Brett rolled his eyes. ‘You’re not still on about that, are you?’
Rachel and Jeremy Curzon were old friends from Hong Kong. The Curzons had married the same year as Angela and Brett, and the couples became instant friends. This was back in the early days of Cranley Estates, when they were all still in their twenties. Then, last year, Jeremy had walked out on Rachel and their four children and set up home with a twenty-four-year-old Persian model named Miriam Kashani. Angela had choked on her cornflakes when Brett announced he’d invited the two of them on the yacht for a week.
‘Jeremy and Rachel are separated,’ Brett said wearily.
‘So?’
‘They’ll be divorced by Christmas, Ange. It’s not like Rachel doesn’t know the marriage is over.’
‘Yes, and why is it over? Because of that bloody tart,’ Angela said angrily. ‘And you expect me to have breakfast with her? Make small talk over the frittatas, as if I approve?’
‘You don’t have to approve,’ said Brett gently. ‘You just don’t have to disapprove quite so pointedly. After all, it’s not going to change anything, is it?’
No. I suppose it isn’t.
Angela closed her eyes. Brett was massaging her shoulders, being unusually affectionate. She didn’t want to start the holiday off by fighting with him.
‘Besides,’ he said smoothly. ‘I’d like to have breakfast with my wife. Especially as you’re sodding off to the mainland without me later.’
Angela had quite forgotten. It was market day today, a jolly affair in the Place des Lices. Local artisans sold everything from soap to hand-sewn baby clothes, lavender oil and stinky, unpasteurized cheeses. Over the years they’d been coming to St Tropez, Angela had scored some surprising bargains at the market, including kilim rugs and antique jewellery. She adored pottering around the square, soaking up the atmosphere of France and the local flavour of the Var, but Brett had always hated it.
‘Who wants to waste time on bloody tourist tat when you could be enjoying a nice cold flute of Bollinger at Nikki Beach?’
They had long ago made a pact to split up on market day, regrouping in the evening for dinner on the yacht, mutually refreshed after a day pursuing their respective pleasures.
Cheered by the prospect of a whole day in town to herself, Angela agreed to join Brett for breakfast.
‘I suppose I can manage a slice of toast. But I’m not sitting next to Miriam.’
‘Damn right,’ said Brett, kissing her. ‘You’re sitting next to me.’
A few hours later, weaving her way aimlessly through the market stalls, Angela felt deeply happy. Breakfast had not been the ordeal she’d expected. Jeremy’s mistress had had the good sense to keep her head down and contribute little or nothing to the conversation. And the other guests had been good company, Johnny Gassingham in particular regaling the table with hilarious stories of his recent trip to India, where he’d somehow managed to fall foul of local police and get himself arrested for shoplifting. (Worth comfortably north of a hundred million, Johnny was apparently suspected of stealing a banana.)
More importantly, Brett had gone out of his way to make her feel comfortable and happy. One of the reasons Angela had always disliked St Tropez in the past was that it seemed to bring out the very worst, most insecure side of her husband’s nature. Brett became louder, brasher, more bullying, less considerate from the moment they set foot on the yacht. But this time he seemed genuinely to be making an effort. He’d even arranged for Logan to spend the day at Luna Park, a local funfair, so she wouldn’t be bored while her mother was in town.
Picking up a beautiful lace tablecloth, Angela began to haggle with the stallholder in broken French. It took a few minutes to agree on a price. Reaching into her wicker shopping basket for her purse, Angela’s stomach suddenly lurched.
‘Oh god,’ she blanched. ‘It’s gone! Someone’s taken it.’
The woman stallholder looked at her curiously.
‘Voleur,’ said Angela. ‘Mon sac à main. Stolen. Volé. Vous avez vu quelqu’un?’
The woman shook her head. Angela tried not to be suspicious, but one read so many stories about sellers at French markets being in cahoots with local pickpocketing gangs. There wasn’t much cash in her purse, but she felt quite sick. Violated, as if the beautiful rose she’d just been smelling and admiring had suddenly erupted with maggots.
Pushing through the crowds, she made her way back to the harbour. She was about to call Brett and have one of the tenders come and pick her up when she caught sight of Danny Michaels, one of Lady A’s crewmembers.
‘Danny!’
‘Mrs Cranley! I thought you were at the market.’
The boy seemed unaccountably nervous.