Crazy broad, the waitress thought. But what the hell, it was a twenty euro tip. She crammed the fifty in her pocket and headed back to the kitchen.

Sophie ran; he was walking slowly, head down, lost in thought. Her heart pounded; she felt ridiculously nervous. Passersby were staring; she couldn’t have cared less.

“Tom,” she said. “Tom, stop. It’s me.”

He looked up, startled, and his mouth opened; he just stood there. He made no move towards her.

“This has to stop,” Sophie said, and to her horror her self-control deserted her, and she started to cry, right there in the street—great sobs, tears rolling from her eyes.

“For God’s sake!” He swore. “What are you doing?”

“Tom,” Sophie said, miserably. “You’re my baby . . . you have to talk to me.”

He flushed. “Come inside. Stop making a spectacle of yourself, Maman!”

Hastily, he fished out his keys and fumbled with the lock, letting the heavy white door swing open; he glared at the small crowd that was forming and gave his mother a gentle push to get her inside.

As soon as the door shut she turned to him. “Darling, I—”

“We have a doorman,” Tom said, low and urgent. “Please, Mother, for heaven’s sake. Just follow me to the lifts, okay? You can talk in my apartment.”

She nodded, blinded by tears, and followed him. This wasn’t going anything like she had wished; Tom hadn’t looked guilty, or moved; he seemed only concerned with getting her out of public view.

He was still estranged from her. The pain was acute. Sophie swayed; she thought she might pass out.

“Here.” Tom took his mother’s arm and led her into the elevator, firmly waving away offers of help from the concerned doorman behind the desk.

The lift took them up smoothly and Tom let her into his place; it was as sterile and soulless as she had imagined, millions of miles from his set of rooms at the château, with their wonderful view of the pear orchards and the stables.

“Sit down,” he said coldly. “Do you want a handkerchief?”

“I have one.” Sophie fished a neat square of cotton from her handbag and blew her nose.

“Are you feeling faint? Do you need something sweet? Hot tea, perhaps.”

The words were solicitous, but the tone was not. Sophie dabbed at her eyes. She didn’t know where to start.

“I’m fine. Look, darling, I know you’re upset about Daddy—”

“I believe you have no idea how I feel about my father,” Tom replied flatly. “You have declared him dead with no proof—”

“Not this again.”

“You defy his wishes and try to usurp my inheritance, making the family an object of ridicule. I only had three years to go.”

“I didn’t have three years . . .”