Saul hesitated, then closed the portfolio and put it back in the garbage, hating himself for helping to destroy such a luminous portfolio, and hating himself even more for wanting to destroy it.

‘Don’t you have something on this afternoon?’ he asked.

She straightened the glass and the lamp on the bedside table, moving each a millimeter until they were where they should be.

‘Nothing important,’ she said, wiping some great carbuncle of dust off the table. Really, at the Ritz. She’d have to speak to the manager. She looked at Saul, standing by the window.

‘God, you’ve let yourself go.’

He’d obviously had a good body once, she thought. But now everything was flaccid. CC had been with fat men. She’d been with buff men. And in her opinion either extreme was all right. It was the transition that was disgusting.

Saul revolted her and she couldn’t quite remember why she’d thought this was a good idea. Then she looked down at the glossy, white cover of her book, and remembered.

The picture. Saul was a wonderful photographer. There, above the title, Be Calm, was her face. Her hair so blonde it was nearly white, her lips red and full, her eyes a startling, intelligent blue. And her face so white it almost disappeared into the background, leaving the impression of eyes and mouth and ears floating on the cover.

CC adored it.

After this Christmas she’d get rid of Saul. Once he’d finished the last assignment. She noticed he must have bumped into the chair at the desk when he was looking at the portfolio. The chair was now out of alignment. She could feel a tension blossom in her chest. Damn him for deliberately annoying her like that, and damn that portfolio. CC leaped out of bed and straightened the screaming chair, taking the opportunity to also move the telephone parallel to the edge of the desk.

Then she leaped back into bed, smoothing the sheets on her lap. Maybe she should take a taxi back to her office. But then she remembered she did have someplace to go. Someplace important.

There was a sale on at Ogilvy’s and a pair of boots she wanted to buy at the Inuit arts store along rue de la Montagne.

It wouldn’t be long before she had her own line of clothing and furniture in stores across Quebec. Around the world. Soon all the arrogant chichi designers who’d mocked her would be sorry. Soon everyone would know about Li Bien, her own philosophy of design and living. Feng shui was passé. People were crying for a change, and she’d provide it. Li Bien would be on every tongue and in every home.

‘Have you rented a chalet for the holidays yet?’ she asked.

‘No, I’m going down tomorrow. Why’d you buy a home in the middle of nowhere anyway?’