He was suddenly hungry. Women and food, Tom seemed to need them all the time these days. He glanced at the plastic bag Polly had left on the floor, then riffled through it. There was indeed a baguette and some coarse pâté, English rather than French, but it would do. And, he thought as he expertly cracked open the champagne, Polly had been right. After a glass or two he wouldn’t care. It was inferior, but he could force it down.

Maybe I’d better stop at two, Tom thought. It wouldn’t do to arrive at the English lawyers hammered. These were the affairs of House Massot. If he was going to claim his inheritance, he’d have to be sure to act like a man.

He poured himself one modest glass, but, as he spread the pâté thickly over the bread, he wished Polly were still there to share it with him.

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The restaurant was full. It was well-designed, and the lobby was perfectly spacious, decorated in clean tones of pale green and white, with carved oak benches and plenty of chairs, but that did not hide the fact that an awful lot of people were waiting to be seated.

“But my reservation was for half an hour ago,” an American man directly in front of them said loudly and angrily.

Sophie heard the receptionist murmur something calming, but resolute, to the customer. So sorry, other diners were taking longer than expected; nothing to be done; a drink at the bar, perhaps?

“I’m afraid we won’t get a table.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Gregoire Lazard said easily.

“But all these people have reservations; they are still waiting. We can go somewhere else,” Sophie said. “I honestly don’t mind. I haven’t been out to lunch in ages. A bowl of soup in a bistro is fine for me.”

Lazard shook his head. “A bowl of soup! For Sophie Massot! You are priceless.” He lifted his fingers and crooked them, very slightly. The receptionist noticed, and made another discreet gesture. Within two seconds a waiter was at their side.

“M. Lazard, how nice to see you again, sir,” he said. “If you will follow me, sir, Madame, your table is ready.”

“What!” exploded the man in front of them. “If there’s a table, that’s my goddamn table . . .”

“That is a very important personage, M’sieur,” said the receptionist icily, “and if you cannot contain yourself I will have to ask you to leave.”

The man hesitated, as Sophie walked past him, embarrassed. She looked at him apologetically. He shrugged.

“Whatever,” he said.

The waiter led Lazard and Sophie to a table by the window; it had a wonderful view of the boulevard below and the roofs and grey stone walls of Paris. She sat down nervously, looking back in the direction of the irate diner.

“We skipped the queue,” she said.