Most importantly, she was ready for him. He had never been close to anyone since he was a child, but he knew how to make himself appealing. It was as much about hiding bad traits as displaying good ones, and essentially, she could not learn of his predisposition towards breaking the law, which meant arranging their conversations in such a way that she would see nothing wrong.

If he managed to keep up the subterfuge, he wondered if there was a chance that she might become more than just a conquest. Her pale skin had tanned down, drawing out freckles, even in the days since he had been watching her. He had seen the full repertoire of her wardrobe now: one summer dress, a couple of T-shirts and a pair of faded jeans. He wanted to hold her, to reassure her that life could be good once again. In turn, he knew she would not disappoint him. He looked up into the sunswept sky and tasted salt, felt cool sea breezes in his hair. If he was to do this, to finally get close with a woman and share his life and his secrets, it meant hiding them for a while longer.

He was not sophisticated when it came to the subtleties of expressing affection, but he had seen films and watched enough television to provide passable imitations of various emotional states. The next evening, he asked her back to his room for a drink, but when she made an excuse and shied away, he realised he had made a mistake. It was too soon to exclude the boy from a meeting. Persisting, he invited the pair of them to join him for a pizza-it was a Sunday night, and there was nowhere else open in the village-and she accepted, although she insisted on paying her share of the bill. She was determined not to owe him anything.

The conversation was easier to control when Ryan was seated there between them. He could deflect her questions and ask something about the kid. The challenge would come, he knew, when they finally met a deux. He just wanted to do what was right, what she deserved.

On Monday night it rained, and Mme Funes offered to take Ryan along with her sons to see an animated movie playing in English at the little side-street cinema in Beaulieu.

It could have been the night for him to make his move, but he resisted. Instead, he took them both to Monte Carlo.

The statue was of a man in a tall top hat with a bird on his arm.

Given its spectacular setting, it was a surprisingly modest and slightly ridiculous monument. Flags covered with red and white harlequin diamonds hung from either side of Monte Carlo’s slender square, and parades of palmiers were swathed in tiny white lights. In the centre of the park, water cascaded with immaculate symmetry into stepped fountains. The arcing lawns were blade-perfect, the flower beds as plucked, scented and primped as nightclub hostesses. The view pointed in one direction between the palms frosted in luminescence, towards the icing-and-marzipan splendour of the casino, its base encrusted with polished Lagondas and Maseratis. Only the gawping tourists lowered the tone; untidy and loud in Mambo shorts and Nike socks, they snapped each other standing beside gull-wing sports cars. The tiny, densely built principality of Monaco stood between cliffs and sea, its secret money and tainted glamour lending it a faintly sinister air.

Madeline looked on in awe as a pair of angular fashion models in white mink coats paraded before a crouching photographer.

“Don’t be fooled by all of this,” said Johann. “I read that the average resident here has seven bank accounts, but you won’t see any of them around town. They’re up in the hills. This is just a display for tourists.”

But it was obvious to Madeline that Monte Carlo was geared to amusing thin white rich people. As she passed a silver Baby Bentley, its licence plate carrying the blue and white Monaco coat of arms, she felt herself shrinking into insignificance. The policemen looked like male models, and the streets were as clean as expensive restaurants. Down in the bay, elderly couples watched television on gleaming yachts in the world’s most expensive floating trailer park. This was Old Europe at its richest and creepiest, attracting serious wealth while simultaneously fish-eyeing the tourist classes, pocketing money while making you feel like a grateful nonentity.

Ryan had taken to holding their escort’s hand as they walked. Shafts of sunlight slanted between the green cliff peaks, tilting the town even further towards the sea.

“I don’t think this is my kind of place,” said Madeline, “I don’t feel comfortable here.”

“I like it.” Johann pointed up to the lampposts. “The cameras? Everything that happens here is filmed by the security system. There is no crime. They see everything.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” said Madeline doubtfully.

The cameras simultaneously protected and threatened. Johann liked that. They watched for petty crime and bad behaviour, but missed the fact that he had broken the law. It was the beauty of Europe; so many countries with different rules and moral codes, butted up against one another, and none of them communicating. Paradoxically, he felt safer here than anywhere else, knowing that the technology was more efficient than those who operated it.

“Let’s go back.” He took up the hands on either side of him and led them back to the underground car park where the shining floors squeaked and the walls played music.

She watched the passing lights through the windscreen as they passed out of town towards Cap-d’Ail. “What happened to your other car?” she asked, touching the polished dashboard of the silver Mercedes.

“There was a problem with the gearbox.” He did not take his eyes from the road. Ryan was asleep in the back.

“Really? It seemed fine to me.” She knew quite a bit about cars; Jack had always discussed his work with her. “Where did you get this?”

“My brother has a half share in a secondhand-car dealership. He lends me vehicles from time to time.” The lies came easily. They always had.

“I thought you said you were an only child, Johann.”

“I call him brother. Our family adopted him to raise as their own.”

“Does he live nearby?”

She was asking too many questions. Impatiently, he floored the car and allowed it to glide around the angle of the cliff road. “He is in Ventimiglia.”

“He must trust your driving ability.”

She was thinking things through; he could see something going on behind her eyes. He changed the subject. “Why did you not pick Spain for your vacation here? I thought the English preferred the Spanish coast.”

“A certain type of English, I think.” She looked back at the sleeping boy. “Maybe I should have taken Ryan there. He’d have more friends, and we’d have been able to save money. Things are more expensive here.”

“I have money. I can lend you some.”

“No, it wouldn’t be right.”

“It is only money. You must not misunderstand my purpose, Madeline. I mean, it would help you to stay. I will miss you if you go.”

“I didn’t mean-it’s very kind of you to offer, Johann.” She placed her hand on his and smiled. The barrier between them thawed a little further.

“Tonight I take you to El Morocco. You like couscous?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”

“Then I show you what you are missing. Then we put Ryan to bed and I take you for a drink.”

“Only at my hotel.” It was not a refusal. This time he was unable to keep the smile from his face. Perhaps he worried too much about hiding his feelings. Where was the harm? He could feel she was genuinely starting to care about him. He allowed himself to dream about her a little.

It was a dream that did not include the boy. He had always imagined that true love would arrive in the form of a virgin, not a single mother as old as himself. He knew he would have to adjust. Nothing was ever what you expected. That was the beauty and the terror of life.