But Sophie believed Celine, every humiliating word. But then again, she had trusted Gregoire. And Judy.

And Pierre, she reminded herself.

No more; even if it cost her further anguish and shame, she wanted it proved.

“Yes,” she said. “Who do you recommend . . . wait . . . let me call personnel. I will select somebody myself.”

Celine sat there, feeling sorry for her, as she dialled human resources and asked for names of some women who had been with the company over ten years and worked in publicity.

“They are sending me Françoise Delmain and Marie Pousse,” Sophie said.

“They would know, Madame.”

“Show them in when they get here. Hold all my calls.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And Celine—merci.”

“C’est rien,” Celine said, sympathetically. She let herself out. She would bring up the brooches some other time.

Judy immediately knew something was wrong.

Marie disappeared without saying a word to her, and then, barely five minutes later, her phone buzzed.

“Judy Dean.”

It was Sophie.

“Come up to my office immediately,” Sophie said. Then she hung up.

Judy replaced the receiver carefully. She stood up, removed the photo of her mother from her desk and calmly put it in her bag. She also walked out to the coatrack at the end of the floor—head up, head up, Judy—and unhooked her Burberry mackintosh from its peg.

There was nothing else to take. Judy was not one of those women who cluttered her desk space with stuffed animals and plastic mascots, or tacked up posters of handsome film stars or snapshots of Hawaii.

On some level she had always been expecting this day. From the moment Pierre left. It had been seven long years of danger, and she was ready at any moment to make a dignified exit.

Sophie knew.

There was no other explanation for it. Sophie knew about her and Pierre. Judy was surprised by her own reaction. She went through the motions, as she had rehearsed them in her head; slowly, refusing to rush, she put on her coat in front of the typing pool; she arranged her bag comfortably; she smiled to herself. But inside, she was far from calm.

It didn’t matter, not anymore. Not now that she had the boy. Judy felt no fear, only an odd, wild elation—even a relief. She would be able to confront Sophie, indeed she would have to. Finally, she would be able to say everything she’d ever wanted to, from the first moment, all those years ago, when Judy realized that because of this little mouse of a limey, Pierre—great, spectacular Pierre, as she’d thought of him—would never be hers.

She walked over to the elevators and pressed the button. The door pinged, and a manicured hand drew the ancient folding iron grille aside—Françoise, with Marie close behind her. Françoise stared at Judy with naked triumph; Marie, however, blushed, and looked slightly sorry, under the veneer of her pink-faced excitement.