Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

       PROLOGUE

       31 August 1987

      Holidaymakers speckle the beach, reclining behind brightly striped windbreaks, hands held to eyes against the late afternoon sun as they gaze at the glittering sea. On the horizon squats a huge grey tanker; in the middle distance a scattering of white-sailed yachts, their spinnakers billowed and taut. At the shoreline a young couple in surfing gear are launching a yellow canoe. He holds it while she climbs in, then he jumps on and they paddle away, the boat rocking and bumping through the swell. Two little girls in pink swimsuits stop paddling for a moment to watch them then dash in and out of the water, shrieking with laughter. Behind them, a family is playing French cricket. The ball soars towards the rocks, pursued by a dog, barking wildly, its claws driving up a spray of wet sand.

      On the cliff path behind the beach, people are queuing at the wooden hut for tea and biscuits, or an ice cream, or bucket and spade or a ready-inflated Lilo, which is what a couple of teenage boys are buying now. ‘Don’t take it in the sea,’ warns the woman behind the counter. The taller boy shakes his head then he and his friend carry the airbed down the worn granite steps to the beach.

      Here, the sand is pale and dry, glinting with mica. As they head for the water, the boys throw a covetous glance at a blonde woman in a black bikini, who’s lying on a white towel, perfectly still. She’s enjoying the warmth of the sun and the sound of the sea pulling in and out, as steady as breathing. A sandfly lands on her cheek and she brushes it away, then pushes herself up, resting on her elbows. She gazes at the headland, where the grass has dried to a pale gold: then she looks at the dark-haired man sitting beside her, and gives him an indolent smile. Now she turns on her front, reaches behind to unclip her bikini, then hands him a tube of Ambre