The oily puddle on the cobblestones glistens in the orange light of a nearby lamp. The last few drops of tonight’s rain dance across the surface only to be disturbed by the spray of the red Porsche’s wheels.

The car lurches to a stop and two doors open almost noiselessly. On the driver’s side a pair of pointy-toed black stiletto boots swing over the side. The owner’s companion, having raced around the car is by her side before she can demonstrate her independence, holding out his arm.

They quickly reach the front door of the mansion, giggling like hormone-overloaded teenagers, her stilettos clacking and scratching on the stones. Her black faux-fur lined Mohair coat sucks up the light making her all but invisible, only the white shirt-sleeve of the man gives a hint that he is holding her at the waist.

On the dimly lit porch she briefly searches for a key and slides it into the lock. With a flourish she opens the door and the interior light illuminates the chiselled, almost Italian features of the young man.