“I’m sorry, but there seems to have been a mistake. I’m busy this morning.”

“Not according to your diary.” Violet stooped to unlace her sporty spectators.

“I’m working on some shoes.”

“You can do that later. You’re not exactly wall-to-wall clients today, are you?” She was wandering around the shop in her bare feet, picking up the latest La Vie Parisienne and flicking idly through it.

Zachari’s lips tightened. “I said I’m working this morning.”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Paolo, don’t be a spoilsport.” And now she wandered barefoot across to the stairs. “In some ways, it’s rather handy that Olga’s not here, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry, but it’s quite impossible for me today. Let’s put another appointment in the diary.” He took up the book and started looking for a suitable slot.

Violet stopped, her smile gone. “Really, this isn’t on. I canceled my tennis lesson to come to see you.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry.” An image flashed through his head of Violet holding a tennis racket, and of her grip being corrected by a tanned, burly man who stood very close to her.

“You can do better than sorry.” Her best flirtatious smile. A toss of the head.

And quite suddenly, watching the Countess de Frémont turn and begin to climb the stairs to his apartment, her hand trailing suggestively down the banister, Paolo Zachari realized that he was not the butterfly catcher. Never had been. He was the butterfly.

Genevieve was too restless to remain in the apartment for long after Robert left. Her insides were tangled up, and she didn’t know how to untangle them. Lingering in front of a display of Cubist Origami in a window of the Galeries Lafayette, she caught sight of her reflection. An enormous head on a tiny body, like something out of a fairground freak show. It was all down to distortions in the glass, of course, but at this moment Genevieve felt the reflection to be true. Her head might really be bulbous and swollen. Perhaps it would burst.

Outside Rumpelmayer’s, she gazed wistfully at the cakes under the long glass counter. Cakes in all colors of the rainbow. Two fashionable girls (clothes and shoes from the Atelier Martine) were gossiping and laughing over their coffees and desserts at a table near the window. Genevieve could almost be watching herself. She’d be spilling out her troubles to her friend, waiting for that raised eyebrow, the half smile. Don’t worry, chérie. Stick with Lulu and everything will be all right. They’d make a special toast in cake to whichever lover Lulu had just dumped. Lulu would tip brandy into their coffees and relate her latest wild escapade, and they’d giggle the morning away—and somehow, everything would turn out all right.