, and he lightly touched the nape of her neck with tanned fingers. Great grey-blue clouds hung low, leaving a golden ribbon of light above the line of the sea. Their backs prickled with cold. He wanted to give her his jacket, but she refused.