A hundred feet above the roof of the mesa, they hung like the twisted pillows of a sleepless giant. Columns of turbulent air moved within the clouds, boiling upwards to the anvil heads like liquid in a cauldron. These were not the placid, fair-weather cumulus of Coral D, but storm-nimbus, unstable masses of overheated air that could catch an aircraft and lift it a thousand feet in a few seconds. Here and there the clouds were rimmed with dark bands, their towers crossed by valleys and ravines. They moved across the villa, concealed from the lakeside heat by the haze overhead, then dissolved in a series of violent shifts in the disordered air.

As I entered the drive behind a truck filled with son et lumière equipment, a dozen members of the staff were straightening lines of gilt chairs on the terrace and unrolling panels of a marquee.

Beatrice Lafferty stepped across the cables. “Major Parker there are the clouds we promised you.”

I looked up again at the dark billows hanging like shrouds above the

white villa. “Clouds, Beatrice? Those are tigers, tigers with wings. We’re manicurists of the air, not dragon-tamers.”

“Don’t worry, a manicure is exactly what you’re expected to carry out.” With an arch glance, she added: “Your men do understand that there’s to be only one subject?”

“Miss Chanel herself? Of course.” I took her arm as we walked towards the balcony overlooking the lake. “You know, I think you enjoy these snide asides. Let the rich choose their materials-marble, bronze, plasma or cloud. Why not? Portraiture has always been a neglected art.”

“My God, not here.” She waited until a steward passed with a tray of table-cloths. “Carving one’s portrait in the sky out of the sun and air-some people might say that smacked of vanity, or even worse sins.”