“Yeah, well.” That was Tom, but not the voice she knew. It wasn’t so dignified—rougher, edged with longing—and the accent was gone: he sounded so English. “I feel the same way,” he said, gruffly. “And your finals . . . you got the results?”

There was a pause. “Really? Congratulations,” he said. “I didn’t have you figured for a nerd.” Another pause. And then he laughed.

Judy shivered. She had never heard Tom this way, not so young and pompous, relaxed, even lighthearted. Not with her.

“And that’s definite, is it Poll?” he asked, teasingly this time. “You’re missing out, you know. There’s no good coffee that side of the channel.”

The wave of nausea that rushed up over Judy took her by surprise, and she actually thought she might throw up. She swayed dangerously against the tree, feeling ill, the blood rushing to her head. Tom was still talking, and laughing, thank God, and he didn’t turn around. Judy scooped up her shoes, and ran—ran on her padded feet, ran, getting grass stains and daisy petals crushed into her Woolford’s—ran up the hill, away from him, towards the pear orchard. That way she could walk back to the house without being seen.

Judy ran. Years of training, and her body obeyed her. She was fast, her muscles taut, even without sneakers. She wished she could keep running forever. At least her speed was there for her—at least she could control that.

After some time, she became aware that she was crying. That would not do. She slowed, stopped beside the dead trunk of a fallen apple tree.

Judy knew exactly who was on the other end of that phone. Conversations she’d had with Tom had pried it out of him; his seeming insouciance didn’t fool her. The girl had mattered to him.Very much. A young girl, much younger than Judy.

Polly was her name. Poll, for short. And Tom was laughing and joking with her.

Judy slipped her heels on and headed left, towards the kitchen-garden entrance to the house. There were some servants there once she got inside, but she ignored them; she coughed a little, as though to explain her red eyes, and ran up the first marble staircase in the great hall, to her private room.

Judy thought of Katherine. And Sophie. The Massot women, proved right again. Of herself, unceremoniously dumped. She could cling on here—she was confident enough in her own sexual ability to know that—but she was now borrowing time. How would Tom do it, she wondered? A clean break? A shamefaced phone call? A letter—perhaps containing some kiss-off jewellery?

Certainly she would lose her job.

Judy’s heart thudded in her rib cage. Well, it wasn’t going to happen again. She was not about to be dumped by the son after being sidelined by the father. Screw the Massot girls. Screw the Massot men. . . .