IT WOULD BE LIKE a wound closing and disappearing, like a bruise yellowing and fading to nothing. You can recover from anything if you really have to. You grow new skin and it stretches across the hurt, thin and taut. You might be scarred but you hide the scar. You have to. Genevieve had done it before, when she lost her baby. She could do it again now. You take each day as it comes, making yourself go through the motions of living a life. And with each day that passes, you feel a little less. Until eventually you feel almost nothing.

Robert was in the salon pouring himself a drink.

“What’s happened to the stopper from the sherry bottle?” There was an edge to his voice.

“I don’t know.” It was an unwelcome surprise to find him home so early. She wasn’t sure she could face being around him just yet. It felt rather too much like the start of a life sentence.

“Odd thing to have gone missing, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so.” She slumped on a chair, watching him. He had a certain way of standing—poker-stiff like a soldier, with his feet slightly apart. Paolo, on the other hand, would lean against things—walls, doorframes, slouching casually. There was a relaxed quality about his body. A natural ease.

But she had to stop thinking about Paolo.

“It was probably Céline.” Her voice was empty. She had swung a wrecking ball at the only true love she’d ever known. He’d never take her back. Not after the things she’d said to him on the telephone. Not after the way she’d behaved.

“You think she broke it?”

“Or stole it. She walked out today. I suppose we’ll have to find a new maid.”

How she hated Lulu. Enough to find a source of strength in her hatred.

“Why did she leave?” He sipped his drink.

“How should I know?”

She would run into Paolo around town. At parties, on the street, in shops. Lulu too. It would happen all the time. It would be unbearable. They would have to leave Paris, she and Robert. They’d have to start again somewhere else. It was the only way forward.

“Well, you must know something about it. She wouldn’t have walked out for no reason at all, would she?” He handed her a glass of sherry. “What happened?”

“Oh, I don’t like to bother you with these little domestic matters, darling. I’m sure you’re not really interested.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.” She tried to laugh.

There was definitely something strange about him. It wasn’t just the way he was speaking to her. He was glancing at her and then looking away again. His appearance was rather rough. His hair was tousled, and he hadn’t shaved. Even his clothes—well, they simply didn’t fit him properly. Were they actually his?