“Shall we get some more? I’d love another glass,” Judy said brightly. She wanted Sophie tight, and indiscreet. Knowing her secrets gave Judy power. If she had to stay at Massot—for now—she would do it in control.

“Whatever you like,” Sophie said, weakly, and Judy ordered a bottle of Cliquot.

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Sure,” Judy said, filling up Sophie’s glass. She took a sip of her own wine; delicious. She decided she was enjoying herself immensely. “Like what?”

“Anything. I don’t know. You.”

Sophie turned her grey eyes on her companion. “Tell me about yourself, Judy. We’re all business. Apart from those days when we were discussing—you know—”

“Gregoire Lazard,” Judy said loudly.

Sophie flinched. “Yes. Apart from then—we really only talk about the office. I’d like to know about you.”

“Why’s that?” Judy slipped an oyster into her mouth, swallowed, and dabbed the juice away with her napkin. Mmm, it was good. “I’m not very interesting.”

“But of course you are.” Sophie made an effort. “An American in Paris, the only woman executive at Massot—you’re fascinating.”

“I came over here young. Met Pierre,” Judy knew it was dangerous to be talking like this. But sitting in this restaurant, in Pierre’s own village—discussing it with Pierre’s wife—gave her a sick feeling of triumph. And besides . . . she still loved discussing him, even after all these years. Even with Sophie. It thrilled her just to hear his name spoken. “Pierre hired me right away. Gave me my chance, you might say. And I’ve stayed with House Massot ever since.”

“What was my husband like to work for?”

Judy gazed at her evenly. “He was a lot of fun,” she said, softly. “A lot of fun.”

“You sound like you miss him.”

To her horror, Judy felt her own eyes prickle. No. She would not cry. “I do,” she agreed. “He was one in a million.”

“Everybody says that—how unusual he was.”

“Well, you would know.”

Sophie sighed. “I never saw that side of him. I think he must have left it in the office.”

Judy teetered. She wanted to know, of course—wanted to know everything. And yet she thought she might hate to hear the answer.

“Was it,” she heard herself say, “a very happy marriage?”

Sophie looked into her champagne flute for a few seconds. But she trusted Judy, and anyway, she couldn’t wear the mask forever; she was tired of wearing it.

“Not as much as you might suppose,” she said.

Judy felt relief flood her soul. She was weak with it. Then it was true, Pierre hadn’t loved Sophie; he had loved her, not Sophie, he was Judy’s. . . .