He was staring at me, his nostrils flaring a little as he breathed. He was trying to take in what my words meant. I did not know what effect cocaine had on the system or how soon it would wear off, but his countenance had changed again. David the amiable lover, the intelligent schemer, the exacting director, the consummate liar, had been obliterated by a man filled with bright-eyed, brittle excitement. He did not attempt to unclasp my hands, but sat there imprisoned, his gaze fixed on my face. “What are you telling me, Clara?” he asked faintly. “What do you want?”

I put my head on one side and contemplated him, allowing one of my narrow straps to fall off my shoulder. “I can’t go on being that silly little girl I was. I want to be famous, David. I don’t care about the photographs, or the court case. It’ll be good publicity for the picture, as you said. I only care about you. I want to be with you, and be your lover, and come to your house, and do all the things film people do. I want to get my name in the newspapers. I want to live while I’m young. I want to be rich and I want to be happy.”

He took hold of my dress strap and restored it, slowly, to its position on my shoulder. At the touch of his fingers, sorrow for the loss of my first love affair cascaded over me like an ice shower. Afraid I might cry, I hung my head.

“I know a good way to be happy, Clara.” He took my chin and lifted my face. “If you are willing.”

Tears did come, though they did not fall. I hoped he would interpret them as tears of relief. “Of course. I’d like to go somewhere alone with you,” I told him. “Away from all these people.” Before he could reply I stood up and tugged at his hand. “I’ve spent such a boring evening at this party, making up to that tiresome boy, Stefano, in the hope of seeing you. I kept waiting for you to appear here, in the ballroom. But you were in the garden all the time!”

He got up, his eyes fixed on my face. “Stefano Bassini is notorious for … tell me, Clara, did he give you anything?”

I nodded. “Some stuff – I think it’s called marijuana. But it didn’t do anything. Have you got any of that white powder you were sniffing in the garden?” I began to pull him towards the doors to the terrace. “Can I try some?” The words Aidan had repeated so many times, “get him to the beach, get him to the beach”, sounded in my ears, and helped me act out what we had rehearsed. I blinked away the tears. “Come on, let’s go down to the beach, and you can show me what to do. Do you like swimming in the dark? I love it!”

David’s usual perceptiveness and cynicism had been obliterated by the drug. There was a sheen of perspiration on his face, and his eyes looked a very dark blue. “Skinny-dipping?” he asked.

I led him onto the terrace, and round towards the front of the house. I had to get him away as soon as possible, before Stefano came looking for me and my glass of water. “Look, the path’s just here.”

Aidan had shown me the path that led from the road below Giovanni’s villa to the beach on the far curve of the bay. Not many bathers went there, by day or night; it was beyond the rocks, and few visitors to Castiglioncello had the inclination to climb over them. But those villa owners who did not have their own private beach had cut a set of steps which twisted their way steeply down to the cove.

David and I had no light. We had to rely on what spilled over from the blazing villa above, and even that faded as we drew nearer the beach. I stumbled often in my high-heeled shoes, but managed to hang on to David’s arm, and at last we reached the pebbles. I collapsed onto my knees, tearing my silk stockings, but did not care. I had only one more thing to do.