Gini listened to all this numbly. Helen described the interior decorating she had embarked on in Paris. Not a stupid woman, she made no comment about Gini’s lack of animation, or on her appearance, which Gini knew was unimpressive, although she had tried very hard.

“It means, of course,” Helen went on, “that Marianne will be able to stay on for another six months at her French school. She’s been a little difficult about the move to England. I told Ralph—she adores him already, I knew she would—we don’t want to bombard her with too much change. To stay on in her old school, with her friends, just for a while… All in all it seemed the most practical plan. Pascal thought it was sensible too…”

“Oh.” Gini looked up. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, well. He and I discussed it briefly. Before the two of you left for Yugoslavia… Bosnia. Whatever one’s supposed to call it now. I expect he just forgot to mention it. You must both have had other things on your mind.”

She looked closely at Gini, who did not reply. She gestured to the waiter to bring more coffee.

“Do you mind if I speak frankly?” she said in an abrupt way, then hesitated. “This isn’t very easy to broach. I want you to know, what I’m going to say isn’t motivated by ill feeling or jealousy. It might have been once, but not now.”

“No, please. I understand.”

“I was married to Pascal for five years. We lived together before that. It may not have been a successful marriage, but I do know Pascal. I know him very well.”

Gini said nothing. She fixed her eyes on the chic scarlet cashmere sweater Helen was wearing; on the single string of pearls. Helen was around forty. She looked a decade younger, radiant, in charge of her life, on top of the world.

“Do you intend always working together, alongside each other? That might be one solution, I suppose.”

“No, we don’t,” Gini replied. “Not always, obviously. We had thought—when we can…”

“I don’t like the term workaholic,” Helen went on. “The word’s overused. It implies an addiction, obviously—but I never felt Pascal was addicted to his work. That would suggest passivity, a lack of willpower on his part—and no one would ever accuse Pascal of that, least of all me.” She gave a tight smile. “I’m sorry. I used to be a translator, as you know. I’m fussy about words.”

She paused thoughtfully, then frowned.

“I always thought Pascal was dedicated to his work, in an intense, almost priestly way. As if it were his vocation—you understand what I mean?”

“Yes, I do. And it costs him a great deal.”

“Perhaps.” Helen pushed this suggestion aside. “For my part, I found that very hard to live with. Not at first, maybe. There was a certain glamour, you know. Pascal was becoming famous. I liked the drama of it all, sending letters off to remote places, trying to get a call through to some war zone. I gave several interviews, did you know that?” Her eyes flicked toward Gini’s. “People were intrigued by how it felt to be his wife. How I coped…” She made a face. “Of course Pascal didn’t approve. He was furious when I showed him the pictures. He always refused interviews. He’s never been interested in being a celebrity. Fame never interested him at all.”