Frustrated, she balled her hands into fists and banged at her own head. “There’s something you haven’t told me. Maybe you don’t even fully understand it yourself. Think about it. You are the best shoemaker alive. So why aren’t you also the world’s most rich and famous shoemaker? You should be making shoes for Coco Chanel’s new fashion lines and they’d end up on the front of Vogue. You could work with anyone you wanted to. Paul Poiret, Jean Patou, Madeleine Vionnet—anyone! You’re so much better than Ferragamo or Perugia. They’d all want to have your shoes. You must know this is all within your reach.”

“So you want to tell me how to run my business now?” His face was dark.

“I want to know why you’re so determined to spend your life hiding in this shop when you could have the whole world!” She tried to calm herself. “Look, I’m sorry. Maybe I’m not quite myself. I found out this morning that a friend of mine died yesterday.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He was a poet. A good one. I bumped into his wife at Notre Dame. His girlfriend too. They were grieving together. Helping each other.”

“Cozy,” muttered Zachari.

“It made me think about how short life is. It made me realize that you have to do everything you can to find true happiness and make your life mean something. And you have to do it today because maybe there won’t be any more days. You can’t afford to be complacent.”

He smiled now. “I wish I could make you understand that I am living my life to the full. My work is my whole world. It’s exciting and beautiful and colorful. It changes all the time. Every hour and every minute. It’s right here.” He tapped his forehead. “And here.” He held out his hands, showing her the palms.

“Well, I haven’t been living my life to the full,” said Genevieve. “Something important happened to me today. I’ve made a decision. I’m not prepared to go on being Robert’s wife.”

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying.” She was watching him closely. Could there be softer feelings behind that brusque expression? She needed to know that there were.

“Go home and sleep on it,” he said eventually.

“Why? What will that achieve?” She got up. Went back to the bedroom to find her clothes. He followed her.

“You haven’t remotely thought this through.”

“And nor,” she said, “have you.”

She unbuttoned his shirt and picked up her slip. “Is this about Violet de Frémont? You still don’t want to give up the other women, do you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” He bashed his hands down on the brass bedhead. “There are no other women. Not since you.”

She felt herself smile. “Do you love me, Paolo?”