“What do you think you’re doing here, bitch?” she whispers to her reflection in the window.

Melissa

“You actually look scared.” Paul gets out of his chair and comes around the table with the wine; he seems amused. His suit is tighter, his high cheekbones obscured by new padding. “Were you frightened she’d force you to eat it?”

She should never have mentioned the cake. Perhaps she should have accepted Eve’s invitation; she could have brought some home with her. He might secretly love cake. He might consume it on his plane journeys or maybe his secretary smuggles it into the office for him, hidden in damp paper napkins. The last secretary used to ask for him in breathy whispers on the phone. Melissa didn’t really mind; she didn’t last long, they never do.

“Izzy’s going to show me her story after supper.” He pours himself another glass then sits down. He’s drinking more than he used to, but she can’t possibly point it out.

“Oh, Eve was going to send it to me.” How childish that sounds.

“She must have sent it to Izzy instead.” He smiles, head to one side with a mischievous look, the one she fell in love with years ago. “Does it matter, Melly?”

The light is harsh in here, the new decanters glitter on the sideboard, the lilies cast stark shadows over the tablecloth. He likes to examine what he’s eating in the same way he’ll examine her later. He wants to see what he’s doing.

“No, it doesn’t matter.” She’d wanted to see Izzy’s work for once, but she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter at all.”

Paul begins to eat rapidly. “I can’t remember when I last saw her like this, she’s really excited.”

Izzy had been silent in the car on the way home but her eyes had looked different, hopeful somehow, brighter, as though a light had been switched on inside. Melissa picks up her knife and fork and starts to cut her beef into very small pieces, pushing them under the lettuce. “Tell me about your project.”

“It’s not mine yet. It’s a shareholder decision.” He shrugs. “It could take a while. Everyone was there, plus the other architects, of course, the competition.”

“Everyone?”

“Senior partners, their wives. The odd girlfriend.” He holds the wine in his mouth before swallowing, then he smiles. “They loved my design, especially the windows. When it’s built, the atrium will dominate the Seine . . .”

She stops listening. He’d have been conspicuous in Paris, tall, fair-haired, a little fleshy. Handsome. The kind of looks that hold women in thrall, that can catch at her heart even now. He might have caught someone’s eye. Someone young, he prefers younger women. She pushes another piece of beef under the lettuce. She’s being stupid. He was there to be judged; he would have been on his best behavior, there wouldn’t have been time.

“. . . take Izzy to France with me on the next visit,” he finishes with a fond little smile.