Monte Carlo by Moonlight

by Anton Du Beke

Genres: World War II; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

'Heart-breaking, heart-lifting, and enchanting' CAROL KIRKWOOD

'Downton Abbey with dance' SANTA MONTEFIORE

Welcome to 1960s Monte Carlo, a world of glitz, glamour, scandal and betrayal...

Princess Grace of Monaco has invited the world-famous Forsyth Variety Company to perform at her annual high society ball. Monaco is in the heat of its preparations for the Grand Prix when the Forsyth family makes their emotional return to the city, stirring up painful memories for father Ed Forsyth.

When daughter Evie Forsyth meets Formula 1 driver Charles, their chemistry is unforgettable and a passionate affair begins. Meanwhile her brother Cal Forsyth is on location with Hollywood's biggest star, his new glittering career shaken by the arrival of a stranger from his past.

As the past and present collide in the sun-drenched French Riveria, will dangerous secrets destroy the Forsyth family once and for all?

***

Readers love Anton du Beke:

'You won't be disappointed!' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'Captivated me from beginning to end' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'Full of gossip and glamour, wealth and privilege' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'You feel as if you're watching the story unfold' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'I just couldn't put it down!' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: May 8, 2025

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 384

Sample

The skies had been heavenly blue over the French Riviera – but somehow, over the glistening white towers of Monte Carlo, they seemed more heavenly still.

The canary-yellow Ford Anglia that followed the sweep of the harbour, through the boulevards where the Grand Prix grandstands were already falling into place, did not exactly fit into the elegant surrounds. The car, battered around the edges and burnished by a hundred long crossings of the Continent, had tarnished even further this long, hot summer – but so had its driver, which was precisely why he didn’t jettison the car for some better model. At seventy-one years old, Ed Forsyth – just like this car – had seen finer days. Yet, as he came past the grand hotels and squares, the luxury Casino which drew so much wealth to the city, he got the inalienable feeling that his finest was yet to come.

In fact, as he reached his final destination, he thought it was very probably coming this very weekend.

Bringing the car to a halt, he stepped out into the blistering heat of Monte Carlo.

The Prince’s Palace was one of the grandest and oldest buildings in Monaco. Above Ed, its white turrets gleamed against the cerulean sky. The Monacoan flag, striking bands of red and white, sailed in the wind. Beyond, hung the grey crags of the mountain that cleaved Monte Carlo in two. Standing here, dwarfed by both palace and mountain, it was easy to understand why the city was so steeped in history; what had become a pleasure-ground for the wealthy of the twentieth century had once been of enormous strategic significance.

Ed took his cane from the car and picked his way to the rail running around the circumference of the palace grounds. It had felt, in the last six months, as if age was finally catching up with him. Born in the latter years of the previous century, two wars and what seemed several lifetimes ago, Ed was not the sort of man who liked getting old. He understood that some folks simply faded into old age with a kind of contentment, but Ed hated the aches and pains it made of his body. He’d had enough of those to contend with as a young man, just back from the Great War.

But it was funny how much a little beauty could change the way a man felt. It was strange how a little exhilaration lifted not just the spirit but the body. There were certain places in the world that did that to a travelling performer like Ed. Stepping into the London Palladium could make an octogenarian feel sprightly. Stepping into the Théâtre Edouard VII in Paris was enough to make a man feel timeless. And a summer on the French Riviera, culminating in an unexpected return to this city of opulence, of wonder, of starlight, was enough to crown not just a season, but an entire career.

He was just approaching the rail, expecting to announce himself to the guardsmen who stood sentry here, when a man in a starched white shirt and bow tie approached. ‘Monsieur Forsyth,’ he said in a heavy French accent, ‘there has been a change of plan. If you would, perhaps, step this way?’

The man, who Ed now took for one of the palace’s personal valets, made an ostentatious turn and presented a vehicle sitting in the yard in front of the palace. Ed had had the honour of riding in a good number of high-class cars before – but this was beyond compare: a gleaming red Chevrolet Corvette, which put him more in mind of the wide open roads of the United States than it did the steep mountain paths of Monaco. Then again, the princess was American, and had given up much of her heritage – and Hollywood itself – to come here; perhaps she had asked her husband, the sovereign, Prince Rainier, for a little American indulgence.

‘Where to?’ Ed asked.

He gazed up at the mountain, wondering what it might be like to see Monte Carlo from above.

‘Not so very far at all, sir. Please come – the princess is waiting.’

Who was Ed Forsyth, provincial British performer, to deny the request of a princess? He’d been performing for commoners and kings all of his life. It pleased him to think that she had called him by name – so, without another word, he entered the Corvette and soon felt the wind rushing through what was left of his hair.

It had been seventeen years since he last came to the city. In 1950, the world, and indeed Forsyth Varieties – the Company Ed had ruled over half of his life – had been so different. Europe was still showing the ravages of war; everywhere, the greyness and the desolation of a world putting itself back together. And then there was Monaco. The Principality had taken its own hits during the war, conquered and occupied twice over, but there was something about the French Riviera that still spoke of joy and hopefulness for the future. The shows they’d been performing along the coast, first in Nice and then in Cannes, had ended right here in Monte Carlo. Even back then, there had been no lack of money in the Principality – and no shortage of ways the city’s gilded elites might entertain themselves as the sun went down – but they’d flocked to the Forsyth Varieties all the same. A three-week spell of spectacular shows, a dream, an idyll before the greyer skies of Great Britain summoned them home.

But for all the wonders of that month, the one thing Ed treasured most was the night he and his late wife Bella had taken a long stroll along the seafront, sitting to watch the sun come down over the pure white sands of the Plage du Larvotto and revelling in the fact that their dear twins, Evie and Cal, were coming of age in such beautiful surrounds. ‘The world’s going to be different for them,’ Ed remembered saying. ‘Perhaps Cal will never truly go to war …’ What a dream that had seemed – and so far, at least, it had come to pass.

Bella had passed away six years later, but he felt certain her ghost was walking alongside him as he left behind the grand white turrets of the Prince’s Palace. ‘We never got invited inside, did we, Belle?’ he said to her spirit, as if she hovered in the air all around. ‘And it looks like that pleasure will have to wait again. Come on, old girl, let’s see what’s happening. A lot’s changed since we were here. Monte Carlo didn’t have its Hollywood princess back then …’

The ride in the scarlet Chevrolet took but a few moments, skirting the edge of the Port Hercule and its rainbow of pleasure crafts until they reached the very head of the bay. Ed was pleased to feel the wind in his hair, but was hardly disappointed when the driver swept the car off the road and the striking grounds of Fort Antoine awaited.

‘Sir, her Royal Highness is waiting for you.’

The Fort Antoine had once been an imposing citadel, the first thing raiders might have seen approaching Monte Carlo across the glittering waves. The citadel still stood, but when Ed was led up the stone steps to the top of the imposing edifice, he did not find a formidable military outpost. The only soldiers barricading the top of the stairs were the security officers in charge of the princess’s safety – for directly in front of Ed, where cannons had once stood, was an amphitheatre open to the skies, rings of tiered stone seats on one side and, on the other, only the vastness of the Mediterranean. What a backdrop that was going to be to perform against – all the dance and song and magic of the Forsyth Varieties, as a crimson sun sank into the ocean waves.

There were a good number of security men in the stone seating – but only one person stood in the middle of the empty amphitheatre floor.

‘Your Highness,’ said Ed, as their eyes met.

Princess Grace of Monaco: it had been some years since Ed last saw her, and even then, it had been in a different world. She looked as elegant, now, as she had ever seemed on the silver screen, back in the days when she was just good old Grace Kelly of Philadelphia – but she’d grown into her regal bearing; she’d been married for more than a decade, princess of the Principality for eleven years. She was approaching forty (though who could tell? She looked as timeless as ever). The simple white dress she was wearing was in tune with the pearls around her neck. The ring upon her finger, no doubt the jewel Prince Rainier had gifted her on the day she agreed to be his wife, sparkled like a star fallen from the heavens.

‘I think I should like it if you called me Grace, Mr Forsyth, as in days of old.’

They came together in the middle of the theatre floor.

‘If that’s how it is, your … Grace.’

‘Your Grace,’ the princess smiled. ‘Now that has a certain ring to it – but Grace will do.’

Ed smiled in return; her laughter was infectious. And hadn’t that been one of the qualities that propelled her to stardom in the first place? That infectious love of life that drew audiences to her? Ed still remembered the first time he’d seen her on a cinema screen: Grace Kelly, the star of High Noon, scintillating and stunning even in black-and-white.

‘I’m glad you could make it, Ed. I couldn’t have done this without you. Well … perhaps there was a way, but I wouldn’t have wanted to. How long has it been? Ten years?’

‘Eleven,’ Ed replied without hesitation. He knew, because Bella had passed into the next life only a few short months later. ‘From the highs of High Society to …’

Princess Grace clasped Ed’s hand. Funny, but that tiny gesture of affection wouldn’t have seemed strange, nor out of place, eleven years ago; yet, now that she’d spent those years as a princess, it felt strange, almost untoward. They’d met at a gala just after the launch of High Society. The Forsyth Varieties, hired to perform, hadn’t expected to find themselves milling with Hollywood royalty – but there they’d been, after the show, in the company of the greats. It was just like Bella to have struck up a friendship with the young starlet. Just like Bella, who had never lusted for fame but just loved to put on a show, to find Grace drawn to her side. They’d made plans to see each other again, even written letters; there’d been promises of an invitation to Monte Carlo, after Grace was married, after the world changed. But fate caught up with Bella and the best-laid plans came to nought.

Until today.

‘Sometimes the stars align,’ said Ed – and, looking up, thought how brilliant the stars must seem above Fort Antoine on a clear summer’s night. ‘We’ve spent this summer on the Riviera. Your letter caught up with me in Cannes. I’ve got old John Lauderdale – our illusionist, if you remember? – sitting back home. He’s too old to travel now.’ Ed looked momentarily forlorn at this; John was one of his oldest colleagues in the Company, but the century was growing old, just like them, and his travelling days were over. ‘So we have him to thank for the letter reaching me.’

‘I’m just glad it did. Ed, I’ve been wanting to invite you since the beginning. Ever since dear Bella …’

Ed held up his hand. Bella was more than a decade gone, but sometimes her passing still seemed so vivid. ‘She would have loved to have visited you here. She would have loved to perform here, right here, with the sun going down.’ Ed gravitated to the citadel’s edge and gazed into the distance. ‘We’re here for you, Your Highness. I promised you once that, when the time came, my Company would put on the very best show we could, to celebrate all you’re doing here. I’ll do it for you, and I’ll do it for my Bella as well. Perhaps she’ll be watching, from up there.’

Joining him, Princess Grace said, ‘I’ve been hosting the Rose Ball at the palace every year since I first arrived. There’s so much money in Monaco – what better than to get everyone together and make them give for people who have so much less? The ballroom will be alive, Ed. We’ll do so much good. But this year I wanted something just a little bit different. A little bit special. That’s when I thought of you.’ She opened her arms, as if to take in the Fort Antoine. ‘They half destroyed this place during the war – or so I’m told. It was used to store explosives – but the problem with explosives is that …’

‘They explode,’ grinned Ed.

‘Rainier knew we had to rebuild, and that it wouldn’t be a fortress anymore. So – a theatre instead!’ And she clapped her hands. ‘Do you know, there isn’t a thing I would change about my life, but … sometimes, when I think of those early days in Philadelphia and New York, taking to the boards for the very first time …’

There were few words to express the rest of that sentiment, but Ed seemed to understand it well enough. ‘It gets in your blood,’ he said.

‘And there it remains. So, while I shall not step out onto a stage again, I couldn’t resist it when the idea came upon me. One night only at the Fort Antoine, all of the guests attending our Rose Ball, to be entertained by you, my favourite company of all.’ She paused. ‘Well, a girl has dreams – and sometimes, she gets to make those dreams come true. It won’t be the biggest audience you’ve played for this summer – but if you get them into a good mood, each and every one, just think how eager they’ll be to do some good when it comes to the Ball. Just think of all the donations we’ll receive.’ Again, the princess paused. ‘How is the Company, Ed?’

‘That, Your Highness, is—’

‘I thought I told you to speak to me as a friend, Ed. I know an Englishman likes to bow, but I won’t be bowed to – not by you.’

For a moment, Ed felt choked. It wasn’t just the honour she gave him; it was the memory of why she gave him that honour – the memory of Bella, and the immediacy of their bond. But Bella had always been like that; a mother to every performing girl in the Company and beyond. By God, how they’d missed her. By God, how fractious those years after she left had been. He’d almost lost the Company to the abyss of his grief. He’d almost lost his son …

‘Well, Cal went off and did his own thing for a few years, of course.’

‘Indeed – I hear he’s very highly prized now.’

‘Evie’s been with us throughout. She’s rather the glue that binds us together. And … I’m a grandfather now. Cal’s little boy Sam – he may even perform out here on Friday night. What an auspicious debut that might be!’ Ed did a little turn, remembering his own dancing days. ‘So, there’s a new generation rising up. Grace, it makes a man feel proud to see the generation coming after him – but …’ and here he winced a little, ‘it makes one feel old as well. I’m not performing as much as I was. Sometimes, Cal’s been compèring our shows. I wonder – I wonder how long my road lasts. But then I come to a place like this, and I wonder … why would anyone want to do anything else?’

There came a wistful look to the princess’s eyes. For a moment, Ed wondered if she was thinking the same thing. ‘My children grow up princes and princesses. One day, my son will be king. How do you think that feels, Ed, for a young woman from Philly?’

Ed smiled. ‘I should like to meet your children, Grace, if the opportunity arises.’

‘Why, Mr Forsyth – they’ll be right here, front row at the Fort Antoine.’ She paused. ‘You’re thinking of the future, Ed,’ she surmised.

‘The past, the future … it’s all as one in this brain of mine.’

‘You’re not so old and befuddled yet.’

‘Perhaps not – but … it’s different in your world, Grace. You look at your son and you know – one day he’s going to be king. I look at mine, and …’

‘Cal’s still wild, then?’

‘It isn’t just that. Wait until you meet him; he’s lost so much of his wildness since he became a father. He’s a devil, that’s true, but he’s working hard. He came up ahead of us, to meet a film director shooting a picture in the city. It’s … I don’t know what’s next, Grace. When I ride off into the sunset – when my own body’s too creaky for the stage …’ and he brandished his cane like a valiant jousting knight, as if to prove he wasn’t quite there yet, ‘I don’t know what the next act is going to be. I don’t know what becomes of the Company when my curtain falls.’

Grace led Ed along the former fortress parapets. Here, the sunlight spilt across them, lighting up all Grace’s beauty for Ed, lighting up all Ed’s aged lines for Grace. ‘In my world we call it succession planning,’ said Grace.

‘It’s what my father called it in our world too.’

‘You feel you have to choose between Evie and Cal?’

‘I feel like the future has to choose. Cal’s got wild talent. He draws the eye. But Evie’s a natural-born leader. She’s got grit. She’s the one who carried me when Bella died.’ Ed didn’t want to say what next came to his mind, even to somebody he trusted as much as the princess. Cal had come through for the Company, he’d come back to the fold and brought them back magic and pizazz. But Ed still remembered, too vividly, the day he’d walked out on them, the twin losses of Bella passing on and Cal – unable, perhaps, to bear the tragedy of it all – striking out on his own. ‘But Cal’s the one with a child. I see myself in Sam. I see the future in him.’

‘Evie has no one?’

‘She’s had suitors over the years. She’s got close, once or twice. But … she’s been unlucky in love.’

‘Sometimes the best of us are.’

‘The kings of old always stage-managed a succession,’ Ed mused, ‘to stop the court from falling apart. But I find myself curiously lacking in the talent it needs. I love both my children, with all my heart. But could one ever rule over the other? Is Cal with us forever, or is he just biding his time? Does he even know it? His wife Meredith will want more children soon. Is the touring life for her? And … would the troupe really accept Evie? Things are changing in the world, but … a woman, in a world of ambitious men? The way her dancing girls look at her, you’d think they’d follow her into battle itself! But without a husband, without children of her own to vest the future in? What’s the future of the Forsyth Varieties if you can’t gaze down the decades and know that it’s going to go on and on?’

There was a silence in the Fort Antoine. In only a few nights’ time, these stone tiers would be filled with the great, the anointed, the wealthy patrons of Princess Grace’s benefit ball. Music would echo out over the water as the sun went down and the stars came up. Evie’s girls would dance to Cal’s bombastic piano, while Davith’s dogs turned their tricks and Jim Livesey – who’d been studying with the illusionist John Lauderdale for five years and was finally seizing his chance to take centre stage – cast his enchantments over the crowd. But right now, there was a stillness, a quietude in the amphitheatre. The only sound was the gentle susurration of the sea against the rocks somewhere below, and the calls of wheeling seabirds overhead.

‘My Company is almost a century old. My family’s been performing since the days of vaudeville and music hall. But sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if I’m the last. My grandfathers kept this Company alive. My father steered it into a new century. We’ve come through wars together, one generation to the next. But am I, Grace, am I the one to lose it all?’

Grace threaded her arm into the crook of Ed’s.

‘The sun sets on all of us, Ed. But not just yet. One day we’ll all wake for the final time. We’ll kiss our lovers and then never kiss them again. We’ll sing one last song, take one last bow, hear one final round of applause. But not tonight, dear friend. Not this time.’ She bowed her head to whisper the last, ‘I brought you here for a reason. I thought it was just a promise to an old, dearly departed friend. I thought it was time to make good on an agreement from long ago. I thought it was for the Rose Ball, and all the good we’ll do for those who need it. But now I see that it’s more.’

‘Your Highness?’

Grace rolled her eyes, but she let this one slide, for she had seen the mischief sparkling in Ed’s eyes.

‘It’s for you, Mr Forsyth. So that you might catch a glimpse of what the future might be. And personally, Ed, I simply can’t wait.’

Champagne corks flew at the Casino de Monte Carlo.

Across the Casino floor, the air pulsated with promise and expectation. Dreams would be made here tonight; fortunes won, or fortunes squandered. From card table to roulette wheel, gentlemen in elegant black marched imperiously with beautiful women on their arms. An olive-skinned titan in a suit of white linen chewed on a fat Montecristo cigar, its reef of smoke billowing out in perfect rings across the table where he cast his dice. Somewhere, a cry of jubilation rose up and set the crystal chandeliers above to tinkling. Somewhere else, security officers roamed, their eyes acutely aware of every single movement in the building.

And at a baccarat table in the heart of the palace, a young man with a bow tie slightly off-centre – as if to suggest that he did not really belong here, but he was going to have the time of his life while he stayed – took one look at the cards the croupier was dealing, flashed a devil-may-care look at the tall, gangling figure on his right, and tossed down his chips.

‘Luck’s my lady tonight,’ he said, flashing a smile so pearly white it seemed to draw the light of the chandeliers. Then he reached for another fistful of chips, his entire reserve, and prepared to throw them down. ‘Deal ’em, sir. Let’s see what’s coming to—’

A meaty hand gripped him by the wrist.

One moment there had been the buzz of anticipation around the baccarat table, that beautiful moment in gambling when every eye in the house is drawn to a single person – perhaps a born winner, perhaps one of life’s natural born losers, but captivating all the same. Then, in an instant, the anticipation was gone. In the vacuum it left behind there was only shock and horror, as the young man’s hand opened up, spilling all of his chips, and whoever had taken hold of him hoisted him aloft.

‘I say!’ the young man exclaimed, still flashing those pearly whites. ‘Is this any way to treat a guest? I’m …’

Dangling over the seat that he’d moments before been treating like a throne, the young man revolved, only to discover that he was being grappled by one of the Casino’s burly security guards. Three others stood in an arc around the table. ‘Our apologies, sirs. Our apologies, madams,’ the most genteel of them said (though in truth he wasn’t very genteel). ‘On occasion these things do happen. For the sake of our trusted guests, we must keep the Casino honest.’

‘Honest?’ exclaimed the young man, filled with indignation. ‘Ladies, gentlemen,’ he pronounced to those around, ‘this is a clear case of mistaken identity. Honesty is my middle name. In point of fact, it is my middle name. It’s a family name, after my grandmother – a fabulous Frenchwoman, I might add, and …’

The security guard shook the young man. Out of his sleeve slipped three playing cards: a Jack of Diamonds, a Seven of Spades, and an Ace of Hearts. From a pocket spilt a handful of craps dice, and from his trouser cuff a golden chip.

The young man’s smile crumpled, but as he took in the spectators, his eyes still dazzled.

‘Of course,’ he grinned, ‘there’s honesty and then there’s … Look!’

The sudden exclamation, which came quite out of nowhere, changed everything. One second, the crowd had been staring at the spectacle of the captured cheater; the next, they swirled round, as if to discover what he was gesticulating at. Even the security guards currently patting their hands all over his body turned.

It didn’t matter that there was nothing to see.

In fact, that was rather the point.

The split second it took for the officers to understand they were being duped was all it took. In an instant, the young man was flurrying up out of their grasp. In another instant, he was leaping onto the top of the baccarat table, scattering cards and chips. One more instant and he was vaulting over the other side.

‘Stop him!’ somebody bawled.

The young man looked back and threw a dainty wave at the security guards. Thick-headed fools – they respected the Casino too much; they were chasing him by going round the tables.

The young man had no such compunction. Directly ahead of him, a group of refined older gentlemen were playing roulette. The wheel started spinning, the chips were being placed; the croupier called time as the ball began to skitter madly around. But none of it came to anything, for now he was leaping on top of the table, tumbling off the other side. ‘My deepest apologies,’ he said to a stunning brunette in sapphire sequins, taking the Champagne flute from her hand, tasting it, then handing it back. ‘Something to whet the whistle, ma’am.’

Security guards were streaming at him from every angle now. Over the blackjack tables he cantered, vaulting from one to another. When he reached the last one, the guards charging after him on either side, he cast himself upwards, grappled with the chandelier, swung himself around (knocking two guards aside in the process) and landed – inelegantly, he thought – on top of a poker table. ‘Royal Flush wins,’ he declared, with a cursory look at the players’ hands.

Then his eyes zoned in on the doors up ahead.

Out there lay the ancient streets of Monte Carlo.

Out there: freedom, and whatever came next.

Only one guard stood at the door; the others were too busy scrambling madly through the Casino, trying to hem him in. There might be an element of fisticuffs about this, he decided – but that would do. That wouldn’t matter. Not if he got out into the night.

He grinned.

He was about to throw himself forward when, in the corner of his eye, a flash of emerald green caught his eye. Instinctively, he turned. There stood the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen: tall and lithe, her hair a golden cascade, her eyes glittering in exactly the same striking colour as the chiffon that spilt around her.

Mirth played on her lips. She’d been watching him, he thought, since the beginning – and liking what she saw.

Not everybody in this Casino, then, was outraged by the evening.

He lifted his hand to salute her.

He winked – and, in return, she smiled.

The world seemed to slow down.

There he stood, balanced on the table’s edge, about to make his mad dash for freedom – and everything froze.

For a split second, there was nothing in the world except that lady.

But the split second lasted too long. A squandered split second was all it took for the guards to catch up. Suddenly, the young man was being pulled down from the table, then pinioned to the floor while fists and boots pounded him from every angle.

All things told, this hadn’t quite been the evening he expected.

But there, through the kicks and the punches, stood the woman in green.

She was beaming at him, even through the haze.

‘CUT!’

That one word, bellowed through a megaphone, changed everything.

The cameras pulled back. The entirety of the Casino floor took a breath. Applause broke out all around – and Benedict Frey, the dark-haired young man curled up on the floor while the actors playing security guards crowded around him, was helped to his feet by a portly middle-aged man with a significant paunch and big bald pate. ‘Ben,’ he said in his crisp English tones, ‘that’s the one. Every mark hit. You sold it, my boy. You sold it. We’ll reset for pick-ups and reaction shots, but I’m sure we’ve got this one in the can. Just wait until I get it in front of the studio. Ben, they’re going to love it.’

Benedict Frey leapt to his feet, soaking up the applause. He’d been rehearsing that sequence for two full weeks while the second unit shot the exteriors and the scenes in which he didn’t figure; day after day, vaulting from one table to another, making sure he didn’t miss a beat. ‘Mr Hines,’ he said to the portly fellow, ‘we just made magic.’

‘Wait until it’s on the silver screen, my boy.’

Albert Hines, veteran director of Can’t Stop Now, Lost in Tangiers and assorted other pictures for Parker & Parr, whose studios were small but ambitious beyond compare, left his star with a wink and turned away. Benedict was already being mobbed by the backstage crew, his make-up touched up and his costume dusted down for the pick-ups, so Albert would have a little peace in which to think this through.

Deep in thought, he picked his way through the technicians – and all the Casino staff, on contract from the Casino itself to reset everything once a scene was completed – until he reached a table tucked behind the last of the cameras. Here, in front of a boxy black-and-white television screen, sat a black-haired man in his middle thirties. Cal Forsyth was wearing a jet-black shirt, open at the collar, and denim jeans, his brown leather boots propped up on the table while his eyes were buried in the script in front of him. The title page read MONTE CARLO BY MOONLIGHT, and the script was annotated with so much scrawl it was almost indecipherable. Regardless, Cal had been following it closely. He looked up now, to see the director approaching.

‘That’s it,’ said Albert, clenching his fist decisively. ‘That’s the moment. Our lead is down, no way out – and that’s when the music kicks in. That’s when all hell breaks loose.’

Cal smiled. ‘It really could be quite a moment.’

‘Oh,