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Before meeting me, Jane had spent too many hours in elevators and pathology rooms, and the pallor of strip lighting haunted her like a twelve-year-old's memories of a bad dream. Cheval might have survived, but the France of the s, with its Routier lunches, anti-CRS slogans and the Citroen DS, had been largely replaced by a new France of high-speed monorails, MacDo's, and the lavish air-shows that my cousin Charles and I would visit in our rented Cessna when we founded our firm of aviation publishers. Open your window. I know, we want them to like me. Jane pointed to the hillside, raising a finger still grimy from changing a spark plug.

Rather than overheat either Jane's imagination or the Jaguar's elderly engine, I decided to avoid the Autoroute du Soleil and take the RN7. The next day we crossed the olive line, following the long, cicada miles that my mother and father had motored when they first took me to the Mediterranean as a boy. Now, as I embraced Jane on the parapets of the dream palace, I realized that I would never know. The noise from the Jaguar's tyres fell away as they rolled across a more expensive surface material - milled ivory, at the very least - that would soothe the stressed wheels of the stretch limousines.

He had killed seven senior executives at Eden-Olympia, executed his three hostages and then turned his rifle on himself. I remembered the calm and sensible way in which she had helped the trainee nurses who fumbled with my knee-brace. She sat forward, chin raised, fingers drumming a threatening tattoo on the steering wheel. The faint mist meet rich arabs in Olympia the lakes and the warm sun reflected from the glass curtain-walling seemed to generate an opal haze, as if the entire business park were a mirage, a virtual city conjured into the pine-scented air like a son-et-lumiere vision of a new Versailles.

She gazed at the office buildings that climbed the valley slopes, and at the satellite dishes distilling their streams of information from the sky. Why this dedicated children's doctor should have left his villa on a morning in late May and set out on a murder ram had never been explained. I remember his eager smile when we greeted each other, and the evasive eyes that warned me away from his outstretched hand.

Her predecessor, a young English doctor named David Greenwood, had met a tragic and still unexplained death after running amok with a rifle.

Lured by tax concessions and a climate like northern California's, dozens of multinational companies had moved into the business park that now employed over ten thousand people. I smell like a tart I tried to settle her hands as she fretted over her lipstick, obsessively fine-tuning herself.

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For most of us, Dr Wilder Penrose was our amiable Prospero, the psychopomp who steered our darkest dreams towards the daylight. Her watchful eyes and toneless skin were like those of an over-gifted child.

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The place is probably riddled with airport TB and the kind meet rich arabs in Olympia viruses that only breed in executive jets. Likeable but a little naive, Greenwood reminded me of an enthusiastic Baptist missionary, telling Jane about the superb facilities at the Eden-Olympia clinic, and the refuge for orphaned children he had set up at La Bocca, the industrial suburb to the west of Cannes. You're the youngest doctor on the staff, and the prettiest.

Not a drifting leaf in sight. Tanks full of Chanel 5? The senior managements were the most highly paid professional caste in Europe, a new elite of administrators, enarques and scientific entrepreneurs. By chance, Jane had known Greenwood when they worked together at Guy's Hospital, and I often thought of the boyishly handsome doctor who could rouse an entire women's ward with a single smile.

With his uncombed hair and raised eyebrows, he looked as if he had just received an unexpected shock, a revelation of all the injustices in the world, which he had decided to put right. He had written no suicide note, no defiant last message, and as the police marksmen closed in he had calmly abandoned himself to death. Memories of Greenwood were waiting for us at Boulogne as the Jaguar left the cross-Channel ferry and rolled its wheels across the quayside. Or nearly. You've been in agony and never complained. Satisfied that she could hold her own, she noticed me massaging my knee.

Waking from her reverie, Jane braked sharply before we reached the gatehouse, sending the old sports saloon into a giddy shunt. As she sat alone on the Jaguar's bonnet, staring at the graphic photographs of murder victims and the grainy maps of the death route, I realized that my spunky but insecure young wife needed to put a few more miles between herself and Eden-Olympia. And as for their minds I began to count the pools, each a flare of turquoise light lost behind the high walls of the villas with their screens of cyc and bougainvillaea. The stench of raw perfume from a nearby factory filled the car, but Jane wound down her window and inhaled deeply.

Take a good look at your new patients.

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Studying the maps, I propped the brochure on my knee-brace as Jane steered the Jaguar through the afternoon traffic on the Grasse road. At heart she was the subversive schoolgirl, the awkward-squad recruiter with a primed grenade in her locker, who saw through the stuffy conventions of boarding school and teaching hospital but was always kind enough to rescue a flustered housekeeper or ward orderly. They need me I watched Jane make a conscious effort to relax, treating herself like an overwrought patient in casualty.

Only when I learned to admire this flawed and dangerous man was I able to think of killing him. You're efficient, hardworking The first office buildings in the Eden-Olympia complex were emerging from the slopes of a long valley filled with eucalyptus trees and umbrella pines. During the few months of our marriage I had told my doctor-bride almost nothing about myself, and the drive became a mobile autobiography that unwound my earlier life along with the kilometres of dust, insects and sun.

Surprisingly, many of the old landmarks were still there, the family restaurants and literate bookshops, and the light airfields with their casually parked planes meet rich arabs in Olympia had first made me decide to become a pilot. I'll be busier than you think. They seem to be naked. We can drive away, cross the border into Italy, spend a week in San Remo Jane frowned at me, as if I were an intruder into her world, then touched my cheek forgivingly.

The colour was returning to her face, for almost the first time since our wedding. It's hard to believe anyone would be allowed to go mad here. I pressed her hand against the wheel, steering the Jaguar around an elderly woman cyclist, panniers filled with baguettes.

Going into a tabac for a packet of Gitanes - illicit cigarettes had kept both of us sane during my months in hospital - Jane bought a copy of Paris Match and found Greenwood's face on the cover, under a headline that referred to the unsolved mystery. The lavish brochure enthused over a vision of glass and titanium straight from the drawing boards of Richard Neutra and Frank Gehry, but softened by landscaped parks and artificial lakes, a humane version of Corbusier's radiant city. She patted the dark bang that hid her bold forehead and always sprang forward like a coxcomb at the first hint of stress.

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Jane was still unsure about her six-month secondment to the business park's private clinic. Cannes is a long way from Maida Vale.

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The satellite dishes on the roofs resembled the wimples of an order of computer-literate nuns, committed to the sanctity of the workstation and the pieties of the spreheet. Working tirelessly for thirty years, he created an heroic doll's house that expressed his simple but dignified dreams of the earthly paradise.

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I realize now that a kind of waiting madness, like a state of undeclared war, haunted the office buildings of the business park. T he first person I met at Eden-Olympia was a psychiatrist, and in many ways it seems only too apt that my guide to this 'intelligent' city in the hills above Cannes should have been a specialist in mental disorders.

Now, at Eden-Olympia, it was her turn to be intimidated by the ultra-cerebral French physicians who would soon be her colleagues. At a hotel in Meet rich arabs in Olympia, south of Lyons, Jane and I sat in the same high-ceilinged breakfast room, unchanged after thirty-five years, where the stags' he still gazed over shelves stocked with the least enticing alcohol I had ever seen. Rather than fly from London to Nice, a journey as brief as a plastic-tray lunch, Jane and I decided to drive to the Cote d'Azur and steal a few last days of freedom before we committed ourselves to Eden-Olympia and the disciplines of the Euro-corporate lifestyle.

Ten miles to the north-east of Cannes, in the wooded hills between Valbonne and the coast, it was the latest of the development zones that had begun with Sophia-Antipolis meet rich arabs in Olympia would soon turn Provence into Europe's silicon valley. The buildings wore their ventilation shafts and cable conduits on their external walls, an open reminder of Eden-Olympia's dedication to company profits and the approval of its shareholders.

We left the Cannes road and turned onto a landscaped avenue that led towards the gates of the business park. The glass and gun-metal office blocks were set well apart from each other, separated by artificial lakes and forested traffic islands where a latter-day Crusoe could have found comfortable refuge. Hundreds of blue ovals trembled like damaged retinas in the Provencal sun. But work and the realities of corporate life anchored Eden-Olympia to the ground. Two uniformed guards looked up from their electronic screens, but Jane ignored them, readying a two-finger salute that I managed to conceal.

We had both been eager to get back to our hotel and the well-upholstered bed. My parents, after their usual bickering breakfast of croissants and coffee helped down by slugs of cognac, had dragged me off to the dream palace of the Facteur Cheval, a magical edifice conjured out of pebbles the old postman collected on his rounds. And those people. I can't imagine anyone here actually bothering to fall ill. My parents had been dead for two decades, but I wanted Jane to meet them, my hard-drinking, womanizing father, a provincial-circuit barrister, and my lonely, daydreaming mother, always getting over yet another doomed affair.

Swimming pools, Jane. My mother tipsily climbed the miniature stairs, listening to my father declaim the postman's naive verses in his resonant baritone. She lay against the worn leather seating, breathing the bright air into her lungs and slowly exhaling. Despite this gaudy welcome, wealth at Eden-Olympia displayed the old-money discretion that the mercantile rich of the information age had decided to observe at the start of a new millennium.

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A palisade of Canary palms formed an honour guard along the verges, while beds of golden cannas flamed from the central reservation. Even my sceptical eye was prepared to blink. And Eden-Olympia was the newest of the new France.

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Poor David David Greenwood's death dominated our time at Eden-Olympia, hovering above the artificial lakes and forests like the ghosts of Princip over Sarajevo and Lee Harvey Oswald over Dallas. Since David died they've had recruitment problems. Gravel tore at the Jaguar's tyres.

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I watched one senior executive in the garden of his villa, a suntanned man in his fifties with a slim, almost adolescent body, springing lightly on his diving board. Ten thousand years in the future, long after the Cote d'Azur had been abandoned, the first explorers would puzzle over these empty pits, with their eroded frescoes of tritons and stylized fish, inexplicably hauled up the mountainsides like aquatic sundials or the altars of a bizarre religion devised by a race of visionary geometers. Yet he was no prude, and talked about his six months in Bangladesh, comparing the caste rivalries among the village prostitutes with the status battles of the women executives at Eden-Olympia.

Trying to distract Jane, I talked far too much. All I could think of, with a ten-year-old's curiosity about my parents' sex-lives, was what had passed between them during the night. I could feel the perspiration on her wrists, brought out by more than the August sun. Our disreputable evening in Arles had revived her, swaying arm in arm with me after a drunken dinner, exploring what I insisted was Van Gogh's canal but turned out to be a stagnant storm-drain behind the archbishop's palace. Even now, you can change your mind.