The adults had left, and now Grandmother was pressing the acquaintance of a string of bland society girls on him. Even imagining them without their clothes did not help much.

“It’s a wonderful party,” Louise Tatin said.

Tom bowed again. “I hope you enjoy yourself. Delighted to meet you, Georges. Would you excuse me a moment?”

He evaded Katherine’s waspish stare and fled to another corner of the room. What was the point? The names went in one ear and out of the other. He had been seen in society, made the point: a Massot was back, a true Massot, to take control. Grandmother had invited select gossip columnists; come tomorrow this would be all over the papers. Then he had to find some executives, charm some bankers; it would be a two-way vote between himself and Mayberry, and Tom wanted to get to work.

Right now he would settle for a drink.

A plump waitress was hovering near the trust fund brat of some property developer. Tom nodded sharply at her, and she plodded over to him, bearing a merciful flute of ice-cold vintage Pol Roger. He picked it up, resisting the temptation to slug it back in one go and get another. That was impossible here. Too many moonfaced witnesses.

“So, M. Massot.” A girl sidled up to him. She was a modelly type, the kind Vogue hires because they have an “interesting” face: small featured and far too thin, with a cultivated air of ennui. Tom thought with longing of Polly, her laughter, her ample breasts. But that made him miserable, so he took a fortifying sip of champagne and tried to remember the girl’s name.

“Call me Tom, please”—what was it?—“Henriette.”

“Minette,” she said, face clouding.

“That’s what I said. Minette.” He smiled at her.

“So . . . I am looking forward to your mother’s party,” Minette said. “Will you be there?”

Tom desperately tried to pull her details from the files of recent introductions stored in his memory. Minette . . . yes, there it was—Minette Roux, daughter of a banker and his Italian principessa of a wife.

“What party is that?”

“Oh, you know. On Friday. The one at House Massot, at the showroom. To celebrate the reopening.” The girl smiled; she had bad teeth, probably owing to acid from self-induced vomiting to keep her weight down. Polly always relished her food.

“I have not seen my mother since I returned to Paris last week. But I intend to. I doubt I shall come to that party.”

Tom thought that was as diplomatic as he could manage. He would have to remove Maman, but he was a good son, he thought self-righteously. He would not allow le tout Paris to make them into mortal enemies. Once Maman had been restored to her proper place, they would be back to normal. Or almost; he could never forget that his mother had declared Papa dead.