How had she allowed herself to even contemplate moving out? She couldn’t possibly manage without Robert. Zachari was right—her dream of the future was nothing but the fantasy of a spoilt child. Robert was reality. Solid, steady reality. Paolo Zachari, on the other hand, was something slippery and elusive. What did she know about him, really?

As she reached out to pick up the receiver, her hand shook.

Let him be all right, she told herself. Let him be there at his desk, telling me the maid has lost her marbles.

Her voice was small as she spoke to the operator. She seemed to wait forever to be connected to Robert’s office. And as she waited, she could sense the presence of the maid on the other side of the kitchen door. Listening in. Waiting with her.

She shut her eyes. If he’s there, I will give up Paolo once and for all.

“Good morning, Mrs. Shelby King.” It was the secretary.

“I’d like to speak to my husband, please.”

There was a pause at the end of the line—a pause that went on slightly too long. “He’s not able to speak to you just at the moment.”

“What do you mean?” She caught sight of her reflection in the hall mirror. Her face looked drawn and anxious. And guilty—her face looked guilty.

Another pause. “He’s not here.”

“Well, where is he then?”

“He’s out at a meeting. I’ll get him to telephone you when he gets back.”

A rush of giddy relief. The reflection in the mirror was transformed in an instant. The guilt ebbed away.

Sitting in the dining room, waiting for her breakfast, Genevieve tried to get her head straight.

She thought about what had happened to her this morning—the way her emotions had rocked violently back and forth. She was like a weighing scale tipping one way and then the other and failing to balance. She loved Paolo, but she couldn’t rely on him. She could rely on Robert, but she didn’t love him.

How she missed Lulu! How she needed to talk to her friend.

What had her fight with Lulu been about, really? Everything and nothing. In the immediate aftermath of the argument, she had felt it was everything. But now she inclined toward the nothing. Nothing but a bit of jealousy on both sides. And too much alcohol. She would have to do something about it. Today.

“Here. Your omelette.” The maid smacked the plate down on the table in front of her and walked straight out of the room.

The omelette was gray. It sat in a pool of dark oil on a chipped blue plate.

Genevieve’s queasiness returned, along with an odd agitation. The omelette was clearly inedible. And yet it still bothered her that Céline had not brought in a knife and fork or a napkin.

“Céline?”