Sucking up to Gregoire Lazard, she understood with a sinking heart, was still her first, best hope.

But somehow she no longer felt confident that he was her ally. He seemed totally preoccupied.

Once again, Judy Dean was on her own.

It was just before lunchtime when she looked up from her papers; the latest slew of magazine clippings, few of them good.

Marie was standing in the corridor, giggling with Françoise Delmain, M. Keroualle’s assistant. She had hushed her voice, and the two of them kept glancing back towards Judy’s office. They were whispering animatedly.

Judy put her head down again, a dull glow on her cheeks, as she considered her options. Goddamn Marie. Judy had shut the door to Lazard’s office, but what if Marie had been listening in? Or what if it was simply too loud, and her secretary had overheard?

Confront them? No, that would make it so much worse. Judy imagined being exposed to whispers and giggles wherever she went. Anger at Lazard bubbled up in her. He had humiliated her, exposed her to this. . . .

Judy stood up. Marie wears a plain brown dress and carries a cheap bag, she reminded herself. Let them giggle away, I’m the most senior woman in this company. Marie doesn’t have enough ambition to fill an eggcup. She’ll never be anything, and I’m going to make it.

She put on her brightest, happiest smile and walked out into the corridor.

“It’s a great morning, isn’t it, ladies?” she said sweetly to Marie and Françoise. They had returned to French, and Judy’s was ac centless, whereas their English sounded Gallic. She enjoyed this small demonstration of skill, especially while they were laughing at her. “Marie, can you cover my calls? I think I may step out to lunch. I’m in the mood for a croque-monsieur.”

That was a joke, and they all knew it; one did not maintain a figure like Judy’s on ham and melted cheese.

“Of course, Mademoiselle,” said Marie humbly. It didn’t fool Judy for a second. Instantly she assumed her carpeting, upstairs, had indeed been overheard. High spots of colour returned to her cheeks, but she smiled as though nothing had happened.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle,” said Françoise pertly. “But don’t you think you should wait, given what has happened?”

Judy squared her shoulders, feeling the silk lining of her beautiful suit move against her toned skin.

“And what, exactly, has happened, Françoise?” she asked ominously, daring the other woman to be open.

“Why, Mademoiselle.” Françoise rounded her heavily lacquered eyes with exaggerated innocence. “Have you not heard? Mme Sophie has returned to the office.”