Judy drew back. Her French was good, but that wasn’t French. It wasn’t welcome, either.

“You think to crowd me—you women—”

The fair eyebrows knitted above his pale eyes. There was threat in them, and Judy shrank back. She had good instincts and snatched up the memo before he could destroy it.

“I’m sorry,” she said quicky. “It doesn’t matter—I’ll come back another time.”

She retreated at once, thinking, with a queasy feeling in her stomach, of her groaning credit cards. The repayments alone were going to be difficult; if he did not come through she would have to call the bank. . . .

But he would come through. Calm yourself, Judy thought. He wants you to get close to Sophie . . . he wants you for that.

She had been overwhelmed for the last few days. Giles Keroualle, with his elegant, disdainful air, had returned from New York—without good news on the collections—and demanded updates on all her work. And she had had the trouble, although welcome, of moving from the windowless top-floor cubicle back to her own office.

There had been no time to call Sophie. And Lazard was no longer right next to her. Maybe that was the trouble; out of sight, out of mind. . . .

Judy returned to her desk. Even the admiring looks of the secretaries, all Marie’s friends, at her chic flash of yellow and white did not console her. Gregoire’s rage was unexpected, and had left her shaky. Angry, but also fearful. Her connection with him had been all her hope of breaking out of this rut. She couldn’t afford to upset him.

A nasty idea occurred to her. What if Sophie Massot left, Gregoire lost his connection with her, she returned down here, and it was as if the last month never happened? She would be back writing press releases, keeping her head down . . . but this time with more debts, and no hope of promotion.

It hadn’t just been the suit. Judy had upgraded her life to that of the woman of consequence she’d felt she had become. There was a gorgeous, fast little car—a Porsche Boxster in racing green. And she had purchased an investment piece, a pendant shaped like a peacock feather—twenty-two-karat gold, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and lapis. Something she had seen in the rue Faubourg store over five years ago, and always coveted, but passed it by because she could not afford it.

Now it was hanging in her leather-lined jewellery case, but apparently she still could not afford it.

Judy thought of the repayments on her present salary, and paled. Maybe she should return it. Say she’d changed her mind....

Tears came to her eyes, and she flushed with shame. Return it . . . they would all know the real reason why, those snobby bitches in the showroom. No, she could not bear the shame. She would have to find a way, somehow.