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the Corniche, the famous coast road that wound its way towards Monte Carlo. We climbed ever higher, the Mediterranean beneath us and the coastal mountains above us, drove through a tunnel and then swung on to a narrow winding road. We continued climbing until Tony stopped outside a ten-foot-high iron gate. ‘Les Sarrasins’ was inscribed on one of the gateposts. He pressed a remote control, the gate swung open, and the Jeep pulled up beneath a pink-washed house.
    He leapt out of the vehicle. ‘Come and meet Dominique.’
    We made our way up some stone steps that led around the side of the house and were struck by the most spectacular view. On three sides was the powerful deep blue of the Mediterranean, stretching towards an indistinct horizon where it merged with the paler blue of the sky. We seemed to be floating high in the air, suspended a thousand feet above the sea, which we could just hear breaking on to the beach below. I felt disoriented, dizzy, as if I was about to lose my balance. I took a step back towards the house.
    Guy’s father noticed and smiled. ‘The vertigo often getspeople, especially when they’re not expecting it. Come and look.’ We edged towards a low white marble railing. ‘Below us is Beaulieu, and that’s Cap Ferrat over there,’ he said, pointing down to a crowded little town and a lush green peninsula beyond it. ‘Behind that is Nice. And over there,’ he pointed to the east, ‘is Monte Carlo. On a clear day, when the mistral has blown all the muck out of the air, you can see Corsica. But not in July, I’m afraid.’
    ‘What’s that?’ asked Guy, pointing to a crumbling wall of thin grey brick perching on a rock at the end of the garden, next to a lone olive tree.
    ‘That was a watchtower. They say it’s Roman. For centuries the locals used this place to look out for Saracen raiders. Hence the name Les Sarrasins.’ Tony smiled at his son. ‘So, what do you think?’
    ‘Nice, Dad. Very nice,’ Guy said. ‘Not so handy for the beach, though, is it?’
    ‘Oh yes it is. Just hop over these railings and you’ll be down there in ten seconds.’
    We leaned over and looked down. Far below we could just see a strip of sand, next to the coast road, the Basse Corniche.
    ‘Allo!’
    We turned. A few feet back from the railings was a pool, and by the pool was a woman lying on a sun chair. Topless. I stared. I was eighteen: I couldn’t help it. She waved and slowly sat up, reached for her bikini top and slipped it on. She stood and walked over to us, hips swaying. Long blonde hair, dark glasses, swinging figure. I still stared.
    ‘Dominique, this is my son, Guy. You finally meet!’
    ‘Hello, Guy,’ Dominique said, extending her hand. She pronounced it the French way, to rhyme with ‘key’.
    ‘Hello, Mum,’ said Guy with his best smile, and she laughed. Guy’s father introduced her to Mel, Ingrid and me.I couldn’t say anything apart from a pathetic ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Jourdan,’ which also seemed to amuse her.
    ‘While you’re staying here, I’m Tony and this is Dominique,’ said Guy’s father, smiling. ‘Call me sir, and I’ll toss you over the cliff.’
    ‘OK, Tony.’
    ‘Now, you and Guy are in the guest cottage over there,’ he pointed to a small building tucked behind a bed of tall lavender on the other side of the pool. ‘The girls are in the house. Why don’t you go and take your things in and then come out here for a drink?’
    We gathered around the pool an hour later. A tiny grey-haired man in a crisp white jacket served us all with Pimm’s from a pitcher stuffed with lemon, cucumber and mint. The girls had changed into light summer dresses, Dominique had wrapped something around herself, Guy and Tony were wearing white slacks and I wore my scruffy jeans, preferring them to my only alternative of an old pair of black cords.
    The sun was hanging low over Cap Ferrat and the air was still. I could hear the hum of bees in the lavender, and of course