“Ferragamo’s a genius. He’s discovered that the weight of a woman’s body isn’t carried on the ball and heel of the foot alone but on the entire arch. He puts a thin strip of steel into the soles of his shoes to support the foot. If the sole is stronger, there’s not so much pressure on the heel, so you can play with the shape—make the heel thinner. Make it into a corkscrew—whatever.”

“You could almost be talking about buildings, chérie. Strengthening the foundations so you can build higher. Your Ferragamo is like an architectural engineer.”

“But so much more sexy. All the Hollywood stars want his shoes.”

“Well,” said Lulu. “Who needs Zachari when you’ve got Gloria Swanson’s corkscrew heels?”

At the mention of that name, Genevieve’s smile went slightly askew.

“What is it now?” asked Lulu.

“Well,” said Genevieve, “my first thought, when I woke up this morning, was about those shoes of Violet’s. I have to have a pair of Zacharis, Lulu. And I was feeling defiant. I decided to go over to his shop and talk him round.”

PAOLO ZACHARI

WORLD’S MOST EXPENSIVE SHOES

The sign took up half the shopfront. Genevieve peered in at the window. It was dark and cloaked in deep purple velvet on the inside. There was no display of any kind. And no clear indication of whether the shop was open or closed. It seemed very quiet, though. Nothing to do but try the door.

Nervous, and irritated with herself for this nervousness, she reached for the round brass handle.

The door opened smoothly, and she stepped into a square room hung all over with the same purple velvet that shrouded the inside of the window. No natural light was allowed in, and the room flickered in the glow of various candelabra positioned on ebony side tables among copies of Vogue. Genevieve wrinkled her nose at the hot, sweet odor of melting wax. Further light came from a cluster of five or six twisted candles in an ornate silver cage, suspended on a chain from the ceiling. How quaint. Like stepping back into the last century.

White wax dripped slow and globular, pooling on the ebony tables and dark wood floor—oak perhaps—which was uneven and highly polished. The zebra-skin rug in the center of the room made a better impression. Much more modern. There were a couple of Napoleon III couches upholstered in the purple velvet, and Genevieve wondered if she should sit down on one of them and wait for someone to come. But did anyone know she was here? The door had made no sound. There was no bell to ring for attention.

And there were no shoes here. Not one.