“You couldn’t split my family,” Sophie said, with terrible clarity. “And now, goodbye.”

But instead of crumpling, instead of fleeing in tears, Judy paused, and turned back, and said, with a terrible little smile, “Really? We’ll see.”

Then she turned smartly on her heel and walked out.

Sophie sat there for a couple of seconds, then snapped out of it. She wasn’t going to let Miss Dean play head games with her, not anymore. She rang the front desk and security and informed them that Judy Dean had been terminated, and was not to be allowed back in the building after she had left it, not even to fetch personal belongings. Next she called personnel, dictated the letter of dismissal, and instructed them to pack up anything Judy had left behind her and courier it, with the letter, round to her apartment.

Then she called Françoise Delmain again.

“You used to work for M. Keroualle, before Miss Dean had me dismiss him?”

“Yes Madame. Eight years.”

“Then you know how to distribute a press release?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Very well. Send this out immediately to our list of magazines: ‘Ms. Judy Dean, former director of publicity at House Massot, has been terminated. Her replacement has not yet been announced.’ ”

“Certainly, Madame,” said Françoise triumphantly.

Sophie passed a hand across her forehead. Her temples were beginning to throb with stress, and she felt sick. She had no doubt Marie and Françoise would have spread the news of the confrontation; it would be all over the company by now. By the end of the day, boyfriends would know, the gossip columnists would be all over it. Bitchy little pieces wondering how long Sophie had known. Recaps of her husband’s apparently legendary career as a philanderer.

How stupid, how blind and passive she would seem. Or worse, like Celine had assumed—like one of those gold-digging trophy wives for whom not caring about adultery is the only sophisticated attitude.

Sophie was a private woman. The thought made her ill. She wanted to talk to Fr. Sabin. Or even just to go home, and be alone.

That was not an option.

“We will need to find somebody to fill Judy’s slot,” she said firmly. “Françoise, e-mail me the names of contacts at the top three publicity agencies in Paris. For now we will outsource.”

“At once, Mme Massot,” said Françoise, respectfully.

Sophie made up her mind. She would have somebody blue-chip and respectable hired before lunchtime; for three weeks it hardly mattered who. And after briefing them, she would have to track down Tom.

This was Paris. Rumour and gossip moved faster than lightning. He would read about this in tomorrow morning’s papers; reporters might track him down, hound him for a quote . . .

Sophie had to tell him.

She stood up from her chair, edgy, and paced around the room.

But wait, wait. Don’t do anything rash.