Sophie had changed all that—blown away the idea that things could be restored to where they were. Which was why Tom fought her so hard. His mother had never worked, never dated. Why should she start now?

Tom was slowly coming to understand her motivations. She’d done it for him, and herself, too. And he’d been wrong to blame her.

In a short time, she’d successfully relaunched the brand, hired competent staff, and almost fought off a hostile takeover.

Hostile. It sure was. He knew that now. And he, Tom Massot, together with his grandmother, had handed victory to them.

He tried not to blame Judy and Katherine. What could they know? It had been his job to see that the deal was sound. He was at fault, nobody else. Judy had no shares, and his grandmother was an old woman.

But how wrong she had been.

Tom picked up the phone and dialled the dower house. Faubert, Katherine’s ancient butler, answered.

“Salut,” he said.

“This is M. Massot. Is Mme Massot at home?”

“She is, Monsieur.”

“You may expect me in a few minutes.”

“Very good, Monsieur.”

He’d go and have tea with Grandmother. Why not? There was nobody else left to talk to.

“Tom, my dear.” Katherine walked towards him with stately deliberation; he feared she had a poor hip and might find walking painful. She was elegant as ever, in a long gown of moss green silk, a string of pearls, and a flawless Indian emerald on her left hand; the familiar scent of powder and her custom-blended rose perfume enveloped him. “How good to see you. Tea? Cakes?”

“Some coffee would be fine.” He wanted nothing, but Katherine would feel cheated if she couldn’t make a fuss of him.

She signalled to Faubert, who withdrew.

“I have not seen you much lately,” Katherine chided him. “You must not leave an old woman on her own. You are my only support, you know.”

“But what of all your friends from Paris?”

He knew his grandmother had calls and visitors every day of the week. For all her age, she was an important social beacon of Paris; she sat like a queen and received fawning tributes.

“They are not true friends.” Katherine snapped open the small ivory fan lying on a mahogany side table next to her couch, and started to fan herself. “I have no true friends, you know.”

“Who knows what a true friend is, these days.” Tom thought of Polly. He hadn’t spoken to her since that day under the willow tree.

“How are you, darling?”

“Well.” He hesitated, not sure how much to burden her with. “You know, Grandmother, things aren’t good at the firm.”

“Pierre’s company will survive,” Katherine said complacently. “You worry too much.”

“It will survive—perhaps.”

The watery blue eyes turned on him. “What do you mean, darling?”