What to do now? They didn’t cry, his lovers. His encounters were civilized and witty. One fucked and chatted and then got dressed again. Simple and pleasurable. One might sip wine or eat fruit with one’s lover. One did not lose all track of time and then wake with a shock to an unruly, emotional scene. It simply wasn’t the Parisian way. Or his. Until now.

“Hold me.” Her voice was thin. She had scrunched herself up, with her arms wrapped tight around her knees. She looked tiny and helpless.

Hesitantly, he returned to the bed, sat in beside her, and, after a moment, drew her close. He patted her back clumsily, painfully aware of his own awkwardness, frustrated with himself for his inability to act decisively. To either walk out that door or to comfort her in the way she wanted to be comforted.

“Tell me something,” she said, her sobs dying down.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Just talk to me.”

“All right.” He put his mouth against her hair and breathed in its sweet, earthy scent. “Yesterday I drew your feet from memory. I have the drawing back at my workroom.” As he spoke, he could feel her body begin to loosen up again. The warmth was returning. “I got them just right. The shapes of the bones in your toes, the curve of the arches, the veins running under your skin like rivers on a map.”

“Can I see the drawing?”

“If you like.” Their voices were low whispers. The warmth was spreading from her body to his. He felt himself begin to curve around her, subtly—a very slight movement. His body wanting to fit itself to hers. “I could draw the Marchesa Casati’s feet too. Or Mistinguett’s. It’s what makes my shoes special. The fact that I know the feet so well. The way I can remember them.” He was starting to want her again.

“But it was my feet you drew yesterday. Mine.”

“Yes.” She had forced her way into his life just as she’d forced her way into his shop. She had imposed herself on his imagination, and now there was no getting rid of her.

She shifted in his arms and pressed her wet face against his neck. He wasn’t repelled by the tears now. He wanted to lick them away.

“Tell me something else.”

“I love your back,” he said. “Your lovely, long back. Your skin has a translucent quality, like pearls.” She was shifting her position. Kissing his chest. Kissing her way down. In a moment or two she would take him into her mouth and it would be heaven. “I want to make a pair of shoes which have the curve of your back and the pearly quality of your skin. If only I could make shoes from cream. If only I could melt a fistful of pearls and mold them into the shape of a shoe.”