Mimi surveyed the scene and fixed it in her mind to keep. A balcony looking out onto a milky green sea, muslin curtains fluttering on the veranda, a stone balustrade mellowed by the sun, the steps leading directly down to an endless strand of pale, fine sand. And there, perfectly framed in the centre of it all, a young girl in a yellow dress twirling with the wind like a dandelion clock, spinning for the sheer joy of being alive. She was…

The full moon smiled its phosphorous grin, picking out crests on the sea below with an opaline glow. A luminous night that belied the horror of Hitler’s war.

Tonio steadied the throttle and unscrewed the thermos. Whisky-laced strong black coffee packed by his engineer. Nectar. He took a fortifying swig and set it back into the holder. Everything in its place; the thrum of the Bristol Mercury 9-cylinder engine, gyro horizon a reassuring parallel to the sea, a silvered cloud slung across the moon, ethereal enough to entertain Greek gods in all their capriciousness. This was his place in the world…

She bit through the skin, immediately forgetting about Moët as a burst of sweetness was released – a kaleidoscope of soft rain, mellow sun, a year’s worth of dusks and dawns, frosts and summer breezes, the taste of the terroir, right there on her tongue…

Coco makes me feel safe, despite the parties that swirl around this glamorous house. Her acolytes worship at her feet – they are gods in their own right -  Dalì, Picasso, Cocteau – but she walks among them as she pleases, a harsh goddess, toying with them; vivacious and witty, scathing and cruel in turn. She’s an athletic, tennis-playing society hostess despite her seventy years, and she outshines the statuesque beauties all this talent and power attracts with her magnetic allure, her pearls and chains, her aching minimalist chic, her tough insights and bons-mots. No one can resist…