Her marriage came flooding back to her; the years of trying to fit in, the young bride desperate to live up to her millionaire husband’s expectations. How her nerves and timidity had kept her silent. The awkwardness at the formal dinner parties; Sophie hadn’t even known which fork to use. Pierre’s dazzling society friends, aristocrats and moguls, had terrified her. She’d become used to keeping quiet, keeping her head down. Hiding behind Pierre, desperate for the approval he withheld. She wanted to show she was grateful, to prove she could learn—she wanted to be the kind of wife he desired. Quiet and ladylike and modest. In the end, she’d become accustomed to living in his shadow: a beautiful, stylish cipher, and, with practice, an excellent hostess. But Tom’s birth had changed everything; when Tom came, Sophie had come alive.

And now all her baby did was shout and rage at her.

Sophie dabbed the handkerchief to her eyes. She wouldn’t think about it anymore. Loving your children often meant doing things they didn’t like. It was a mother’s place to endure the anger and the crying.

Tom had to move on. It was unhealthy to obsess over somebody who was never coming back. And his company, no doubt everything was fine there, but she didn’t think she was overstepping her boundaries in checking. It would be a full three years before Tom could take over.

I’m just seeing to this the way I balance my checkbook, Sophie told herself. She still spent on herself, to the cent, only the allowance Pierre had said she should be allotted. And she accounted for every penny. Another childhood habit, as natural to her as brushing her teeth.

This is nothing to be afraid of. This is just a bigger checkbook, she thought. Ah, rue Tricot. There were Pierre’s offices. Today was overcast, cooler than it had been, and the grey sky matched the colour of the building. It also matched Sophie’s mood. Sombre and serious. She had chosen a suit—Dior haute couture—and kept it deliberately feminine, the required black of mourning, but with ivory buttons and a matching string of pearls. Massot, of course; Pierre had presented them to her on her twenty-fifth birthday. She also had a touch of scent at her wrist—Chanel No. 19, very light and springlike. There was no point in her wearing pinstripes or playing the businesswoman. Sophie did not want to look ridiculous.

As her driver opened the car door, and saluted as she walked out, she felt a sudden burst of hope.