“Distant.” The humming was very nearly a Charleston. One of the dance tunes from the party.

“I’m just thinking about the evening. Mulling things over.”

“What things?” The circle tracing continued.

“Nothing much.”

“But I like to know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I want to be as close to you as one person can be to another.”

“We’re close enough, aren’t we? Do I have to tell you every single thing that pops into my head? Can’t I keep just a few things to myself?”

“But honey.” He was still humming. Perhaps he didn’t know he was doing it. “You’re my wife.”

I’m trying to be, she thought. I’m really trying.

When Robert had finally—finally—left her room, Genevieve lay on her side with her eyes closed, thinking about what Lulu and the others might be doing. They were heading off to the Select as she waved good-bye and got into the Bentley with Robert. Lulu’s long-term lover, Camby, would be there, and she was clearly desperate to see him, though she’d never have admitted it. First there’d be a couple of drinks, and then a whole lot more. There’d be some dancing, and maybe a fight. And suddenly it would be morning, and they’d all go off to Les Halles for onion soup at one of the market cafés or buy a picnic breakfast and take taxis out to the Bois. Eventually they’d return to the Boulevard du Montparnasse for coffee at The Dôme or La Rotonde. The Quarter would be back in full swing and all of Paris would be rushing by, and they’d just sit back with the papers and watch and nurse their aching heads, till one by one they peeled off to bed, leaving only Lulu, still partying, still wanting more.

“I bet he’s a red-hot lover, eh, Vivi? Your Robert?”

“Your makeup’s crumbling into your coffee,” said Genevieve. “Look at all those little flakes floating about.”

“A truly feeble attempt at changing the subject.” But Lulu was staring into her coffee, then squinting myopically at her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror that hung just behind their table.

“Lulu, I think you might need spectacles.”

“Shut up.” With a growl, Lulu bent and peered under the table.

“What now?”

“I’m having a look at today’s shoes.”

Relieved, Genevieve turned her feet this way and that. High-fronted court shoes, covered in pearls, stones and gold decoration, with outlandish corkscrew heels.

“Now those really are amazing.”

“They’re by Salvatore Ferragamo. I had them specially imported from California. He designed them for Gloria Swanson, and she doesn’t know he made a second pair for me.”

“I’ve never seen anything like them.”