Page 119 of A Night with Damien Spur

‘Luckily,’ Anna continued, ‘as he was waiting to be loaded into a lorry to be transported to a camp, the Allies bombed the road bridge crossing the river Var, just outside Nice, and the Jews were sent back to the hotel. Before the bridge could be rebuilt, Nice was liberated and Andrei had escaped death.’

‘What a story!’ Sophie said. ‘It was meant to be. Andrei was literally saved by a heartbeat. It wasn’t his time.’

If only it hadn’t been Daniel and Mikey’s, she thought to herself. ‘Well then, when shall we go?’

‘Tomorrow?’ Anna said.

***

The south of France in June. A perfect time to stay at La Maison de Rêve with its rose-painted walls and cool marble terrace stretching out across the lush garden.

In her mind’s eye, Sophie rises with the sun before her sister wakes and, taking out her inks, begins her first illustration.

Magenta and blue… A little boy in the dark looking out of the window at the night sky, holding his teddy… golden yellow.

An early morning swim in the pool, and later coffee andcroissant on the terrace, a little more work, followed by lunch and a siesta. And then the day stretching into an evening aperitif on the terrace, heady scents of mimosa and jasmine wafting through the soft air like a beautiful woman leaving a trail of her perfume as she passes by.

Perhaps a delightful supper of aNiçoisesalad, followed byfraisesduboisand, afterwards, stargazing through a naval telescope inherited from Justin’s grandfather.

Dream on, Sophie, dream on…

***

And Damien?

Writing in the Sandwas ready to roll. The director Marc Castle had asked him to meet the actress Ariana Bianchi, whom he’d cast as Sandra, Samuel’s mistress.

She had a lovely voice and wanted Damien to write the words to a song she’d composed on the guitar.

‘Angus, I’m a hardcore thriller writer, not a lyricist.’

‘So what,’ his agent said. ‘Surely it would make a change from sweating over a novel for months on end.’

‘Not if it doesn’t work. Writing lyrics is a huge skill. Look at Don Black. You think it’s easy writing Bond themes? Who can forget “Diamonds Are Forever”?’ He swung his swivel chair round and sang the first verse in his deep, throaty voice. ‘Why don’t Netflix ask him?’

Angus sat behind the large desk, enthroned in a wingback leather Chesterfield. ‘Never knew you could sing… and now I know you can’t.’

I agree, said the Voice.Come on, show you have a sense of humour.

Damien gave a dry laugh.

The office was more like a gentleman’s study. There was a rosewood cabinet of golf trophies next to a library case of his clients’ books and, on the mahogany desk, party invitationsand a display of silver-framed family photos. One in particular caught Damien’s eye. Angus was standing in a field of heather wearing a kilt, with a whisky flask in one hand and a gun in the other. In the background was a misty image of a large estate.

‘Ah! The Laird of the Manor. Do you realise we’ve known each other twenty years and you’ve never invited me to a shoot?’

‘I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure,’ his agent replied.

Good thinking,said the Voice.Don’t want to get too friendly. Especially if I leave you one day.

Damien picked up a crystal paperweight and squinted at a blue admiral butterfly captured in the centre.

‘This is how I feel – trapped. Why should I write a song? It’s not in my contract.’

‘Why not?’ Angus said. ‘I would have thought you’d be delighted to try your hands at something new… and think of the royalties.’

There was a timid knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ Angus said crisply.

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