But I’m no Sophie, Judy thought. I’m not weak. I’m not trusting. I’m a match for her.

“Of course not, dear Katherine,” she said brightly. “I do hope you feel recovered by dinner. It’s Tom’s favourite. He does love to indulge.”

She invested the last word with as much meaning as she could, and pirouetted on her heels. It was a pleasant evening, and she’d walk back up to the château—that always made her feel better.

The butler bowed and scraped, but nonetheless physically hustled her—in a very discreet way—towards the door. Judy pretended not to notice, but rage boiled inside her. Ignoring him, she marched smartly out of the front porch and down the weathered grey steps of the dower house, her shoes crunching on the gravel of the drive, until she hit the tarmac. It was three-quarters of a mile back to the château—a short walk, and a welcome one; Judy wanted to work on her demeanour. Tom must not see her angry.

The château, with its ornate towers and grey stone crenulated walls, was lovely—so breathtakingly lovely. There was nothing Judy’d ever seen to match it, no billionaire’s penthouse on Fifth, no modern luxury pad in Miami. No, this was old, old money—the oldest—the kind that even Wall Street couldn’t give you. Judy glanced down at Tom’s latest gift, a ring of canary and white diamonds, a perfectly formed daisy. World-class jewels, and a château, and an estate. It was a fairy tale—the Massot fairy tale. She had clung to Pierre, had always hoped that what he’d given to that mouse Sophie he might give to her.

It had never happened, but now Judy had another chance. Forget those dirty feelings when she slept with Tom. Judy kept her eyes on the château. Focus, that was what it was all about. Her eyes on the prize . . .

The house soothed her, and she started to cast her eyes around the grounds. Screw Katherine, look at the lake. Look at the woods, blazing with autumn leaves; the orchards, the stables . . . Judy felt her funk lift. An almost savage desire overcame her. She wanted this place. She wanted to be more than a guest, more than a footnote in the saga of the Massots. Always the worker bee, never the queen. It made her sick. It had to change.

She started; there was a familiar voice. Tom’s. What was he doing? It was coming from the stone bench under the weeping willow, a little way off the path. Instinctively, Judy froze. She didn’t want to be seen; she didn’t want to explain where she’d been. Her little joust with Katherine should stay secret. But who was he talking to? They had no visitors, not today.

She moved away from the path, very quietly; Tom’s back was to her, and now she saw: he was on his cell phone. Judy hesitated. If he saw her . . .