Page 184 of Private Lives

The hire car wound through the hills behind Nice airport, up, up until the blue Mediterranean shrank to a thin silver strip and the smell of the air changed from sea salt to the pine and lavender that characterised this part of Provence. Mougins was one of the most famous foodie destinations in Europe, a medieval village that clung to the hillside just a twenty-minute drive from its bigger, ritzier neighbour, Cannes.

‘Sam, this place is just gorgeous,’ gasped Anna as they drove towards the sandstone walls of the town. It was like something from a fairy-tale. Honey-coloured townhouses with bloom-filled window boxes and red-tiled roofs crowding into winding streets, a clock tower tolling the hour, cypress trees soaring into the blue sky. Anna listened with excitement as Sam told her stories about the town: how Picasso had lived here, shooting the breeze with Cocteau and Man Ray, how Churchill had holidayed here and Dior came to be inspired. ‘It’s magical,’ she sighed.

Driving past the town itself, they finally pulled up in front of an old watermill set in beautiful grounds.

‘Voilà,’ said Sam, taking Anna’s hand to lead her inside to the Michelin-starred Moulin de Mougins. It was chic yet casual, and Anna felt glad she had softened her smart aqua silk dress with bronze gladiator sandals.

‘Monsieur Shaarlz!’ cried the maître d’. ‘So good to see you again.’

He led them to a table on the terrace outside and brought them glasses of crisp white wine, ‘especially recommended for you by the sommelier’. Anna wondered if there was a more delightful place to have lunch – and to think she’d wanted to stay in Sam’s bed watching old movies. Plenty of time for that later, she smiled to herself. And not so much of the movies, either.

‘You like?’ said Sam, reaching across the table to touch her fingers.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘It’s wonderful.’

‘You know, we should do something like this every weekend,’ he said. ‘Where do you fancy next week?’

She searched his face, but he didn’t appear to be joking. As each day slipped by, she’d convinced herself that Sam would tire of her and that his phone calls would trail off to nothing. But he seemed to be getting more keen, not less. Since Andy, Anna had gone out of her way to protect herself, building up a hard shell that would make her impervious to pain. But now here she was, playing boyfriend-girlfriend with a man who was now as well known for his infidelity as he was for his acting. It was as if she was just begging to have her fragile heart dropped from a great – and very public – height.

‘Anywhere except Tuscany,’ she said, smiling.

‘Hey, Tuscany’s one of my favourite places,’ Sam protested. ‘What have you got against poor Italy?’

‘Oh, I love Tuscany too,’ she replied. ‘It’s just that my sister is getting married there next weekend. To Andy – my ex, the love-rat journalist you were jealous of, remember? So you can see why I want to give it a wide berth.’

‘But that’s silly – you should be there with bells on,’ he said seriously. ‘There’s no better way than showing them you’ve moved on.’

‘I know I should, but . . .’

‘But what? What’s stopping you? Pride? Well that’s a pretty negative emotion,’ he said, before stopping and smirking. ‘I got that from a shrink. About the only thing of value a psychologist has ever told me, actually.’

Anna took a drink of her wine. She hadn’t heard from any of her family since her father’s email about the hen party, and the guilt had been gnawing away ever since.

Sam leaned forward. ‘And if you need a date for it, I look good in a tux. Or at least, that’s what they said in People magazine’s Fifty Most Beautiful People last year.’

Anna gaped at him.

‘Are you serious? You’d really go with me to the wedding?’

‘Let’s think of it more like a free mini-break. Plus I assume since she’s a famous chef the food will be pretty good.’

‘But Sophie might think I’m trying to upstage the bride.’

‘We’ll skulk at the back. I’ll even grow a beard. I’m not exactly looking for attention at the moment.’

Anna couldn’t believe he was prepared to go to such a public event with her, especially as Sophie had probably sold the photos to OK! or Hello!.

‘Sam—’ she began, reaching out for his hand, but she was cut off before she could say anything more.

‘Anna Kennedy! I don’t believe it!’ squealed a familiar exotic voice.

‘Ilina!’ cried Anna, standing up to air-kiss her glamorous former client. The Russian was looking incredible in a thigh-skimming mini-dress and aviator shades. ‘It’s so great to see you,’ she said. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Oh, we’re staying on at the Costa Smeralda for a week or two,’ Ilina purred, turning to wave at some dark-haired male model type in an open-necked white shirt. ‘We popped over for a little light lunch for a change of scenery.’

Popped over from Sardinia. Anna smiled to herself. Ilina certainly hadn’t let the newspaper reports on her wanton spending cramp her style.

‘And what, pray tell, are you doing here?’ asked Ilina, peering at Sam over her sunglasses, a smirk on her lips.