– 23 –

Tired rays of a late summer sun fractured the shadows of the meandering, dark alleys. Burnt sienna buildings, cracked and crumbling, rose in towering curves over the cobbles, their shutters closed and plants trailing from their wrought-iron balconies. The ground was parched, drains seeped a pungent aroma into the soggy air, and the muted cries of children at play laced the afternoon stillness.

As he walked, Sergio pushed his hands into his pockets and allowed his weary eyes to lose focus. Firenze. The great city of the Renaissance. Horses, traders, the swirl of worsted skirts, the clink of florins, the stench of the gutter; the filth, the opulence, the poverty – he could feel it all. A coach thundering past, a beggar clutching at his legs, and in the distance the Medici trumpets muted by the sounds of rejoicing as 11 Magnifico passed by. Then the crackle and hiss of Savonarola’s bonfires, followed by the triumphant cries of his executioners. A voice seemed to echo through the tragic din, persistently calling his name, until the plangent sounds of the quattrocento faded and the voice rang clear. Looking up, Sergio saw one of his students leaning from a window and waving to him. He waved back, and as he moistened his lips the bitter taste of marble dust coated his tongue; his fingers still bore the indent of the chisel.

Smiling at his entrapment between past and present, Sergio stopped and let the euphoria wash over him. He was a part of Florence, just as it was a part of him. Every face, every stone, every masterpiece spoke to his soul, nourishing his ambition until it became a crying hunger for recognition – a recognition that would belong not only to him, but to his cherished city. He could no more deny this hunger than he could the life-giving needs of his body. When it was all over, people would say that he was insane; it would be their only way of rationalising what he had done. It saddened him to think that they would never know the ecstasy, as well as the torment, of his mind, but maybe one day, when the shock had lessened, they would begin to understand.

Years ago, when he was a young man of twenty, he had thought he might be a reincarnation of the great man himself. But as he grew older he realised that though neither his dedication nor his suffering was any less than Michelangelo’s, his art, though achieved with the tools and through the mind of the great genius, must take a different path. It was time now, in the twentieth century, to celebrate woman.

He moved on, a sudden lightness in his heart. His route led him through the elongated courtyard of the Uffizi. Ahead were the pietra serena arches, beyond them the Arno. When he reached the embankment he stopped at a news-stand to buy the evening paper.

He wasn’t surprised to find the story relegated to the second page – it had broken the day before, and now the whole world knew the secret tragedy of the Tarallos. Rosaria Tarallo, wife of Enrico Tarallo and mother of his sons, was dying of cancer. Enrico had returned to Italy, saying he would no longer drive the great Ferrari machine.

Sergio walked on, but now his pace was slow, and in his heart the shadow of grief darkened. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to think about the Tarallo family, but now the memories of his childhood came flooding back. He could see Rosaria as a child – always, even then, she was with Enrico, she had been devoted to him. And he, Sergio, had loved her too, but as a sister. She had listened to him, shared his dreams and never mocked. With everyone else she had been shy and afraid, but Enrico had protected her, shielding her from the cruelty of her own mother, just as Sylvestra, Enrico’s grandmother, had protected the young Sergio from the cruelty of his. But he had seen his mother so rarely that Sylvestra had come to take her place. Sylvestra, the grand lady who lived in the palazzo had treated him, the urchin who played in the dirt and dust of the village, like a son. As Enrico had treated him like a brother. The Tarallos had become his family, he had been there when Enrico’s father died, he had shared their lives and loved them. But in the end he had betrayed them.

He stopped, and putting a hand on the wall to steady himself, he tried to push the memory of Arsenio’s beautiful face from his mind. Arsenio, the beloved younger brother of Enrico and cherished grandson of Sylvestra. Arsenio, the boy who had come to worship him, who had begged him to take him into the bottega.

He walked on, unable now to stop the memories flowing back to him. The tragedy, the heartache, the suffering he had caused to the family that had been like his own.

He let himself into his apartment. The air was stale, but he didn’t open the windows and throw back the shutters. Instead he removed his clothes and stood under the shower. It all seemed such a long time ago, but there were times when his skin crawled at the memory of the blood. And yet one day, when their work was at an end, the whole world would reel at the magnitude and method of his accomplishment. His place in history would be assured, but he was paying the price.

The following morning Rosaria’s death was announced on the radio news. Now Sergio knew, he would soon feel the full wrath of the magnificent Sylvestra and the depth of her hatred. But now more than ever he must not forget his life’s work – nor his need for revenge on Paul O’Connell, the man who had caused him, and thus the Tarallos, so much pain. Thoughtfully, he picked up the phone to call Dario in London.

Deidre strolled out of the villa at La Turbie and onto the terrace. Clusters of geraniums and trailing lobelias sprouted from baskets that hung overhead, reaching out to the climbing rose that had been trained artfully over the balustrade. Beyond the terrace and on either side of the honeysuckle-covered steps was a rock garden, and from the steps a weathered stone path led through the grass and under a pergola, where it divided to circle the swimming pool. From an upstairs window the view down over Monte Carlo, the sea and the Italian coast in the distance, was uninterrupted and spectacular.

The villa belonged to a friend who was on business in the Far East until the end of the month. Deidre, at Madeleine’s expense, had taken it for the week of the Pirelli shoot, which was now almost at an end. That night they were joining a group of models and photographers who were on the Riviera as the guests of the Société des Bains de Mer, for dinner at the Hotel de Paris. The following evening Deidre was organising a small party at the villa to celebrate the end of the session – and Madeleine’s twenty-first birthday.

As she ambled down the steps Deidre inhaled the flowery fragrance and slipped on her sunglasses to shield her eyes from the brilliant sun. At the edge of the pool she sat down to watch Paul as his powerful arms carved a path through the translucent water. Geneviève, a local woman who took care of the villa, brought out a pitcher of iced lemonade and two glasses. Deidre thanked her, and a few minutes later she heard the front door slam. Geneviève had gone home.

Paul whistled as Deidre removed her sarong and stretched her legs out on the lounger. She held up a glass of lemonade, but he shook his head and plunged back into the water.

After a while her thoughts drifted to the telephone call she had received from Sergio the week before. But for that, she might not have been in the South of France at all, but things had changed, he’d told her – he wanted Madeleine soon, though he wouldn’t say when, or tell her what had happened to cause the agitation in his voice. Since the call she’d had many sleepless nights; she would do everything he wanted, she was sure of that, but already her troubled conscience was causing her real distress.

Over the past few weeks she had become wary of Paul, wondering why he’d never told Madeleine the truth about himself – his wealth, his connections, his heritage. Why had he shaken it off, she wondered, and how much longer could he keep it hidden? She wanted to ask him the reason for his deceit, but Sergio had warned her not to. There was a connection between those two men that she was beginning to find sinister even though she did not know the nature of it; and that Madeleine was caught between them only added to her feelings of foreboding and guilt. Shamir’s sporadic coolness, and the rift in Madeleine’s family, bothered her too. Somehow it seemed to push Madeleine into an isolation that only she recognised. That was the real reason why she was in France: she wanted to be near Madeleine. She was anxious about Madeleine, too, because she was sure that something important had happened in New York, though neither Paul nor Madeleine would admit it. Whatever it was, it seemed to have brought the two of them closer together, and for that at least Deidre was grateful.

Suddenly her hand tightened on the glass she was holding. She hated salving her conscience like this. As long as someone loved Madeleine, was that what she was telling herself? A token of happiness before she, Deidre, and Sergio destroyed everything? Because if Madeleine were to disappear, in the same way as Olivia and for as long as Olivia, everything would be destroyed. Deidre closed her eyes, trying to block out the haunting, apocalyptic visions that had started to torment her night and day. Could she really allow Madeleine to pay the price of her own happiness? Could she really sacrifice her like that? The answer was that she could, she had waited too long to let her dreams go now. Five years Olivia had been at the bottega, five years; would Sergio release her once he had Madeleine? But no, he had said that they would come back to the world together. So she would come back, she would know love and life again. Did that make it better? Yes, dammit, it did. And if Paul were to be honest, she really could believe he loved Madeleine, and that would make it all so much easier . . . She jerked herself to her feet. Who was she trying to fool? Nothing would make it easier. Nothing!

‘Aren’t you coming in?’ Paul called out as she walked away.

Without turning round Deidre raised a hand and told him the sun had given her a headache.

Escaping into the cool shadows of the dining-room she heard girlish laughter and turned back. Shamir and Madeleine were coming in through the battered wooden gate at the side wall. She watched as they sauntered through the long grass, then lazily stripped off their clothes at the pool’s edge. Behind them was the orchard, rich and colourful with unplucked fruit, and the sea sparkling blue on the horizon; as Madeleine turned her golden head, Deidre’s heart turned over at her resemblance to the Graces in Botticelli’s Allegory of Spring. Was that why Sergio wanted her? Had he seen the resemblance too?

An hour later, after she’d called the office and tried unsuccessfully to reach Sergio, Deidre wandered back onto the terrace. There was no sign of the others, so she decided to go upstairs to see if she could sleep off her headache before they went for dinner . . .

Paul was lying in the grass between Madeleine and Shamir, all three of them naked, all three asleep. They were hidden from view by the loose stone wall that bulged from the rock garden, and oblivious to the beginnings of a glorious sunset that smouldered on the horizon.

At last Madeleine stirred, woken by the cool evening air. She sat up, then touching Paul’s cheek, said she was going inside to take a bath. He opened his eyes and pulled her down for a kiss. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Love you,’ he whispered.

She climbed drowsily to her feet and he watched as she rounded the honeysuckle and meandered up the steps to the terrace. He waited a minute or two, then hearing the door swing closed behind her, turned his head to Shamir. Her black hair was spread like a fire-burned bush on the grass round her head, her eyes were closed, her wide, full lips slightly parted. In the pink wash of the setting sun her skin glowed like dying embers.

Raising himself on one elbow, Paul stretched out a hand and smoothed it over her flat belly. Her eyelids flickered, telling him she was awake, and he smiled as he eased his fingers into the black hair at the join of her legs. She lifted a knee, then let it fall to one side, and he probed the moist flesh, circling and stroking, then lowered his mouth to her hardening nipples.

Her hand found his penis, imprisoning it in a firm but gentle grip, and he allowed her to massage him for a while, bringing him to the aching fullness of erection. Then he pushed her hand away and moved over her, holding himself above her with his hands planted on either side of her. Slowly, as her long legs encircled his waist, he lowered himself onto her. She gave a soft murmur as their bodies joined, then her eyes opened and she stared up at him. He waited for the slow smile, then gently pulled back and pushed into her again. His mouth covered hers and he probed the depths with his tongue while rotating his hips the way she liked it.

The roof of The Grill at the top of the Hotel de Paris was already open when they arrived. The sky was black, the stars pin-points of glittering light and the smell of fresh fish grilling on the wood fire mingled with the heavy scent of perfumed bodies. Madeleine’s party was the last to arrive, the others were already seated at the table for twelve which stood alongside the huge windows that overlooked the Riviera. But for once the magnificent view was not drawing attention. From the other side of the room the buzz around their table was evident, but it wasn’t until they sat down that Madeleine discovered the reason for it – Enrico Tarallo was sitting alone at a table several feet away.

‘They say his wife’s death hit him hard,’ one of the girls told her. ‘Apparently he’s been on his yacht for days, refusing to speak to anyone.’

‘I feel really sorry for him,’ said another. ‘He looks so sad. I wonder where his children are?’

‘With the grandmother, no doubt. Apparently she’s one of the richest women in Italy and he stands to inherit the lot.’

‘Did you ever see his wife?’ Shamir asked of no one in particular. ‘Quite unspeakably plain.’

‘And quite unspeakably rich, at least, her family are. Wonder if that was why he married her? They go in for that sort of thing in Italy, don’t they? You know, arranged marriages. Bet he’s dying for a bit of glamour now he’s got rid of the wife, how do you fancy my chances?’ It was Sophie, one of Deidre’s more recent signings, who had spoken, and Deidre eyed her with marked distaste. ‘Well,’ Sophie said sulkily, ‘what else is he doing in a place like this?’

‘Minding his own business,’ one of the photographers answered pointedly.

But the conversation didn’t end there, and it quickly became evident that Sophie had only spoken what every other girl was thinking.

Madeleine was unusually quiet, but Paul noticed the way she kept glancing in Tarallo’s direction. He was seated between Shamir and Deidre, who was at the head of the table, and Madeleine was opposite him, beside Sophie. There had never been any love lost between the two girls, and he wondered if Madeleine was attempting to flirt with Tarallo just to annoy Sophie. Except that she wasn’t flirting, it was as if she was trying to relay compassion to the man – which both surprised and annoyed him. He began studying the driver himself, sizing him up as a possible rival, but it was hard to take the idea seriously. Though Enrico was sitting down, it was obvious that his height would miss Madeleine’s by at least an inch, and his hair was receding, and his physique, while not exactly puny, could hardly be described as muscular, either. Nevertheless Madeleine’s interest was manifest and when Shamir’s hand slipped across his thigh Paul brushed it off irritably.

Enrico himself was fully aware of the attention he was generating, particularly from Madeleine, the only one in the party he recognised, apart from Paul. He neither reciprocated nor encouraged her glances, he merely gazed straight through her, but inside him was a fury that burned like a furnace. He loathed the empty-headed superficiality of women like Madeleine Deacon. Such beauty was ugly when flaunted the way she flaunted hers, and he was enraged at the affront she offered when she crossed her legs and revealed a side-split in her dress that ran right up to her waist. Her lack of underwear disgusted him. Did she think to excite him when she, like the rest of the world, must know that his wife had been dead for less than two weeks? Suddenly he could stand no more and called for the waiter.

Madeleine heard him cancel his dinner, then watched as he got up from the table.

‘Do you think grief has got the better of his appetite?’ said one of the models at the other end of the table.

‘No, he’s angry,’ Madeleine answered quietly. ‘We’re treating him like an animal in a zoo.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Sophie sneered.

Madeleine started, realising only then that she was more guilty than any of them and the look of malevolence Enrico directed at her as he left the restaurant turned her face pink with embarrassment.

She lowered her head, and sensing that she was about to cry, Paul got up from his chair and led her from the restaurant to an alcove beside the lifts.

‘What is it?’ he whispered, putting his hands on her shoulders.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered, trying to swallow the tears. ‘I just felt so sorry for him. He looked so lonely sitting there, and so sad.’

‘That’s why you’re crying?’

There was a catch in her breath as she inhaled deeply. ‘I don’t know. No, not really. It’s Marian, but I know you don’t want to talk about it, so . . .’

‘Maddy, we’ve talked about little else since she came to the Plaza, that’s the only reason I don’t want to discuss it again. And do you, really, in your heart?’

‘No, I suppose not. It doesn’t get me anywhere.’

‘Of course it doesn’t, because it’s in the past. All that matters now is us.’

‘I know. But seeing Enrico Tarallo like that, I know it sounds silly, but it reminded me of her. I was all right before I saw her, I didn’t really think about her any more.’

‘You’ll get over it, darling, and I’m here.’ He hooked his fingers under her chin and tilted her face up to his. ‘You do want me to be, don’t you?’

She smiled. ‘Of course I do.’

‘I was beginning to think you were setting your sights on Tarallo.’

‘Oh Paul, as if I could even look at another man.’

‘You managed it with Tarallo.’

‘But that was different. I told you, I felt sorry for him. You’re not angry, are you?’ she said, looking curiously into his face.

‘No,’ he sighed. ‘Yes, dammit, I am. I’m angry because I get so bloody jealous where you’re concerned.’

‘I like it when you’re jealous,’ she laughed, ‘it makes me feel secure.’

He smiled and looked searchingly into her eyes. ‘Kiss?’ he whispered.

She nodded, and putting her arms round his neck, she raised her mouth to his.

‘Ready to go in again?’ he murmured, as he pulled away.

‘I think so.’ And slipping her hand into his, she allowed him to lead her back to the restaurant. ‘Paul?’ she said, as they were going through the door. Do you know Enrico Tarallo?’

She felt the grip tighten on her fingers as he turned round. ‘No,’ he said, truthfully, ‘but I do know someone who does.’

When Enrico got back to his room he lay down on the bed, already regretting the look he had given the girl. It was not her fault, he should not condemn her for something she could not help. She had probably meant no harm, but the display of her legs and the searching of her eyes had seemed to mock him. Yet, he had known that morning, as he stood on the deck of the Rosaria, with the great citadel of Monaco in the distance like a mirage in the haze, that it was wrong for him to come to such a place. But he had come, and now his anger increased the tension inside him.

After the funeral he had left his home and taken his pain to the sea. There he had yelled at the injustice of so young a death, his words petering out in the vast space, his loss swelling so that he felt it might strangle him. He had grieved in a way that no man would want witnessed, lacerating himself with memories, doing all he could to deepen the pain – but it was already so great that he could not increase the punishment further. There were so many things he could have done, should have done, so much he still had to say, but would never be able to now.

It was a long time before he drew himself up from the bed. His heart was like a weapon, discharging pain through his body and he wondered if it would ever end.

High-spirited laughter and female shrieks took him to the window and he saw the Deacon girl and her party leaving the hotel. He was suddenly glad of his earlier virulence and hoped he had wounded her. She deserved it, for being alive and meaning nothing.

As he turned back into the room Rosaria’s face was watching him from the frame beside his bed. She seemed to be laughing, as though amused by his belligerence. Grudgingly, he smiled too. He was becoming engrossed in things that didn’t matter.

When the operator connected him with his home in Tuscany he was told that Sylvestra and his sons were already on their way to Sardinia, so he telephoned the Rosaria’s crew and arranged for them to fly into Nice the next day. The morning after they would sail to Sardinia where he would put an end to this bitter lamentation and take up his life with those he loved.

Those he loved. The jaws of guilt yawned, presenting him with a picture of Arsenio. The slick, jet hair he combed behind his ears, the wide brown eyes, pronounced Florentine nose and laughing mouth. That was how he had been once – but not any longer. For hadn’t his looks forsaken him, along with his family? Enrico swung round, as if to answer the accusing voice. He loved Arsenio above all men. What he’d done was for his brother’s own good. But his excuses, as always, seemed to lack conviction and he knew that the day was drawing close when he must face what both he and Arsenio had done, and – with Rosaria no longer there to protect him – what Sergio Rambaldi had done too.

It was Madeleine’s birthday. That morning, over a champagne breakfast on the villa’s terrace, she had received cards and gifts from Deidre and Shamir, and when she’d arrived at the harbour – the location for that day’s shoot – the Pirelli executives and the photographer had presented her with a collection of exotic underwear accompanied by a particularly obscene cactus.

‘Very funny,’ she said, pinching Shamir, who was laughing so hard she’d started to choke; but it had set the mood for the day, and by the time she returned to the villa she was exhausted from laughing so much.

Now she was upstairs in her room, dressing for the dinner Deidre was giving in her honour. But as she perched on the edge of the bed and started to coat her tanned legs with oil from ‘The Look’ range, she wasn’t thinking about the celebrations, or the surprise Paul had in store for her, she was thinking about Enrico Tarallo. She had seen him again that afternoon, standing on the deck of his boat, and when she’d seen the name of the boat her heart had gone out to him, just as it had the night before. She’d had the impulse then to go over and invite him to the party tonight, but as she started to move from the set she suddenly remembered not only the look he had thrown at her, but the way Paul had responded to her interest in him. It was a shame, she was thinking to herself now, because there was something about him that made her want to get to know him.

As she stretched out her legs and hitched her flesh-toned body-stocking higher on her hips, Paul watched her, one hand resting on the ceiling beam over his head, the other holding a drink. Together with the delicious aroma from the kitchens and the haunting music of Gluck’s Dance of the Blessed Spirits, night insects floated in through the open window, flinging themselves against the brass candle lamps on either side of the bed. The delicate glow fell in a nimbus around Madeleine’s blonde head and touched her skin with coppery light. She looked lovely.

‘I love you,’ he said.

Unaware that he’d been watching her, Madeleine started, then smiled at the way he looked, his crisp white shirt tucked into the black trousers of his dinner suit, his bow tie hanging loosely around the collar, waiting to be knotted. She stood up and went to put her arms round him, and he slid a hand down her back, drawing her closer as he moulded his lips gently over hers.

When he pulled away he still held her, looking deep into her eyes. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me you love me?’ he said.

‘I love you,’ she breathed, and he laughed.

He knew she’d seen Enrico, and Shamir had told him how pensively she had gazed at him. But he wasn’t unduly worried. The man had made his feelings plain in that one inimical glare the night before, and Madeleine’s assurances that she did not find him attractive had been satisfyingly vehement when he had challenged her over it again as they were getting into bed.

She rested her head on his shoulder, not wanting him to see the tears that had come into her eyes. Even if she’d been able to put her feelings into words, she would have kept them to herself, for they would only make him angry. Besides, it seemed ridiculous, when she had so much, to be longing for Marian. But fame and fortune were not turning out to be all she’d expected. It was as if she was just a face and a body; no one was interested in what she thought or felt about anything. Her whole life was spread across newspapers, magazines and TV, but no one knew the fear she felt every day that something would happen to destroy it all – that Paul would leave her, when he was all she had. He was the only person who knew what she had done, how callously she had treated her family, yet still he wanted her. But for how long? Until his book was finished? She couldn’t bear to think about it, because he was the only person who could make her feel safe, who gave her a sense of identity and value when everyone else, she was certain, sneered at her behind their hands. If he left her she knew that she would not be able to survive, because after what she had done to Marian, she had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. The terror of that realisation seemed suddenly to drain the energy from her body, and she tightened her embrace as if to stop herself from falling.

Taking her hand, Paul led her over to the bed. She thought he was going to make love to her, but he sat her down, then turned her to face him. ‘I want to talk to you, Maddy,’ he said.

The seriousness of his expression started the fear churning inside her. Was he going to tell her now that it was over? Was he going to say he had made a mistake and didn’t love her after all? But he had told her only moments ago that he loved her, so why was she thinking like this? ‘What about?’ she asked in a small voice.

‘About trust,’ he answered. ‘I want you to trust me. No, no. I know you’re going to say you do, but you don’t. And you’ve good reason not to trust me when I treat you the way I do, and especially when there are things about me you don’t know.’

Her head was on one side, her eyes curious, and the wobbly smile that tried to cover her confusion moved him deeply. She was like a child with a cruel parent – no matter what he did, she still loved him.

He stood up and wandered over to the window. The night was black and soon it would be time for them to go down to dinner. But he had to tell her now. He’d worked it all out, rehearsed it, even. He wanted her trust, it was imperative. Not only for what he was going to do, but for what was to come after. He tensed as love drove through his body like a physical force, twisting his abnormality and exposing it for the abomination it was. He felt suddenly nauseous, and didn’t know if he could go through with it; he was aware that his detachment had been eroded by love, making the paradox of his conflicting needs increasingly difficult to govern. But then he inhaled deeply of the tangy Mediterranean air, and putting his hands in his pockets, he turned round and sat on the window ledge. ‘Your money has gone, Maddy,’ he told her. ‘There is nothing left.’

She blinked, but she was still smiling, as though waiting for the punchline to a joke.

‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘the three-quarters of a million pounds ran out some time ago.’

Her smile started to dissolve. He knew she was waiting for him to laugh, but he fixed her eyes with his and willed her to believe him.

‘Do you mean we’re in debt?’ She laughed, uneasily.

He smiled and shook his head. ‘No, my darling, it just means that we’re living on my money now. Which,’ he added, ‘isn’t money I’ve earned from the book.’

Again he waited while she struggled to understand.

‘Then where . . .?’ she began.

‘I’m a wealthy man, Madeleine. I always have been. My estate, as it stands, is worth in excess of ten million pounds, my personal fortune around five. The reason why I didn’t tell you before was because I wanted to observe you, to see how you would use the money we stole from Marian and how low you would stoop to attain success – for us both. It’s an unpleasant thing to hear, I know, and I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but unless I’m completely honest with you I can’t expect you to trust me. I’ve treated you badly, and though you know why I do it, that doesn’t make it any easier for you.

‘But it’s going to stop, Maddy. No more lies, no more trickery. I love you, and I never want to hurt you again, but you should know that I no longer intend to pay Deidre for your career, which I have been doing ever since your money ran out. It’s my belief that, if you want to, you can make it on your own merits now.’

She was staring at him and he could see it was all too much for her to take in.

Nevertheless, he went on: ‘The house is now in my name, so are the cars. Your account at Coutts has been cancelled.’

‘You mean, I’m broke?’

He laughed. ‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose you are. But I’m not, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

She shook her head, bewildered. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.’

He walked over to the bed and took her in his arms. ‘Is it so bad to be dependent on me?’ he smiled.

For a long time she said nothing, and he watched her, trying to read her face. Eventually she said, ‘I think I understand. You told me I was broke, then straightaway told me you were rich. That means you didn’t want me to panic, even for one second, or to think I had nothing.’

‘That’s right,’ he said, stroking her hair and feeling no surprise at her inability to deal with anything but the practicality of the situation. The strong feelings that underlay his manipulation of her, the complexity of his deceit, were beyond her powers of comprehension.

She looked up at him, and her face was suddenly imbued with feeling as she took his hands and held them up to her mouth. ‘Paul, I love you so much, I wish I could put it into words.’

He smiled. ‘Don’t even try, my darling. All that matters is the love itself.’

Her hands looked so fragile in his, and his one desire was to crush them. He tore his eyes away, choking back the unholy yearning to impair, to destroy, then relaxed as love washed over him again.

‘And you love me, even though all I’ve got left is my body and my looks?’ she said.

‘Which is more than enough. And although you don’t have a single sou to your name tonight, or any means of getting any money, we’ll soon put that to rights. In the meantime, you’re at my disposal, woman.’

She giggled. ‘But I might make you pay for what you’ve got on your mind right now. After all, I need the money.’

‘These,’ he said, taking her breasts, ‘have already cost me several thousand apiece, so I think I’m owed at least one tumble on the house, don’t you?’

She pondered this a moment, then said: ‘Have I really spent that much money?’

He nodded. ‘Almost two million.’

‘How?’

He knew he could disguise the exaggeration by blinding her with figures, though the truth was that she had overspent on the lottery money by the amount of the house and the cars, which was something in the region of half a million. But that could wait. As could the news of her aunt’s death. He had cheated and lied as well as loved and cherished, until finally everything had started to fall into place. He had reached the final chapter, both metaphorically and literally; the book he was bringing to completion now would be his last. After that he would devote his life to loving her, with no more chicanery, no more heartache or brutality.

He laughed. ‘I think Deidre could answer that question better than I can. But she’s helped you achieve everything you wanted – all I’m asking is that you should forget Marian, and everything that went before, and want only me now.’

‘I want you,’ she murmured, after a while.

‘And trust me?’

‘Yes,’ she said, as she closed her eyes. ‘I trust you.’

The night air was alive with the sibilant sound of cicadas, and in the distance could be heard the gentle sough of the waves as they splashed onto the rocks before being sucked away by the undertow. From the next room came the hum of conversation, and here in the dining room the romantic strains of Rachmaninov filled the air. Each place on the long oak dining-table was set with red folded napkins; silver cutlery and crystal glasses reflected the flickering candlelight, and outside on the terrace coloured lamps swayed in the breeze. Deidre surveyed the room critically before nodding to Geneviève that she could show the party of twenty guests through from the sitting-room.

Once Madeleine was seated, at the head of the table, photographers took out their cameras and she and Paul smiled into one another’s eyes. At Sergio’s request Deidre had paid colossal sums to ensure that the birthday celebration, small though it was, would hit every gossip column, if not front page, the world over. Madeleine’s publicity must continue, he had said, right up to the last.

There was a great deal of laughter as the shots were taken – the photographers and journalists had been chosen specially by Madeleine and Paul – and once they were done, notebooks and cameras were stowed away and Geneviève’s brothers, François and Pierre, poured the wine, while Geneviève and her friend served the pâté de foie gras followed by fresh sea bass, then beef in a burgundy sauce made to Geneviève’s own special recipe. The conversation swelled in volume as everyone tried to better the last anecdote, and raucous laughter accompanied lewd remarks and outrageous attacks on friends and acquaintances. Deidre noticed how Shamir’s eyes glittered, and was intrigued by her erratic bursts of laughter – it was so unlike her usual behaviour. She was seated between John Roddy, French correspondent for the New York Times, and Dario, the photographer they all knew so well. It wasn’t the first time Deidre had wondered about Shamir and John Roddy, and when she caught Madeleine’s eye they exchanged a smile at the prospect of a blossoming romance.

Before dessert was served, Deidre signalled to Dario, who several minutes later slipped out of the room to follow her into the hall. She watched him as he strolled towards her, a small, thin man with a smooth face and immense brown eyes. She had known him for seven years, but ever since she had discovered he was a member of Sergio’s bottega he had felt to her like a stranger.

‘Did you speak to Sergio?’ she asked, as he drew close.

‘The bottega met last night,’ he answered. ‘I spoke to him after.’

‘Well, what did he say?’ she asked, trying but failing to hide her irritation.

As Dario’s eyes moved over her face she thought she detected a glimmer of disdain. ‘He wants her soon, Deidre. Sooner than you think.’

Deidre’s face paled. ‘When?’

‘In three weeks.’

She gasped. ‘He told me everything had changed, that a complication had arisen . . . but so soon . . . What is it, Dario? Tell me, please.’

Dario had long suspected that Deidre knew nothing about Sergio’s connection with the Tarallo family, and this confirmed it. He shrugged. ‘You know I cannot tell you, Deidre. It is the way Sergio wants it.’

She nodded, swallowing hard on the harsh feeling of exclusion, but she knew better than to try and push Dario. She looked at him again and was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to ask about Olivia. He was a member of the bottega, he could give her the answers. She just wanted to know whether Olivia was still alive. But as his implacable Italian face softened with regret she realised he had read her mind.

‘I can tell you nothing,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But you have my promise that one day you will see them again. Now you must make the plans for Madeleine to be in Italy within three weeks. Can you do it?’ There was no menace in his voice, the need for threats did not arise. She loved Sergio, perhaps beyond life itself, she would do nothing to jeopardise their future together. However, should she at any time appear to be failing in her promise, then he, Dario, would kill her. Sergio had given that instruction the night before; she knew too much, he had said, and they could not risk losing everything now.

‘Yes, I can do it,’ Deidre answered. She would not show her fear, for behind those dark, inscrutable eyes of his she had read the darker intention. ‘Now come along,’ she smiled, threading her arm through his, ‘time for the birthday cake.’

It was evident when they walked back into the dining-room that, despite the guests who had had more than enough to drink – or maybe because of them – everyone was having a wonderful time. Deidre was pleased for Madeleine, and smiled as she glanced up at her. Madeleine had whispered earlier that Paul had already told her what her surprise was, but she refused to say more because Paul wanted to make the announcement himself. Certain that they had set a wedding date, Deidre could already see the confetti fluttering about Madeleine’s face, but she would allow herself no feelings on the matter as she clapped her hands for everyone to follow her out to the terrace.

François was already there, filling champagne glasses, and as soon as everyone was gathered, Geneviève and her friend, followed by two local lads blowing a trumpet and banging a drum, came out of the kitchen carrying a birthday cake ablaze with candles and sparklers. They all sang ‘Happy Birthday’, then Deidre rapped a table for silence and Paul stepped forward to a chorus of ribald remarks.

He laughed as he waited for everyone to settle, then raising his glass, he looked from one face to the next and said: ‘As you are all no doubt aware by now, I have a surprise for Madeleine. She thinks she already knows what it is, but in fact, she doesn’t. So, if you are ready, ladies and gentlemen – Madeleine, I’d like you to be the first to congratulate us. I have asked Shamir to be my wife and she has accepted.’

As shock froze every smile on the terrace, so all eyes moved to Madeleine. But Madeleine, too stunned to move, was staring at Paul as, still smiling, he held a hand out towards Shamir. The silence stretched beyond endurance until suddenly Madeleine’s glass slipped through her fingers and smashed on the tiled floor. Only then did she move, and so quickly that no one could stop her. Her silvery dress fluttered in the darkness as she ran across the garden and plunged into the black shadows of the orchard. From the other side of the terrace Deidre started after her, fighting through the cluster of bodies to get to the steps. But by the time she reached the old wooden gate in the side wall and rushed out into the narrow mountain road beyond, Madeleine had vanished.