She had promised, at the altar, to love Pierre. Had she ever kept that promise? If she examined her conscience, Sophie wondered. She recoiled from the tag of gold digger, and it hadn’t been overt avarice, that was true. But still, Judy’s words had stung. Maybe Sophie wasn’t looking just for money, but she had wanted to escape. Very much . . .

Was it love, with Pierre? Or just gratitude?

Had he ever loved her? For some men, sex and love don’t mix. They can be quite separate, so she was told. Was it that way with her husband?

“Celine.” She looked up. “Did you try my son’s numbers again?”

Her assistant nodded. “I’m very sorry, Madame.”

They were all set to answer: his cell phone, his apartment, his private line at the château; Sophie was tired of leaving messages.

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “Please call me a taxi, and take my messages. I’m going out for the rest of the day.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was so inherently ridiculous, what she was doing, that she should smile about it, but Sophie felt her mother’s love reduce her to this, skulking in a bistro just off the Left Bank, watching the entrance to the building where her Thomas had rented a place—rented just so he would not need to live in their home. And that thought made her throat thicken, and set her eyes prickling with tears.

But it had to be done. If Tom wouldn’t speak to her, wouldn’t take her calls, she would have to see him. In person. And if that meant waiting here all day for him to show up, so be it.

She had some camouflage. She had a novel, an old copy of Persuasion ; it was a story she loved, but couldn’t concentrate on. Sophie just sipped her indifferent coffee and toyed with her salad; this was a tourist restaurant, with menus and prices in English, and the food was appropriately subpar.

But they wouldn’t bother her. She could spin it out all day. She would have a salad, then soup, then a soufflé; coffee, petits-fours; then herbal tea, and cakes; and so on to supper, if necessary. She had already done the important thing, found the maître d’ and tipped him a hundred euro note, saying she wanted to be left alone to think.

“Something else for you, Miss?”

The waitress was German, Sophie thought, benefits of the common market.

“I’ll take an ice cream . . . strawberry is fine . . . ,” she paused; that was him, that was Tom! Walking down the street. “On second thought, nothing.” Sophie hastily snapped open her Coach handbag and pulled out a fifty euro note. “For the bill.”

She jumped to her feet and rushed out of the door, leaving its little bell clanging behind her.