The Grand Hotel, Cannes, 1976. On a hot summer night, a rich man and a poor man stand in a lift.
The rich man is Prince Abdullah bin Nasser: grandson of the founder of Saudi Arabia; son of the ex-governor of Riyadh; rich beyond imagination.
The poor man is Eamonn O'Keefe: footballer from Manchester; son of a print worker; owner of a terraced house in Oldham.
The men are coming back from the casino. Abdullah has lost - he always lost - but no matter. If you're a Saudi prince, a few thousand dollars is lunch money.
Eamonn doesn't gamble, but he has won. Two years earlier he was a reserve at Plymouth Argyle in the third tier of English football, trying to find coins for the electricity meter.
Now, he's flying with the jet set: first class planes, five-star hotels, on a grand tour of Europe with one of the world's richest families.
And then, in the lift, Abdullah turns to Eamonn.
"I've been meaning to tell you something," says Abdullah. He puts his hand on Eamonn's shoulder. "I am finding that I love you."
Eamonn can smell the prince's breath; cigarettes and Johnnie Walker whisky. Nervously, he replies. "You mean - like a brother?"
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