Monaco, 7.30 pm.

His car disappears with the valet as he walks towards the marina. No tie. No logos. Nothing that needs explaining.

A friend waves from a table overlooking the yachts. He joins them. Someone pours a drink. Someone mentions tomorrow’s plans. “Saint-Tropez?” He smiles. “Maybe.”

At the next table, she notices his fragrance before she notices his watch. A few minutes later she leans towards her friend. “Do you know what he’s wearing?” She doesn’t. Neither does anyone else. And somehow, that makes it better.

Because in a place where everyone can afford expensive, taste is what sets a man apart.