“You mean it doesn’t speak to you? What are you, insensitive? How’re things at Maxopolis? What’s going down?”

“Markov, get off this fucking line.”

“Lindy, I’m in Paris. This is Paris I’m calling from.”

“I don’t give a shit if it’s Outer Mongolia. Stop hounding me. And don’t call me Lindy—it drives me insane.”

“You want to know something seriously interesting? You want to know who I eyeballed at the airport just now?”

“No, I don’t.”

“In the VIP lounge? Like, I’m coming in, and they’re about to fly out? You want to know this, Lindy, believe me, you do.”

“Oh, all right. Who? You’ve got ten seconds.”

“Lindy, you’re getting a tad boring, you know that? All right. Only Maria Cazarès. And Jean Lazare. Together—very much together. Like he has his arm around her, like she’s crying and shaking, and he’s trying to kiss her hair.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Darling, I have twenty-twenty, remember, and I wasn’t wearing shades. They were thirty feet away from me. I was quivering, Lindy. I overheard some very interesting things.”

“Markov, wait a second—”

“Sweetling, I have like fifteen million people I have to call right now. I mean, we’re talking Chernobyl here in information terms. I have to spread the word.”

“Markov, wait! This is important. Who’ve you told already?”

“No one. I called you first.”

“Dinner Monday?” Lindsay was thinking fast. “Maxim’s? Le Tour Eiffel? Grand Vefour? Where d’you really yearn to do a shoot, Markov? Name it, it’s yours.”

“Hyderabad. Five-day shoot. Quest and Evangelista. Three spreads. Full color. In the Sunday. Sixteen thousand. You can swing that?”

“You got it.”

“Plus Grand Vefour, Monday.”

“Jesus, Markov. Oh, all right.”

“My lips are sealed, sweetling. I adore you. Ciao.”

Lindsay hastened back to the sitting room, face aglow. A yawning Charlotte and a silent Gini were already leaving.

“Time for bed,” Charlotte said. Lindsay waited a few seconds, until the door closed behind them, then started talking very fast.

“Hyderabad?” Max said some minutes later. “Are you insane, Lindsay? No way. The Sunday will never buy that. I wouldn’t even ask.”

“Sixteen thousand?” Rowland said. “The port must have gone to your head. Markov’s flaky. He’ll be hitting the phones right now.”

“He won’t. We understand each other. Besides, it’s less than his ad rate.”

“It’s extortion. He wouldn’t prize that out of Vogue.”

Lindsay abandoned Rowland, a lost cause. She turned to Max, who was pacing up and down.

“Max, just lean on the Sunday—please. I can’t offer Markov color, but the Sunday can. Besides, Jancy’s been dying to use him. She’ll leap at the chance. He’s hot, Max, the hottest there is. And Quest—you just wait, she’s extraordinary. She’s going to be huge—”

Rowland groaned; Lindsay ignored him.

“Come on, Max. It’s such a little little favor. I just need you to lean on Jancy’s editor. Dammit, Max, he was at Oxford with you and Rowland and the rest of the male world. Network for me for once, Max. Use your legendary powers of persuasion… Shut up a minute, Rowland, I haven’t finished. Please, Max—it’s a circulation booster. Just one little word in his ear, Max. Is it so much to ask?”