“The customer of House Massot is receiving nothing but the best, in service, in atmosphere.” Sophie flicked on the lights and nodded at the Brandts. “And of course, in gems.”

She could never wear her yellow Chanel again, Judy thought. Not in this office. She stared at Sophie, her heart thudding with jealous loathing, so hard she thought the older woman must sense it.

But Sophie was ignoring her. She was smiling that aggravating, calm smile of hers, nodding at the Brandts.

“Gnädige Frau, mein Herr,” she said, politely. “It is the genius of your designs that will now be in the spotlight. They have always been our strength, but lately that strength has been hidden. I propose to double your salary and grant you stock options, and ask, in exchange, that you select at least ten additional young designers that we will put on the payroll, and then train them to your own exacting standards.”

The old man stood up, and Judy could see his eyes were red. She groaned inwardly. He wasn’t about to cry, was he?

“It is not necessary to pay us more money, Mme Massot,” he said with dignity. “You are one who cares about our life’s work. You will show the world what we have made.”

“You are an artist, mein Herr. I will certainly try. But even artists deserve to be paid for their labour. Indeed you must accept it,” Sophie smiled gently, “because I promise you, I intend to make a great deal of money from the genius of you and your wife.”

Spontaneous and prolonged applause broke out around the table as the old man sat. Judy groaned inwardly. They were clapping for Heinrich Brandt, but for Sophie Massot, too. Judy did not deceive herself. Sophie’s plans were imaginative and daring.

She would have loved to have thought of them herself. Meanwhile, Sophie, the housewife, was standing here, lapping up the plaudits of her colleagues.

She heard herself ask bitterly, “Sophie—how much will all this cost?”

The applause was forced to die down. Judy went on doggedly, “Even with a discount, and less staff, your ‘uniforms’ will cost a hundred thousand. The write-offs of the fashion division . . . the interior design . . . it can’t come cheap.”

She had scored a point. Concern registered around the table.

“Yes, it will cost a lot of money. With the write-offs, and overtime to get the stores ready, I estimate around nine million euros.”

There was murmuring then—discontent. It pleased Judy intensely. Sophie did not seem to care, but that must be a mask!

“And there will be more costs to come,” Sophie went on, cool as you like. “This new direction must be publicized. But not in the traditional manner. You can brief your contacts in the press, Judy, and bring me releases—I must approve them all. But that will not be the main way we are going to announce our rebirth.”