She glanced around, checking the room for her tame reporters. There they were, conveniently standing together in a knot: Pauline Vente from Paris Match, Bernard Frimes from Le Figaro , and Jeanne Anse from Vogue. Judy could see from the raised eyebrows, the excited huddle, that they were just as shocked as she was.

She beamed; her plotting was falling into place. Savaging Sophie was going to be child’s play.

Judy took a large sip of her chilled champagne, and strode expectantly towards them. Of course, she had to be subtle. . . .

“Chérie,” the women greeted her. Judy exchanged air kisses and shook hands solemnly with Bernard, as she always did.

“What a party!” Pauline said. There was a catty tone to her words, music to Judy’s ears.

“Isn’t it?” she said. “Very expensive, of course, but I’m sure it’s all worth it.”

Her tone was deliberately evasive; the reporters circled.

“How much, exactly, Judy?”

“Why are the jewels unprotected?”

“This clientele is very old. I haven’t seen anyone here at the fashion shows. Perhaps one or two. . . .”

“Who authorized the free brooches?”

“Is that real Chanel that assistant is wearing?”

“Great decor. How much was it?”

“I heard Lionel Teron was catering tonight.”

“My dears, my dears.” Judy held up one manicured hand and looked pained. “You can’t ask me to comment. You know my loyalty is to Sophie.”

“It’s a fabulous dress, darling,” said Bernard, to soften her up. “But tell me, why are the widow Massot—the elder widow Massot—and the heir here?”

“Where?” Judy asked.

He gestured, and Judy’s head snapped around. My God, she thought, it is true—they are here; they have come. Katherine Massot, resplendent in silver, looking almost pretty, and a tall, louche young man next to her—handsome, sullen. They were talking together, animatedly.

The young heir, Thomas, suddenly turned his head and looked in their direction. His gaze fell on Judy without seeing her. He was staring into the middle distance, talking to Katherine.

Judy gasped. The boy—the man, he was a man now—he was the picture of Pierre. Maybe about the chin there was that touch of Sophie, he had her slight cleft, but for the rest of it—it was Pierre, dear God, it was him. . . .

She felt the room go dark. She swayed dangerously on her Manolos.

“Judy,” said Jeanne sharply. “Are you all right?”

“Are you drunk?” asked Bernard, naughtily.

“No—I’m fine, fine,” Judy managed. She steadied herself. “I’m just fine. It’s the heat.”

The others exchanged looks. The party was air-conditioned.

“I expect it’s a great shock to see those two here,” Jeanne said, with a sly grin. “Rumours are that Mme Katherine is none too pleased with Mme Sophie. And nor is the heir. Any truth to it, Judy?”

Judy shook her head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Aha!” said Pauline, triumphantly.