“Fine,” he said.

Lindsay stared at him. “Fine? You mean you’re happy with it?”

“You’re the fashion editor.” He shrugged. “If you have to use that damn Markov, use him. Feature the shows you select. If you could bring yourself to put the knife in just occasionally—that would be nice.”

“You have no suggestions? I’m surprised.”

“No. The collections are your domain. I wouldn’t dream of interfering. After all, I can’t tell a Lacroix from a Saint Laurent.”

Damn Max, Lindsay thought, catching the glint of amusement in McGuire’s green eyes. Her conversation had been reported back.

“I’m glad you’ve learned your limitations.” Lindsay pushed back her chair, intent on a fast exit.

“There is just one other thing,” McGuire said.

Lindsay turned back in surprise. McGuire had picked up that green file, she saw, a heavy green file, tied with tape.

“That suit you’re wearing—it’s a Cazarès, isn’t it?”

Lindsay gave him a venomous look. “Yes, as it happens. It is.”

“Have you met Cazarès ever? Interviewed her?”

Lindsay looked at him uncertainly. She was unsure if the question sprang from ignorance or guile.

“No,” she replied. “I haven’t. And as you probably know, no journalist has. Cazarès doesn’t appear in public, except at the close of her shows. And she doesn’t give interviews, ever, to anyone. She’s virtually a recluse.”

“A beautiful recluse, I gather.”

“She’s certainly that.”

“But Jean Lazare, on the other hand—he does talk to the press?”

“To safe journalists. Friends of his. People who won’t ask awkward questions about Cazarès, yes, he does. I wouldn’t describe the process as an interview, but he does give an audience occasionally.”

“Could you swing an audience with him?”

“If I wanted one, which I don’t. Probably. Yes.”

“Try. See if you can get to him while you’re in Paris.”

Lindsay gave McGuire a puzzled look.

“Why? It’s pointless. If he did see me, I wouldn’t get anything usable. Sure, I’d like to know if the rumors are true—wouldn’t we all? I’d like to know if Maria Cazarès really did start cracking up five years ago. I’d love to know how much of the collection she actually designs these days. Everyone would like the answers to those questions…”

“So ask them. Ask Lazare. Why not?”

“Several reasons,” Lindsay snapped. “In the first place, I wouldn’t dare—and if I did, my feet wouldn’t touch the floor, I’d be banned from all Cazarès shows so fast. Secondly, I told you—it’s pointless. Lazare has a set text for interviews: Maria Cazarès is a genius. His function is to protect her from the intrusions of the herd. That’s it.”

“And to run a multimillion-dollar company. Let’s not forget that.”

“Sure. Which he does with ruthless efficiency. He’d talk about that quite willingly. He’d discuss their ready-to-wear lines, their cosmetics, their perfumes. He’d talk statistics and turn on the charm. Waste of time. I already know the statistics. Cazarès has the best PR department of any Paris couture house. I’ve heard it all before, all right?”