Perhaps this would be the last of it. There was the funeral mass to go, of course. She didn’t know quite what to do about that. Hold it privately in the château’s private chapel. Katherine Massot and Tom would probably both refuse to attend. Katherine despised all priests, and Tom had stopped going to church. She didn’t dare push it. She just would do things privately, for Pierre.

But this was the last awful, public thing. She had confronted Katherine and her son, and now all she had to do was just check on things here and then she could go back to the château and forget all about everything.

Sophie couldn’t wait. She just wanted to get back to normal. These confrontations, so unusual for her, left her drained, tense, and unhappy.

It was almost summer and she wanted to start work on that herb garden they had planned. All term-time, when Tom wasn’t there, Sophie worked on the gardens in the château. It kept her occupied, and it felt useful. You could create things of great beauty that way.

She opened the heavy door with its brass handle and let herself into the offices. Her heart sped up, but Sophie breathed in, trying to slow it. No need to be nervous; why, they’re probably all afraid of you, the big bad widow who votes all that stock. The portrait of herself was ridiculous, and she smiled.

“Yes? Can I help you?” the receptionist asked, with a touch of challenge.

“Madame,” Sophie said. It slipped out before she had a chance to stop it.

“Excuse me?” the girl demanded, angrily.

“Madame,” Sophie said, apologetically. “You know,‘Can I help you, Madame?’ We should be polite to our customers, don’t you think? Or to anyone who walks in, really. It’s just good manners.”

“You have an appointment with somebody?” the girl demanded.

Sophie flushed. She hated arguments. She was no good at them. But there was nothing for it. She stared the girl in the eye.

Now the girl flushed.

“Why are you staring at me like that? I’ll call security,” she threatened.

Sophie did not move. The girl looked at her. She watched her take in the beautifully cut suit, the huge pearls, the Chanel bag, the quiet, unmistakable scent of money. The wheels started ticking, slowly.

“Oh,” said the girl, sullenly. “Of course, you mean I should say Madame. Do you have an appointment with somebody, Madame.”

She repeated this flatly and with resentment.

“With M. Gregoire Lazard,” Sophie said.

The girl flushed again. “Of course, Madame. Please accept my apologies. I will remember what you said.”

“It just makes people feel more welcome,” Sophie said, wanting to excuse herself now that she had won the point.

“No doubt,” said the girl, “Madame.”

She hates me, Sophie sighed.

“Name please, Madame.”

“Sophie Massot.”

The girl’s eyes widened in fear.