– 14 –

It was eleven o’clock at night and Marian had just left Bronwen at her pied-à-terre in Sidney Street, where they’d had a take-away dinner while talking over an itinerary for Florence. When she left, Bronwen hadn’t been too happy about the idea of her walking home alone, even though Stephanie’s flat was only ten minutes away, but Marian had insisted. It was such a lovely night, she’d said, and the cool air would make a welcome change after the intense heat of the day.

As she strolled down the Fulham Road she let all thoughts of Olivia Hastings and Florence ebb to the back of her mind, and concentrated on the weekend ahead. While she was looking forward to seeing her mother, she knew that the visit wasn’t going to be easy, for she had finally come to accept that she could no longer go on pretending about Madeleine. The rift would hurt her mother deeply, which was why Marian had fought shy of telling her about it for so long. But now that Madeleine’s fame was increasing at such an incredible rate, it was proving impossible to continue shielding Celia from the truth. Marian smiled sadly. How bewildering it must all seem to Celia, tucked away down there in Devon with not the first idea what her two girls were really up to in London. Though Marian was sure her mother must have guessed by now that something was amiss – Celia might be naive and simple-hearted, but she wasn’t stupid. The problem, really, was that once Celia knew her girls had fallen out to such a degree that they no longer saw or spoke to one another, she would be bound to want to contact Madeleine, and Marian couldn’t bear the idea of Celia putting herself in a position where Madeleine could hurt her.

Suddenly a car horn blasted through the tranquil night, breaking her reverie, and realising she’d been dawdling, Marian hooked her bag higher on her shoulder and quickened her step. It wasn’t until she was outside the Brompton Hospital that she became aware of someone walking behind her. The close proximity made her uncomfortable, and she slowed down to let the person pass. But though the footsteps drew closer there was no attempt to overtake her. At first she tried to shrug it off – there were several people about, the traffic was still flowing, and it was a clear night. Nevertheless she stepped up her pace again, and for a moment thought that whoever it was had turned off into the mews she’d just passed. But as she reached the corner of Old Church Street, and had to stop before crossing the road, a man came alongside her at the kerb. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, telling herself he was probably quite harmless, just taking a stroll home like her; but her hands were clenched tightly in her pockets and her nails dug painfully into the palms. A couple passed behind them and Marian struggled with the impulse to follow them, but then the lights changed and she started to cross the road.

To her horror, the man kept abreast of her, and as they reached the other side he laid a hand on her arm. Her eyes flew to his face, but it was hidden by shadows, and as his grip tightened on her arm she opened her mouth to scream.

‘No,’ he hissed. ‘Please don’t be frightened. I’m not gonna hurt you. All I ask is that you follow me. There’s a café down the road here where we can talk. It’s about Olivia.’

Marian stared at him, her eyes achingly wide, her mouth slack and her heart thudding like a hammer. She tried to move but found she couldn’t – it was as if she had suddenly been hypnotised. The American voice, Olivia’s name, and the extraordinary drama of his approach, had pushed her into that bizarre, dreamlike-state she had been in in New York. It was as if she was once again an actress playing a role, and she blinked as the man moved on ahead of her – as if she was trying to remember what was expected of her. Dumbly, she started to follow, and tried to recall whether she’d seen that red shirt or those jeans anywhere before. From the quick glimpse she’d had of him, the man’s face looked thin and his hair sparse. She didn’t know him, she was certain of it. But he seemed to know her.

As he reached the traffic lights at the cinema he had to wait again to cross the road, and Marian caught up. In the distance was the sound of a police siren, and as it got louder and louder until it screamed past, she was slowly shaken back to a sense of reality. She had already guessed that he intended them to go into Parson’s, so she decided that once he was inside the door she would make a run for it – round the corner, into Callow Street and home. Stealthily she peered up into his face. He was looking up at the rooftops, his face expressionless. She looked away again and across the road to the bright lights of the cinema where people were beginning to file out. She was quite safe now.

‘Your name’s Marian Deacon. You live in Callow Street with your boss Stephanie Ryder,’ he muttered. ‘She’s not there tonight.’

Her head spun round, but he was still nonchalantly gazing into space, and she wondered if she had been hearing things. Then it hit her. He had just let her know that he knew where she lived. If she ran away, he would follow.

A minute later he was holding the door open for her to go into Parson’s.

They were shown to a table for two at the back of the crowded restaurant, and the man ordered two coffees and two bowls of chilli.

‘I’ve already eaten,’ Marian told him.

He smiled. ‘Sure, but we can’t just have coffee. The name’s Art Douglas, by the way.’

‘Oh.’

He licked his lips, then pulled a strangely thoughtful face. ‘Are you still afraid?’ he asked.

‘Not with all these people around,’ she lied.

‘Sure, that’s cool.’

‘You – you mentioned Olivia,’ she stammered, after a lengthy pause.

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you mean Olivia Hastings, the girl we’re making a film about?’ she asked stupidly.

‘That’s the girl.’

‘Well, what about her?’ she said, when he didn’t go on.

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. ‘I thought a long time about you after Jodi told me,’ he said.

‘You mean, you’re the man she . . .’

‘Sure. I’m the man who really knows what went on back then, before Olivia went away. That’s what you . . .’

‘But I told Jodi I didn’t want to know,’ Marian interrupted. ‘We’ve been instructed by Olivia’s father not to . . .’

‘I know what Frank’s told you,’ he said. ‘But he’s wrong. It’s gotta come out, sooner or later.’ He sat back as two bowls of chilli were placed on the table, but neither of them made any attempt to eat.

‘Who are you?’ Marian asked, as he delved in his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘I mean, who are you really?’

He laughed. ‘Me, I’m the guy you guessed at, Marian. I’m the guy the editor told. I was a journalist working for that paper way back then. When they killed Eddie I got out. Fast. But five years have gone by and Olivia ain’t come home – and I don’t reckon she’s ever coming home.’

‘You think she’s dead?’

At first he didn’t answer, and Marian watched as he lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. None of this is real, she was telling herself, it’s just some kind of elaborate joke and any minute now he’ll let me in on it. She tried to imagine telling someone about him, but knew they would never believe her. Why should they, she didn’t believe it herself.

‘I don’t know about that,’ he said finally. ‘All I know is, she can’t come back. Not after what she did. And now I feel the way Jodi feels – people have got to know. They have a right to know what scum there is in their city, and how high up that scum goes. And the only way we can tell ’em is through your movie.’

‘But I’ve already told you, we can’t do anything. Frank Hastings has said . . .’ She broke off as he waved his arm dismissively.

‘You gotta persuade Frank. You gotta tell him, you know, make him understand that the only way to get his daughter back is to blow the scam and get shot of those bastards.’

‘What bastards?’ She couldn’t believe she was going along with this. She sounded as if she was playing a part in a cheap Western. And if everyone around her had suddenly picked up a gun and started a shoot-out, she doubted she’d have blinked an eyelid.

‘The bastards that are scumming up our city,’ he answered. ‘The bastards that corrupted a young kid like Olivia and made her do what she did. You know about the drugs, Frank told you. She was so hooked she’d have done anything to get ’em. Crack, coke, heroin, you name it, she took it. It’ll kill her.’ He thought about that for a moment, then added, ‘Maybe it already has. But she sure was alive the last time I saw her.’

He took a long draw from the cigarette and Marian’s eyes widened as a thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘Just a minute,’ she said, ‘are you the “A” of the note Mr Hastings received?’

He shook his head, and exhaled through his nose. ‘Nah. Not me,’ and he smiled as her face fell. ‘Last time I saw Olivia she was in New York. People saw her alive after that, in Italy. Like the kid who drove her out to the Tuscan village that night. He was the last one to see her alive. Least, the last one we know of. But he’s innocent, he knows nothing. We none of us know anything about Italy. What I’m gonna tell you about is New York and that bastard Rubin Meyer.’

‘The man who owns the art gallery where Olivia . . .’

‘That’s the guy. He knows more than he’s telling, but Frank says no. Frank’s questioned the guy himself, he’s convinced he knows nothing about Italy, but I’m not. It was Meyer’s idea to send Olivia there to study under that guy at the Accademia.’

‘Sergio Rambaldi.’

‘That’s him. And she ain’t been seen since. But that’s not for me to sort out, that’s one for Frank. But I keep telling him the only way you’re gonna find out where she is is by exposing what went on in that apartment over Meyer’s gallery.’ He ground his cigarette into the ashtray, then leaning forward again he looked into her face, and his own was twisted and snarling. ‘Kids, Marian. Young kids. No more than twelve or thirteen years old, some of ’em. And who was there waiting for ’em when Olivia brought ’em in? The filth of our city, that’s who. It was a club, a club formed by Meyer. You know what they did? Gang rape is what it’s called, gang rape and murder. Black kids, white kids, yellow kids, boys and girls. If they lived, and the crime was reported, no one was ever found. If they died, well, all I can say is, lucky them, ’cos the ones who did live will never have normal lives now. And Olivia Hastings rounded ’em up and brought ’em in. Everyone knew who she was, all the kids loved her. They trusted her. And while she sat in a corner shooting heroin, grown men were shoving their cocks up little boys’ asses.’

Marian winced and turned away.

‘I’m sorry, Marian, but it’s not a nice tale.’

‘But why?’ she asked. ‘Why did she do it?’

‘’Cos Frank found out about the drugs and cut off her allowance. He got her money frozen in the bank so she couldn’t touch it. That’s why.’

‘Oh my God,’ she murmured. ‘It’s so horrible.’

‘My editor was the guy who threatened to blow it. He was invited to join the club. He didn’t know what it was at first, but when he went along to Olivia’s apartment and got offered a ten-year-old girl, he got out fast. He went straight to Frank and that’s when the heat really started, and when Meyer told him about this friend of his in Italy. Frank got Olivia out, and then . . .’

‘But surely you could have reported all this to the police?’

‘Uh-uh,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘There were cops in the club, and we’re talking high-up here, Marian. I mean, real high-up. Any lesser cop try to get his teeth into that one and . . .’ He slid a finger across his throat.

‘But there must have been some way to stop it.’

‘There mighta been if Olivia hadn’t disappeared. Frank’s a real powerful man, he was already searching out the cancer, collecting evidence so’s he could report it high up somewhere, higher’n the scum can reach, and he would have done it, but then Olivia upped and disappeared and now he swears one of ’em has her and he’s afraid to do anything in case they kill her.’ He stopped, and Marian flinched as his face suddenly turned ugly. ‘She’s his daughter, he wants to protect her,’ he snarled, ‘I can’t blame him for that. But there are mothers out there grieving over kids who don’t even know what happened to ’em. There are kids out there who can’t even walk any more, can’t even talk. And kids who are still in danger. And you and your movie are the only ones who can help.’

‘But I don’t see how,’ Marian protested. ‘I mean, if they – this club – were to find out what we were doing, from what you’re saying all our lives would be in danger.’

‘If you can persuade Frank to do it, he’ll give you the protection.’

‘But if he thinks they’re holding Olivia, how on earth are we supposed to persuade him?’

‘Olivia’s in Italy. As God is my witness, she is in Italy. Those jerks back home don’t have her, though they’d sure like to.’

‘But how can you know that for sure?’

‘’Cos they’re looking for her too. Frank says they’re shamming but I don’t believe it. I’m telling you, alive or dead, Olivia Hastings is in Italy, but none of those bastards in New York knows where. With the possible exception of Meyer.’

‘If he does know, aren’t Frank’s fears justified?’

‘Sure. It’s a gamble. A gamble with his daughter’s life. But think about all those kids, Marian, then ask yourself: if she is still alive, does she deserve to be after what she’s done?’

‘That’s not a question I can ever answer,’ she declared passionately. ‘I have no right to say who deserves to live or die. No one has, except God.’

‘You’d change your mind if you met some of the kids, I’m telling you.’ He started to get up from the table. ‘Think about it, Marian, and when you’ve thought about it, talk to Frank. I’m flying back to the States in the morning. If you want to contact me, do it through Jodi. But you got what you need for your movie, you don’t need any more than that. Do it how you want, Marian, but for God’s sake, do it.’

Marian watched him weave his way through the restaurant, stop at the cash desk, then walk out onto the Fulham Road. There was a stultifying block in her mind and she could not think beyond it.

Eventually she got up and walked round the corner to Stephanie’s flat. She let herself in, still so numbed by what she’d been told, and the extraordinary way in which she’d been told it, that her actions seemed automatic, mindless, like a robot’s.

You’ve got to think about this, she was telling herself as she padded about her tiny bedroom. You can’t pretend it hasn’t happened. You can’t keep telling yourself America is another world. It was here. Art Douglas came to find you.

She drew the curtains together, then as she turned back into the room she muttered aloud, ‘Oh God, why did I go to see Jodi that day? Why didn’t I tell Bronwen I’d been? Why did I lie to Matthew? I’ll have to tell them now.’ She walked over to the bed and pulled back the covers. Then suddenly, as she sat down, it was as if something exploded in her brain. She swung round as the thought, with all its appalling implications, swept over her; then the sweat on her forehead turned to tiny beads of ice, her nerve-ends screamed against her skin, and her heart was shuddering in great bounding spasms. She couldn’t tell them. She couldn’t tell anyone. If she did, she would put their lives in danger. Which meant that, now she knew, her own life . . .

She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were twin pools of terror, dwarfing her other features, and her skin was pallid. It couldn’t be true, things like this didn’t happen to people like her. It was a dream, a nightmare, and any minute now she would wake up and find herself at home with her mother in Devon. She blinked, trying to lift the curtain of sleep – but there was no curtain of sleep, no nightmare, this was reality. She jerked to her feet as though to escape the clamourings of her imagination, and at that instant a key grated in the lock of the front door.

‘Marian! Marian! Are you asleep?’

Marian tore open her bedroom door and almost fell into the hall as her knees buckled with relief. ‘Oh, Stephanie!’ she gasped. ‘Thank God it’s you.’

‘Why, you weren’t expecting someone else, were you?’ she teased as she switched on the light and closed the door. Then, as she turned round and saw Marian’s face, she cried, ‘Marian, what is it? Are you all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘No, I’m fine. I just . . . It was only . . . I thought someone was following me earlier, after I left Bronwen’s.’

‘They weren’t, were they?’ Stephanie asked, still concerned.

Marian shook her head. ‘No, I just got a bit spooked, that’s all. But what are you doing here? I thought you were at Matthew’s.’

Stephanie pulled a face, then dropping her bag on a table, she sighed, ‘I was. But we’ve had a row and I walked out.’

‘You walked out on Matthew?’ And it seemed to Marian that the world had suddenly started to spin. ‘What did you row about?’ she asked. When Stephanie only looked at her, she mumbled, ‘I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.’

‘I asked him to let me move in with him, properly, so that his wife would have to accept that we were together now, and he said no. So I walked out.’

‘Just like that?’

‘No. We shouted at one another, I slapped his face and he accused me of being another Kathleen.’

‘Oh.’ Marian looked round the hall, not quite sure what to say next, and acutely aware that the shattered pieces of her nightmare were slowly re-forming into a vision she couldn’t bring herself to face.

‘He hasn’t called, I take it?’ Stephanie asked.

Marian shook her head, then watched helplessly as Stephanie seemed to crumple.

‘I’m sorry, Marian,’ she said, fumbling in her pocket for a tissue. ‘You must think I’m an absolute idiot. I am, where he’s concerned, I can’t help it. Excuse me.’ And she stumbled into her bedroom.

A few minutes later Marian knocked gingerly on the door, and when there was no answer she pushed it open and peeped in. Stephanie was sitting at the dressing table, her face buried in her hands.

‘Come in,’ she sniffed, lifting her face and looking at Marian’s reflection in the mirror. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’ she asked.

Marian held up a bottle in one hand and a tin in the other. ‘At moments like this,’ she said, ‘Madeleine and I always used to break open the wine or make some cocoa.’

‘Oh, Marian,’ Stephanie sobbed, ‘what would I do without you?’

‘Make your own cocoa?’ Marian suggested. ‘No, it wasn’t very funny, was it?’ she said, when Stephanie closed her eyes and swallowed hard on a fresh rising of tears.

‘Marian,’ Stephanie whispered, as she started to leave the room. Marian turned back. ‘Are you broad-shouldered as well as kind?’

Marian looked at her curiously.

‘I’d like to talk,’ Stephanie explained.

‘I’ll open the wine,’ Marian smiled.

From the moment Concorde touched down in the blistering heat at Heathrow, Madeleine was whirled off her feet. Roy took a taxi into London while Anne, Deidre’s secretary, whisked Deidre and Madeleine off to a studio in Fulham. Phillipa Jolley was waiting to fit Madeleine for yet more new clothes, and while they were there Roy turned up with a peculiar little Frenchman who sniffed her, scratched her, and took samples of her sweat and her hair. Then four executives from the cosmetics company arrived with plans for a brand new, more exclusive range, and while Phillipa pinned, snipped and measured they started to probe Madeleine’s pores, pull at her cheeks and finger her neck, all the time discussing colours and shades, skin texture and age, day creams and eye lotions. This went on until Deidre looked over the dress Phillipa had just squeezed her into, and announced they were off to a party to celebrate the climax of the British Grand Prix.

Although she was revelling in the attention, uppermost in Madeleine’s mind was Paul. There had been no time to call him since she’d arrived back, and she was longing to see him. But the party was important, Deidre told her, mainly because Dario had gone to a lot of trouble to organise the photographers. That didn’t seem like a particularly good reason to Madeleine, but she refrained from saying so as Deidre would only point out that people were working round the clock to ensure she attained the kind of fame she wanted.

Sitting in the back of Deidre’s Daimler as they sped along the M1 towards Silverstone, Madeleine took out her compact and studied her reflection. Helen Daniels – the stylist who worked with Phillipa – had done a fab hair and make-up job, considering the time she’d had to do it in. She wasn’t too sure about the dress, though. It was a sort of sky-blue, with diamanté things all over it. Well, that bit of it was all right, it was the high neck she didn’t go too much on, and the straight cut that finished just above the knee – and not just because of the heat.

Seeing her look, Deidre said: ‘It’s right for where you’re going. No flaunting the rude bits tonight – every other woman there will be doing that, and the last thing we want is for you to be one of the crowd, eh?’

Madeleine couldn’t argue with that, so she passed the rest of the journey going through the proofs of the Fairplay session that Anne had brought along. They weren’t half-bad, and she could hardly wait for Shamir and Paul to see them. It had been a good gimmick, that, to shave off all her pubic hair, though it was driving her mad now that it was growing back.

The Grand Prix party, hosted jointly by Marlboro and McLaren, was being held in a giant marquee at the edge of the track. Seconds after Anne pulled the car to a halt, Roy came out of the marquee with the British racing team, followed by an army of photographers. Deidre stood to one side, watching Madeleine and marvelling at the way nothing seemed to faze her. She laughed and joked with the press, and sympathised with their disappointment that she was revealing no cleavage. She was as familiar with them as if she’d known them all her life – it was no wonder, Deidre reflected, that she was so popular with them.

‘Is that all we’re going to see of you, Maddy?’ a photographer from the Daily News called out.

‘’Fraid so,’ she laughed, ‘but there’s always the legs,’ and everyone cheered as she hitched up her dress, fell back into the arms of one of the drivers and nestled a foot in the lap of another.

‘This way, Maddy,’ someone called out.

‘Over here,’ shouted another.

‘Let the drivers put their hands on your legs. That’s it.’

‘Smile, Maddy.’

‘How about giving us the look?’

‘How about sitting on one of the cars?’

Madeleine looked at Deidre, and when Deidre nodded she allowed the photographers to lead her over to the pits. The British drivers followed, and as she sat astride the cylindrical bonnet, her lovely hair glinting like silver in the brilliant sunshine, they climbed on behind her, laughing as she threw out her arms and let herself fall against them.

‘Faaantastic!’

‘Into the lens, Maddy.’

‘Give us that famous pout.’

‘Beeeautiful!’

‘Lick the lips. That’s it.’

‘Go for it, Maddy!’

Laughing, Madeleine threw herself forward and spread her hands across the bonnet. Then her eyes narrowed, and gazing to a point just beyond the lenses she assumed a look of pure ecstasy – as if she were making love to the car.

‘Disgusting,’ Deidre teased, as the session finally started to break up. ‘Roy’s gone back to the marquee so let’s go and see if we can find him.’

Straightening her clothes and running her fingers through her hair, Madeleine followed Deidre across the grass. She looked about her, at the empty stands and rambling acres of countryside beyond, and had a sudden disturbing sense of isolation. It had happened to her when she was in New York too, when she’d wondered what she was doing there with so many people who were little more than strangers. In a few short months her life had changed so completely that at times it almost frightened her. It was difficult to associate herself with the strip-o-gram girl in Bristol now, or to believe that she had ever been that little girl who grew up in Devon – and was always up to no good. She wondered what Marian was doing, and if she had gone back to Devon to live with her mother. Her eyes moved restlessly across the distant horizon and she was suddenly overwhelmed by a longing to see them.

‘You can’t go into a party with a face like that,’ Deidre told her. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ Madeleine answered, ‘just a bit tired after New York and everything, I suppose.’

Smoothing the hair back from her face, Deidre gave her an affectionate smile. ‘Well, you can have a nice long liein tomorrow, so come on, cheer up.’

Madeleine shrugged, then lifting her eyes to Deidre’s, she treated her to one of her more mischievous grins, before taking her arm and informing her that she was like an old mother hen.

Inside the marquee more photographers were buzzing around, and scantily-clad blondes draped themselves over Enrico Tarallo, who had that day taken Ferrari to their third win of the season. Madeleine sipped her champagne and watched the brainless bimbos with their fluffy blonde hair, piano teeth and sun-wizened tits. Tarallo seemed embarrassed, as if he wished he was anywhere in the world but in the clutches of these glory-seeking women, and Madeleine smiled to herself – given half a chance, she’d have him eating out of her hand. But Charles Anstey-Smythe, Deidre’s newspaper editor friend, was busily introducing her to his glitzy aristocratic set, and Dario was there, camera at the ready, to capture the moment. Madeleine smiled disdainfully at the other models, who started whispering and snickering behind their hands as they realised she was once again stealing the limelight.

‘Aren’t I going to have my picture taken with Enrico whatever-his-name-is?’ she whispered to Roy as he emerged from the depths of the party.

‘We were just talking about that,’ he answered, struggling with a champagne cork, ‘and we thought not. The British boys didn’t do so well today, and it’ll look better if you’re seen to be supporting them, rather than deserting to the winning side like everyone else. Get your popularity stakes up, you know what I mean?’ The cork suddenly popped and Madeleine shrieked as a fountain of champagne gushed from the bottle. Then she was grabbed from behind and someone whispered in her ear:

‘Come and dance, you sexy creature.’

It was no one she recognised, but it didn’t stop her kicking off her shoes and twisting and gyrating in time to the music. Roy kept passing her more glasses of champagne, and as the band played on, so the circle of men around her started to thicken. The champagne was going to her head and she was tempted to do a striptease, but Paul had said he didn’t like her doing it unless he was with her. So she made do with rubbing herself against whoever she was dancing with, then backing away, laughing, when hands started to roam too close to their targets.

As the evening wore on and Dario and his team slipped away with their cameras, Madeleine’s energy began to wane. Noticing this, Deidre led her to a chair and sat her down with a glass of lemonade.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ she asked.

‘Fantastic,’ Madeleine slurred. ‘But I wish Paul and Shamir were here too. Where is Shamir?’

‘At her house in Los Angeles.’

‘Really? When did she go there? She didn’t mention it to me.’

‘As a matter of fact, she did, while you were getting dressed after the Fairplay session, but you were so preoccupied you didn’t hear. Anyway, you’ve got her number there, haven’t you?’

Madeleine nodded. ‘Somewhere. How long’s she there for?’

‘A few weeks. She’s working out there.’

Somebody came up to Deidre then, and started talking about mutual friends of theirs; yawning, Madeleine looked round the room to see what everyone else was doing.

She was gratified to find that most of the men were still looking at her, even though they were dancing with other women. She spotted Enrico Tarallo sitting in a far corner with a real plain-Jane, so she fixed him with her eyes, willing him to look her way, but she didn’t have much success because he seemed engrossed in whatever the woman was saying.

‘It’s his wife,’ Deidre informed her.

Madeleine’s eyes rounded with surprise and she turned back for another look.

‘You’re asking yourself the question the whole world asked when he married her,’ Deidre chuckled. ‘But it seems he’s been in love with her since they were children.’

‘But she’s so ugly!’

Deidre’s face darkened. ‘That’s a cruel remark to make about anyone, Madeleine,’ she said, ‘and I don’t want to tear anything like it again. Especially not in public.’

Feeling suitably chastened, Madeleine mumbled an apology, but then ruined it by saying, ‘I bet I could change his mind about her.’

Deidre sighed. ‘Try exercising some modesty, Madeleine. And at the same time forget Tarallo. Better women than you have tried and not one of them succeeded – and I don’t want you making a fool of yourself. What you’re looking at in the corner over there is true love, so don’t go tampering. Besides, what about Paul?’

Madeleine’s face fell. She really wished he was with her. It’s all very well being in a place like this, she thought, but it’d be a heck of a lot better if Paul was here too. She reckoned it was that sort of thing Enrico was thinking. All very nice, winning and that, and being the star of the party, but being with someone you love is much nicer.

She danced some more, and screamed with laughter at the most inane compliments, but her eyes never moved far from the Tarallos; and when they eventually got up to leave, sneaking away quietly, she looked round for Deidre. ‘Can we go now?’ she said, when she found her.

Deidre smiled and squeezed her hand. ‘Missing Paul?’

Madeleine nodded. ‘I haven’t seen him for nearly two weeks.’

‘I know. I’ll just go and tell Roy we’re leaving, I expect he’ll want to stay on. Then once I’ve found Anne I’ll get her to bring the car round. You wait here – and don’t drink any more.’

Madeleine grinned, and Deidre tweaked her nose. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ she laughed, and shaking her head, she disappeared into the crowd.

On the way back in the car Deidre sat quietly watching Madeleine as she stripped off her clothes and decked herself out in the fishnet body-stocking, suspenders and other accessories she’d bought in New York. What she took off she stuffed into a bag, then sat back in her erotic splendour to wait for the journey’s end.

By the time Anne pulled up outside the mews house in Holland Park, it was past one in the morning. Anne helped Madeleine to the door with her luggage, and Deidre tried not to be shocked that Madeleine hadn’t bothered to cover herself up while she was in the street. They kissed one another goodnight, and Madeleine was still standing at the door waving when Anne and Deidre turned out of the mews.

Once inside, Madeleine’s only stop en route to the bedroom was the bathroom. There she looked herself over in the mirror, daubed perfume between her breasts and her inner thighs, then pulling her nipples through the holes of her body-stocking, she licked her lips before turning off the light and creeping quietly up the stairs.

The bedroom door was ajar and she could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing. She could have sneaked in beside him and woken him in a way that always aroused him, but then he wouldn’t see the way she looked. So, resting one foot on the dressing table stool, giving a final check to her suspenders and hitching the body-stocking higher on her hips, she threw back her head and flicked the switch, flooding the room with light.

She heard a movement in the bed as Paul turned over and blinked open his eyes. She waited, so aroused now that she couldn’t even smile at what she was doing. The bed creaked gently as he left it, and though he didn’t touch her she could almost feel his hands on her body.

‘Madeleine.’ His voice was quiet.

She lifted her head. He was standing beside her, completely naked, and she smiled right into his eyes. He didn’t return the smile, but turned to look at the bed. Frowning, she followed his eyes – then shock turned her blood to ice. Not even a sheet covered the nudity of the sleeping figure. Her eyes flew back to Paul’s, but he looked away. Then slowly he walked back to the bed and gently shook Harry Freemantle awake.