‘What is happening on the beach?’ my mother enquired of the waiter as we watched troops of formally uniformed staff carrying chairs down from where we were sitting with pre-dinner drinks on the terrace.
‘The Principessa is throwing a party,’ the waiter replied, assuming that the activity required no more explanation than that.
He was right. Tom, my best friend, who had been invited to join us so that my parents didn’t have to bear the full weight of my company throughout the holiday, and I were well aware of the Principessa and her entourage since arriving at the Tunisian beach resort. We must have been about 12 years old; an age when we found it hard not to gawp at a beautiful Italian princess as she glided around the complex in Jackie Kennedy sunglasses, apparently oblivious of our fascination.
We ate dinner faster than usual as the sun set across the horizon, eager to get down to the beach and watch the revellers from a better vantage point, anxious that we might miss something.
Long tables had been set out beneath the undulating canopies and the uniformed hotel staff were moving back and forth between the semi-naked guests and the various meats which were turning over open fires. There was a babble of languages, none of which we understood, and music we had never heard before. Flaming torches took over from the sunset as we crouched on the sand outside the flickering light, drinking in every detail of the illuminated scene, inventing our own back stories for every guest there. It was my first modest glimpse of the international jet set (a new concept at the time) at play. It seemed richer and more glamorous than any film I had ever seen. We sat there for hours, intoxicated by the scent of smoke and jasmine and the possibilities of what adult life might hold in store.