The answer danced behind her consciousness. She wasn’t ready to acknowledge it at first. Relief, of course there was relief; it suddenly seemed as clear and luminous as the sunshine through her lead-panelled windows: she had not loved Gregoire. Sophie was lonely, and flattered, and she had enjoyed, even revelled in his company—those pleasant, easy manners; the deference; the well-aimed compliments to her mind, as well as her body. But love, no. It was why she had shrunk from his touch. She knew that this morning perfectly well, as though somebody had sat down next to her and patiently explained it in words of one syllable.

But the excitement she felt, she wasn’t sure exactly . . .

It will come to me, Sophie thought. She turned away from the mirror, satisfied, chose the day’s bag, a Kate Spade number in crocodile skin with a bamboo handle, and headed for the sweeping marble stairs, her heels echoing on them as she hurried, almost ran, down to the car.

“Are we headed for the office, Madame?” her driver asked.

Sophie shook her head. “Rue Faubourg, Richard. Take me to the Massot showroom.”

There was, she supposed, nothing actually wrong with it. The carpets and drapery were clean, the long display cases were not dusty, there was an adequate supply of staff, more than adequate, indeed, for the four customers who were wandering, looking bored, down the length of the cases, guessing at the prices out loud and clearly not about to buy anything. The staff had reached the same conclusion, apparently, since nobody was offering to help them; there were four women and two men, and they were all standing around looking bored.

The place has the atmosphere of a library, Sophie thought. There was the Massot logo, a gold eagle holding a diamond in one claw, painted on a beige background on the walls and stamped into the matching colour of the carpet. It was an uninspired pattern. Today was Thursday; she might have hoped for more of a crowd.

It occurred to Sophie that if her best first impression was merely “nothing wrong” then, of course, everything was wrong.

She walked in through the doorway and headed for one of the cases. The display ran the length of the showroom, one case on each wall, the pieces grouped by type. The first case was for rings. That made sense; rings were always the greatest sellers, followed by earrings.

“Can I help you, Madame?”

Sophie looked up. A young woman had sauntered over, and was giving her a perfunctory smile. At least she offered to assist me, Sophie thought. But she was not about to give her any prizes; Sophie Massot knew perfectly well that her manner of dress exuded money. Any shop she entered, they rushed to serve her.

“I’m just looking, at present,” she said.