‘I believe I did,’ lied Gussie.

And they were off: Searcy’s, The General Trading Company, Peter Jones, soft furnishings and duvets, and cast iron casseroles, and ‘weren’t lots of little bridesmaids in Laura Ashley dresses much sweeter than grown up ones’. Gussie really ought to cut a disc.

‘Alison’s husband, Peter, is an absolute charmer,’ Joan was saying, ‘we like him awfully. They spent their honeymoon in the Seychelles.’

The bitch! God how I wanted to hold her underneath her horrible, chlorinated, aquamarine water, until her great magenta face turned purple.

I watched the Red Admirals burying their faces in the buddleia. I wished Jeremy would tear himself away from the first editions. A great wave of loneliness swept over me.

‘If you’re in a hurry for a wedding dress,’ said Joan, ‘I’ve got a little woman who can run up things awfully quickly. Shall I give her a ring?’

I knew she was only handing out largesse to Gussie like nuts at Christmas to emphasize her disapproval of me.

‘Would you mind if I washed my hair, Joan?’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘I’ve brought my own shampoo.’

‘Of course not; help yourself. Use my bedroom; there are plenty of towels in the hot cupboard.’

And arsenic in the taps, I muttered, walking towards the house, feeling her hatred boring into my back. She was probably glad of an excuse to question Gussie about me and Gareth. As I crossed the lawn I deliberately didn’t look into the library to see if I could see Jeremy.

Suddenly a voice with a slight foreign accent said, ‘Hullo, Octavia.’

I gave a shudder of revulsion as I looked up into the coarse, sensual face of Andreas Katz, porn-king and multimillionaire.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said, not bothering to keep the hostility out of my voice.

‘Staying here.’

So this was the old admirer Ricky was talking about.

‘Let me monopolize you for a minute,’ he said, taking my arm. I felt his fingers, warm and sweaty, enveloping it. I moved away, but his grip tightened.

‘Come and look at Joan’s rose-garden,’ he said. ‘I gather it’s quite exceptional.’

I could see the line on his forehead where the man-tan ended and the gunmetal grey hair began. He was a man who seldom ventured out of doors. His eyes were so dark the pupils were indistinguishable from the iris, and always looked so deeply and knowingly into mine, I felt he knew exactly the colour my pants were. He was wearing a black shirt and silver paisley scarf which blended perfectly with the gunmetal hair. I supposed he was handsome in a brutal, self-conscious way, but I could never look at him without realizing what a really evil man he was. I was surprised Joan allowed him into the house. Inflation makes strange bed fellows.

As well as owning strip clubs and half the girly magazines in London, he also produced a prestigious semi-pornographic magazine called Hedonist which ran features by intellectuals alongside photographs of naked girls with Red Indian suntans lying on fur counterpanes. It was regarded as the English answer to Playboy. For a number of years now he had been chasing me in a leisurely fashion, offering me larger and larger sums to be photographed. I always refused him. I didn’t fancy a staple through my midriff. I felt towards him that contempt with which one regards a bath rail in an hotel bathroom, convinced one will never be old and frail enough to need it.

I stopped to admire a purple rose. Andreas admired my figure, which, in its sopping wet bikini, left nothing to the imagination.

He pressed a clenched fist gently against my stomach.

‘When are you going to come and pose for me?’ he asked.

‘I’m not. I don’t need the bread.’

‘You never know,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s gilt-edged any more. Not even your beautiful hair. Roots cost money to be touched up.’

‘It’s natural,’ I snapped.

‘I hear Seaford-Brennen’s are in a spot of bother,’ he went on. I could feel his hot breath on my shoulder.

‘Oh for God’s sake, why does everyone keep telling me this? Of course they’re all right. They’ve been all right for over fifty years.’

Andreas splayed his fingers out and caressed my rib cage. He was the only man I knew who gave me that horrible squirming feeling of excitement. I imagined the hundreds of girls and the millions of grubby girly pictures those fingers had flicked through. I moved off sharply and buried my face in a dark red rose. He lit a cigar with a beautiful manicured hand, holding it between finger and thumb like a workman. I could feel him watching me.

‘Why don’t you stop staring?’

‘A Katz can look at a Queen.’ He’d made that joke a hundred times before. ‘You’re a very beautiful girl, Octavia, but not a very bright one. I’ll pay you fifteen hundred for one photographic session. Why don’t we have dinner next week and discuss it? And that wouldn’t be the end, you know. I could give you everything you want.’

‘Well, I certainly don’t want you,’ I said, turning and walking back. ‘And if people saw the goods displayed so blatantly across your gatefold, they might not be interested in purchasing them any more.’

Andreas smiled the knowing smile of a crafty old animal.

‘I’ll get you in the end, baby, and by then it’ll be on my terms. You wait and see. By the way, what’s Gareth Llewellyn doing closeted with Ricky?’

‘He’s spending the weekend with us on the boat.’

Andreas laughed. ‘So he’s your latest. No wonder you’re not interested in bread at the moment.’

I looked towards the house, the wistaria above the library was nearly over and shedding its petals in an amethyst carpet over the lawn. Out of the library window I caught sight of Jeremy watching us. I turned and smiled warmly at Andreas.

‘There’s a beautiful girl down at the pool, talking to Joan. Why don’t you go and sign her up instead of me?’ I said and, patting him on the cheek, ran laughing into the house.

Joan Seaford must have got the most sexless bedroom in the world, with its eau de nil walls, sea green carpet, and utterly smooth flowered counterpane tucked neatly under the pillows so they lay like a great sausage across the top of the bed. On the chest of drawers stood large framed Lenare photographs of Pamela and Alison, looking mistily glamorous in pearls. There were also a large photograph of Peter, Alison’s husband, and one of Alison and Peter on their wedding day, knee deep in little bridesmaids in Laura Ashley dresses, but not even a passport snap of Xander, who was a hundred times more handsome than the whole lot put together. I was tempted to take the picture of him out of my wallet and stick it on top of Peter’s smug, smiling, square-jawed face, but it wouldn’t have done Xander any good.

I felt better after I’d had a bath, washed my hair and rubbed quantities of Joan’s bottle of Joy over my body. I hoped she wouldn’t recognize the smell on me. Anyway, she deserved to be Joyless, the old bag.

Combing my wet hair, I looked out of the window. Two girls — the kind who open their legs like airport doors whenever a man approaches — wearing white bikinis, stiletto heels and about a hundredweight each of make-up, were teetering across the lawn. They must have been brought down by Andreas. He always carried a spare. Suddenly Jeremy came out of the door leading to the swimming pool and walked past the tarts without even noticing them. They, on the other hand, swivelled round, gazing at him in wonder, watching him avidly as he loped with lazy animal grace towards the house. I can’t say I blamed them.

Bring me my beau of burning gold, I muttered, as, wrapped only in a huge fluffy blue towel, I curled up on the floor to dry my hair. I didn’t wait long. There was a quick step outside, and a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I said huskily.

He closed the door behind him. I let the towel slip slightly.

‘Why are you here?’ I said. ‘I’m amazed you could tear yourself away from those first editions.’

‘You’re why I’m here,’ he said. ‘Who was that repulsive man you were talking to?’

My heart sang. It had worked.

‘Andreas Katz. I’ve known him for years.’

‘How well?’

I went on drying my hair.

‘How well?’ persisted Jeremy. ‘Oh for God’s sake, turn that bloody thing off.’

‘Not as well as he would like,’ I said, but I turned off the dryer.

He put his hands down, pulled me to my feet and kissed me passionately, his hands moving down to my breasts and over my hips. Just for once, I thought, the millpond smoothness of Joan’s flowered counterpane is going to be ruffled. Then suddenly Jeremy pushed me away and went over to the window.

It took him a few seconds to get himself under control. I picked up the dryer.

‘No,’ he said. ‘For Christ’s sake don’t turn it on yet. Look, you must understand how crazy I am about you.’

‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it.’

He knelt down beside me, took my face in his hands, began stroking it very gently, as though he wanted to memorize all the contours.

‘Gus doesn’t deserve to be hurt, you know that as well as I do. Not now anyway, when Gareth’s around to fuck everything up as well. If you and I have got something going for us, and I believe we have, let’s wait until we get back to London.’

For a minute I looked mutinous. But I knew it wouldn’t further my cause to tell him that part of the charm of hooking him would be to upset Gussie and Gareth.

‘It’s only tonight and Monday to get through,’ he went on. ‘On Tuesday we go back to London and we can meet on Wednesday and decide what the hell to do about it. You’re so important to me, I reckon it’s worth waiting for.’