Judy was almost relieved to find the black hatred bubble up in her again as Sophie spoke. The mention of the little things they shared together, husband and wife, hurt as much as the platinum wedding band on Sophie’s left hand. Stockbrokers, physicians, even a fax machine. She flashed on once seeing a fax she’d sent to Pierre at the château, printed off, in her in-tray; the computer lettering at the top saying Monsieur et Madame Massot. The pain, then, had been as keen as a knife. Now, it was just a dull ache. She hated Sophie for that, too; without Pierre, her heart had hardened.

“It’s true, the company stock has risen nine percent. What I did not understand was that the sector has risen over twenty-five percent. It’s not a gain; it’s a large relative loss. My son’s inheritance has suffered.”

Judy tried to look sympathetic. Poor young Massot heir, now only worth thirty million when it could have been fifty. That’ll break your heart every time, she thought.

Sophie was making it easy.

“My second call was to our human resources department. Do you have any idea how much Gregoire, and the other directors, were paying themselves?”

Fascinated, Judy shook her head.

“He took home a million a year,” she said. “So did every other one of them who sat there and presided over the decline of the House. And I asked about perks.”

Judy had a sick feeling in her stomach. A million euros. Every year.

“What perks?” she whispered.

“Cars and drivers, twenty-four hours a day, all year long. Rides on private jets. Art—at company expense. Maids, a cook. For each of them.Vacations, for ‘reasearch.’ ”

Sophie smiled bitterly. “Do you know of a large jewellery market in Mauritius, Judy?”

Judy shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

“Nor do I. Why, the perks alone for each one of them came to a great deal more than your annual salary. Almost double it.”

Judy breathed in, raggedly.

“Are you all right?” Sophie asked, with concern.

“I’m fine,” Judy managed, although her heart was thumping. “Fine . . .”

She felt light-headed with sheer fury. Oh, so Lazard, and the useless shower of board directors who never showed their faces, never attended a show . . . they had gotten millions—perks worth double her salary. . . .

Judy had worked, doggedly, for years—fifteen long years at this company—and what she had to show for it was a flat, a modest savings account, and a few good jewels: nothing. That was what her life was worth, apparently: nothing. It cost a lot of money to look this good. Judy’s salary went on memberships to the best gyms, chic outfits, the nicest bags, the must-have makeup, things that changed every season, cost the earth, and wound up fit only for donation to a charity shop.

Style was costly.