She had a small, solid-metal, red-sequin Judith Leiber bag and cherry Manolos, perfect matches to the dress. That, and her fire red lipstick, was all the accompaniment Judy required. She had a simple black Joseph coat over the top, and she was certain that when she divested it, there would be gasps.

Sophie told her Hugh Montfort was going to be there, just mentioned it in passing. That made it all the more vital. Judy was confident. She looked stunning. She would let that bastard know just what he’d missed.

“Good evening, sir. May I see your invitation?”

A courteous man in one of the Massot uniforms, a bespoke suit, smiled briskly at Hugh. He had been speaking French.

“Here,” Hugh said in English, handing it over. A little test.

The man examined it quickly. “Very good, sir, thank you very much,” he replied in excellent English. “Enjoy your evening.”

Hugh was impressed. The pavement was swarming with invitees: plenty of middle-aged ladies in furs, despite the heat; a number of cloaks; gentlemen in cashmere coats. Everybody looked very grand indeed, and despite the crush, the Massot employees were handling it beautifully; drawing this banker to one side, that countess to another; invitations were getting checked, and invitees ushered in, without any pushing, or unseemly bottlenecks.

He glanced to his right and saw, a discreet distance away behind a velvet rope, the section for gate-crashers. There were a number of them: well-dressed types, but without the opulence that distinguished the real guests; enterprising members of the press, perhaps. Massot security men in dark coats, their biceps like steel, stood arms folded and implacable to any excuses, and there was a patrol car of the gendarmerie parked close by, just in case any frustrations got violent.

Hugh slipped his own invitation back into his jacket pocket. He was about to walk inside when he was distracted by a vignette too fascinating to ignore.

A silver Rolls-Royce, a vintage model, pulled up in its turn in front of the red carpet. The chauffeur got out and opened the back door, head bowed, and a very old lady and a teenage boy disembarked together.

The glittering crowd around Hugh drew back a little; he heard the discreet murmurs, the familiar sounds of well-bred gossip. Everybody was staring at the couple. Montfort himself took a step aside and observed them.

There was a brief pause. The seated Massot staffer, in her pink Chanel suit, swallowed dryly, and asked, with great nervousness, to see the lady’s invitation.

She drew herself up; Hugh admired her, she was splendid.

“Je suis Katherine Massot,” she said, coldly, “et j’entrerai.”