33
Acknowledgements
Also by Tasmina Perry
Sometime in the 1980s
The residents of the South of France are too chic to consider themselves socially competitive, but in the villas that pepper the Côte D’Azur, one-upmanship was rife. Saul Milford, a man of not inconsiderable self-assurance, liked to think that he had the best villa in the whole area. An old mas in the foothills of Provence, Les Fleurs was not the biggest house but with its turrets and bright blue shutters, it was certainly the prettiest. Already that summer he’d had Princess Margaret, Mick Jagger and various other members of London’s beau monde round the kidney-shaped swimming pool. They’d all seemed to enjoy themselves and it was easy to see why. The grounds were studded with fabulous bronzes, sculpted by his dear friend Christopher Chase, one of England’s most prominent artists. There were olive groves, an abundance of poppies on the hillside, and in the sunshine, the Mediterranean sparkled like a sapphire in the distance. This evening, as dusk was settling on the grounds with a honey glow, it looked even more spectacular. It was excellent timing: tonight there was to be another party. Staff in white suits scurried around the pool plumping up cushions and filling silver ice buckets with champagne. The smell of spices from the kitchen mingled with the strong scent of lavender and the air crackled with anticipation of a fabulous evening ahead.
Saul smiled to himself, sipping lemonade freshly made from fruit in his orchard, silently congratulating himself that his purchase of the villa the previous summer had been one of the best decisions he had ever made. He could certainly afford it. His company, the luxury goods house Milford, was doing well. For years the company’s sumptuous leather products had been the preserve of the upper classes who ordered bespoke luggage for their exotic holidays. But the Eighties had seen the rise of a new, more democratic wave of millionaires riding on stock market killings. The City was awash with money and it was making Saul rich. Very rich. And what was the point of taking money to your grave?
Saul looked down from the terrace to where his two nieces Emma Bailey and Cassandra Grand were playing. From this distance, he could just about make out the dialogue between the two cousins. It was funny how personalities were set at such a young age. While the girls were similar in many ways, their differences were equally marked. So marked in fact, that Saul felt confident he could predict how their lives would unfold and the direction in which their desires and ambitions would take them.
Dangling her feet in the swimming pool Emma put a bookmark in her copy of Jane Eyre. At seven she was tall for her age, with clever, grey eyes that posed questions without the need to open her mouth.
‘Do you want to play chess?’ she asked her cousin.
‘No,’ replied Cassandra, rolling her eyes dramatically.
