The restaurant was fairly large, for such a small village, and had a touch of arrogance about it; the proprietor, M. Foucaut, served the best fish dishes within a twenty-mile radius of Paris; he was booked all season, and his prices reflected his fame. He did, however, keep a few tables empty for villagers and possible celebrities; Sophie Massot qualified on both counts, and Henri Foucaut showed her and Judy, bowing, to seats by the bay window.

The tables were country oak, the decor uncompromisingly old-fashioned: candles on every table, though not lit for lunch; prints of fishing; hardwood floors; sweet peas, gloriously fragrant; and roses in small vases.

He asked if they wanted something to drink. Sophie opted for Perrier; Judy asked if she could have champagne.

Sophie said of course, and ordered a split herself. She felt she had to, just to be sociable.

Judy smiled; so many white teeth, Sophie thought; Judy Dean was so buff, so fit. Just looking at her made Sophie feel old and exhausted.

“Let’s order,” Judy said. “I’m famished.”

Sophie had no appetite. She chose a small rocket and endive salad and a dressed crab; Judy picked more extravagantly. She started with a dozen oysters, which Pierre had considered an aphrodisiac; it amused her to eat these in front of the frigid wife. Next she chose a risotto of fennel and rock shrimp, and finally ordered a raspberry sorbet served with coulis.

She knew how to play her hand. After ordering, she made small talk, complimenting Sophie on the remodeling, lying about how well Sophie’s changes were being received. Her hostess just kept her face turned away, as though she couldn’t bear to think about it.

“Please. Judy.” Sophie finally turned to face her, and Judy saw with a quick thrill of interest her eyes were red. “No business—it’s the weekend. We get enough of that Monday to Friday.”

“Of course. Would you like to discuss Tom? It must be very painful for you—”

“No—thank you, but no.” Sophie’s back was rigid with tension; Judy knew the pose all too well.

“I understand.” Judy smiled. “Coming on top of the business with Gregoire,” she added, lowering her voice sympathetically.

The barb hit home. Sophie breathed in sharply, as if in pain. “You don’t think—you don’t suppose Tom has heard about that?”

“I don’t see how he could have avoided it,” Judy said, her malice a bright flame in the pit of her stomach. “The press printed the rumours—after all, Gregoire’s lawsuit, it is for sexual harassment, as well as unfair dismissal.”

“Oh God,” Sophie groaned. She felt dizzy and reached for her champagne. It was cold, a necessary prop. She drank and let the alcohol take the edge off.