“About twice a week. I run, every morning.” Judy sighed with pleasure. “Five thirty to six fifteen, round here, sometimes. It blows out the cobwebs.”

“You look great on it.”

“Thank you.” She smiled confidently; Tom liked her all the more for not being diffident. He hated coyness; Judy was anything but.

“After I shower and dress, I find a café, somewhere with great food, and I eat a huge breakfast.”

“You like to eat?”

“In Paris, who wouldn’t?”

Tom thought of the rail-thin girl with the bad teeth. Judy showed the difference between skinny and slim; he beamed at her; every time she opened her mouth she said something he approved of.

“French food—the real stuff, not the muck they serve to the tourists—is one of the great pleasures of life. You wouldn’t believe the stuff they serve in Oklahoma, where I’m from.” Judy made a face. “When I go back to visit my family we go to diners. Ugh.”

“I can imagine. I’ve studied in England.”

“I heard you were at Oxford?”

“That’s right.” He took the pot and poured himself a second bowl of coffee, black this time. The drugs were working their magic; his headache was receding, his speech was clearing up.

“Try this,” the owner said. He laid down two dishes: Before Judy, a dish of sizzling pork chops cooked with peppers and tomatoes, rubbed with sage and onion, accompanied by a couple of thin slices of fried Camembert; it smelled so good Tom even regained an appetite. In front of Tom, on a chipped white plate, he laid savouries and sweets; some pastries, apricot, and white chocolate, and tiny macaroons, handmade, so delicate he wondered how the thick-calloused fingers had produced them; toasted croutons with anchovies, stuffed mushrooms, and crumbly cheese straws.

“My God,” Tom said, wolfing three pastries. “These are spectacular.”

“The place is always full, day or night.”

“But they find a spot for you.”

Judy inclined her head. “I’m a good tipper.”

“It’s not that, Mademoiselle; beauty has privileges in France,” Tom said, gallantly.

“You flatter me, M. Massot.”

“I hope you will call me Tom.”

“Then Judy.”

She smiled at him, and he blossomed in the warmth of her approval. She looked wonderful, in the gentle glow of the candlelight, which made her sequins glitter and sparkle, eating her pork chops and fried cheese with relish.

“How long have you worked for my father?”

“I’ve been working for Pierre for fifteen years now,” Judy said.

Tom noted her use of the present tense.

“I won’t accept he’s dead,” Judy said quietly, “until I see a body.”

He nodded and ate an anchovy savoury, so that she would not see his eyes redden—almost automatically. Look how loyal she was, and she merely an employee. If only his own mother had half her devotion.

“That’s how I feel,” he said. “And so now you work for Maman?”