Judy accepted a glass of rosé. It was very good; she thought Perrier Jouët, certainly vintage. The pale colour, pink grapefruit, complemented her gown. Judy was chic, absolutely chic, in this room full of full skirts and lace shawls; her sequinned shift stood out a mile.

Her sharp eyes scanned the room. She had the facts within ten seconds. Certainly the party was a success on the face of it; everybody had accepted, and they were all here, le tout Paris, of a certain social stratum and astronomical wealth. Most of the ladies present were wearing their free brooches prominently. But of course, Judy had anticipated this. Yes, everybody was here—but what did it matter?

She had been right. Reckless, reckless spending—the evidence was all around her.

The vintage champagne was just the beginning. The insanity of dressing assistants in Chanel had been exceeded, utterly; waiters were circulating with the kind of foodstuffs restaurant writers dream of eating: caviar, naturally, mounds of it, but also entire trays of the finest Provence truffles, sliced and delicately fried; petits crottins, little cheeses studded with wild herbs; miniature mousses scented with lavender honey; bitter chocolate soufflés in porcelain pots as small as eggcups; fried flowers of courgette; olive tapenade; a sorbet of elderflower; lemon and strawberry ice creams; tender medallions of beef in coarse pepper. . . .

Sophie had hired for the night, at impossible expense, one of three chefs in France whose restaurant had four Michelin stars, and the food was sublime.

The showroom was glorious, much as Judy had already seen. Sophie had kept it, apart from the circulating waiters, exactly as it was during business hours; the only ornamentation were the tall fountains of pastel roses, whose fragrance mingled with perfume and the delicious smells of the food. Sophie wanted to show her guests a House Massot showroom, just as it was.

But there was one key difference tonight—one which, Judy thought triumphantly, would finally convince any observer that Sophie Massot was an irresponsible rich playgirl, not to be trusted with running a public company.

There were no cases over the jewels. The glass had been removed—removed everywhere. Necklaces, rings, bracelets, earrings—priceless, absolutely priceless gems, many million euros of retail value in this flagship store—were left open to the air, to the eyes, and fingers, of any party guest who wanted to touch.

And not just touch. They were picking them up, trying them on, dandling strings of emeralds between their fingers, the dowagers playing with Massot stock like it was a pile of toys.

Judy smiled. No doubt some of these old bitches were slipping the odd diamond ring into a pocket or an evening bag. With this crowd, who would ever catch them? It was madness!