“Very bourgeois; I’d have expected Pierre to stump up with something a little more elegant. But I daresay he wanted you somewhere nobody of quality would recognize him.”

“He was with me three times each week.”

“And you probably got drunk by yourself every Christmas. Oh, I know the type. It’s such a cliché, Judy.”

“You can say all the clever things you want.” Judy stared at her. “Oh, yes, you have style, Sophie, I’ll admit that. Plenty of style. But not an ounce of warm-blooded love, or passion. Your marriage was nothing but duty. You told me so yourself.”

She forced herself to stand firm. “Pierre came to me for love.”

“He came to you for sex. You, and the others. Hookers too, I’m told. I daresay buying you a flat and having you in the office simply worked out cheaper.”

Judy burned. She would not allow this woman to have it all her own way.

“I’m no hooker,” she retorted. “Maybe you should look in the mirror, Sophie. The difference between me and you is that I loved Pierre. You already told me you didn’t. But you stayed married to him. We had sex—yes, great sex—and he gave me companionship, and I loved him. With all my heart. You can’t say the same. You’re the one who married without love and stayed married without love. Who’s got integrity here? Me? Or you? You say he only wanted me for sex; I say he only wanted you for a child.”

Sophie recoiled; there was too much truth in Judy’s barb. Her whole marriage had been a lie, all the years of her married life just a fantasy, a hollow fantasy where the only real love was Tom.

“Get out,” she said, wearily. “You’re a snake; you don’t value yourself, and that’s why you don’t value others.”

Judy smiled; she had landed a good blow there. Little miss perfect could feel things, then. Like Judy, she could feel pain too.

“My husband may have chosen me to bear his son,” Sophie said, as Judy picked up her handbag. “But that’s something, Judy Dean. That’s family; the love I gave my baby, the love he gave me back. I’m sure you tried your damnedest to make that go away, to make Pierre pick you over us. But he never would, would he?”

“Goodbye, Sophie,” Judy said.

“He chose me,” Sophie said, calmly. “In the end, he chose me. Always remember that, Judy. Pierre could have been with you, but he didn’t want to. It’s as simple as that.”

Tears prickled in Judy’s eyes; Sophie’s words ripped the scars on her heart, made the wound fresh and new again.

Sophie didn’t love Pierre; his betrayal of her would never hurt as much as his rejection of Judy. The widow was right, and they both knew it.