He’d said it to change the subject, but as he spoke the words, he knew he’d never been more in earnest.

“Well,” she said and picked up the newspaper again. “Well…aren’t you in a hurry to get off to work?”

“Genevieve?”

“Look at the time, Robert!”

Paolo Zachari was busy at work on a pair of shoes for Sissi de Marco Thessaly, a long-standing client. She was an Italian patron of the arts and onetime society beauty with a rich American husband, who bought all her shoes from him and had done so ever since he’d first started. This latest pair was almost finished. He was painting a design on the silk uppers with a steady hand and a very fine brush, a pattern resembling the wings of a Red Admiral butterfly. She liked butterflies. She and the husband would go out together with big nets, catching them. It was about the only thing they still did together after thirty years of marriage. The rare breeds would be impaled on pins in glass cases and labeled in Sissi’s tiny italic handwriting. Zachari had stopped sleeping with Sissi de Marco Thessaly about three years ago. He’d kept on long after his interest had faded, principally because he liked her and didn’t want to offend her. Theirs was a leisurely, friendly affair. She had still been very beautiful when he first met her, though she claimed she was already well past her prime.

He had enjoyed sleeping with Sissi. He laughed more with her than he’d ever laughed, and fucked more than he’d ever fucked. She dribbled champagne into his mouth and he buried his face in her luxuriant golden hair. She inspired him to make pair after pair of shoes for her tiny, white feet. It was due to Sissi that he’d landed the Marchesa Casati as a client. And Mistinguett, and Coco Chanel. And the Countess de Frémont.

Sissi had been the one to end the sexual side of their relationship one day in bed, with a light slap on the buttocks and a friendly, “I think we’d better call it a day, don’t you, sweetie? Undressing in the dark can be sexy, but it’s becoming something of a necessity for me.”