Barrett also tried and failed to reach Phil Duvall. His Manhattan assistant reported that he was in Tours; his Tours assistant reported that he was in Manhattan.

This all started out as a group enterprise. Each of them agreed it was the only way. They even got Madame’s blessing on the operation. Then Lucy jumped ship, Duvall feigned ignorance, Madame went even deeper underground. And now Culligan was ghosting him. Barrett stood all alone in the crosshairs of Shay Lambert’s revenge.

DREAD CLAWED INSIDE his belly like a caged rat. He wondered if it was possible to develop a bleeding ulcer in the course of a single day. He chugged half a bottle of Pepto and left the office before five. At home, he startled the latest maid, thrust his coat and case at her, and trudged wearily up the stairs to the bedroom.

He stopped short. A rustling sound came from Melanie’s dressing room, followed by a long, contented “Ohhhh,” breathed in a tone he remembered from their first years together. It wasn’t possible, he thought, but after today he knew that anything was. His stomach churning, he stole silently across the Aubusson into the adjoining room.

Melanie was there, but not with another man. No, with something nearly as bad. She was preening in front of her floor-length mirror, alone but for the three Melanies smiling back at her, each of them wearing an elaborate ball gown. It was emerald-green silk, with a fitted bodice and a skirt that swirled around her hips and legs like a corkscrew.

She noticed his reflection beside hers. “You caught me,” she said with a coquettish smile. “I was going to wait and surprise you on the night of the Gala.”

The Met Gala. It hit him, what the gown must mean, and the rat in his belly clawed through his stomach into his guts until his blood ran thick with bile and excreta. The Met Gala was the most exclusive social event in the city, and somehow he’d promised her an invitation. It was nothing but a reflex, a defensive maneuver to ward off her bitter resentment after he failed to get her a ticket to the Graziella runway show. He was a fool to make such a promise, but she was the greater fool to imagine that marrying a lawyer, even one so prominent as he, could ever gain her entrée to that world.

“Send it back,” he said. “We’re not going.”

“What!” The blood drained from her face, turning her skin a sickly white against the green silk.

“We’re not going,” he said again, and walked away.

“You promised! Barry!”

The crackling noise followed him. It sounded like dry kindling catching the spark. Another minute and it would burst into flame.

“I lied.” He loosened his tie as he crossed the Aubusson again to his own dressing room. “Send it back.”

“I can’t! It’s couture! They made it just for me!”

“Tell them you’ll list it on eBay. That’ll get them to take it back.”