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Back The Shoe Queen Save as PDF
Chapters (67)
  1. Cover
  2. “And may I say, those shoes are adorable.”
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. ( I )
  7. ( one )
  8. ( two )
  9. ( three )
  10. ( four )
  11. ( five )
  12. ( six )
  13. ( seven )
  14. ( eight )
  15. ( nine )
  16. ( ten )
  17. ( II )
  18. ( eleven )
  19. ( twelve )
  20. ( thirteen )
  21. ( fourteen )
  22. ( fifteen )
  23. ( III )
  24. ( sixteen )
  25. ( seventeen )
  26. ( eighteen )
  27. ( nineteen )
  28. ( IV )
  29. ( twenty )
  30. ( twenty-one )
  31. ( twenty-two )
  32. ( twenty-three )
  33. ( twenty-four )
  34. ( V )
  35. ( twenty-five )
  36. ( twenty-six )
  37. ( twenty-seven )
  38. ( twenty-eight )
  39. ( twenty-nine )
  40. VI
  41. ( thirty )
  42. ( thirty-one )
  43. ( thirty-two )
  44. ( thirty-three )
  45. ( thirty-four )
  46. ( VII )
  47. ( thirty-five )
  48. ( thirty-six )
  49. ( thirty-seven )
  50. ( thirty-eight )
  51. ( thirty-nine )
  52. ( forty )
  53. ( forty-one )
  54. ( forty-two )
  55. ( VIII )
  56. ( forty-three )
  57. ( forty-four )
  58. ( forty-five )
  59. ( forty-six )
  60. ( forty-seven )
  61. ( forty-eight )
  62. ( forty-nine )
  63. ( fifty )
  64. ( fifty-one )
  65. Acknowledgments
  66. Acknowledgments
  67. Questions for Discussion

“When you slide your feet into these shoes”—and now she did just that—“it’s like having your feet taken into a warm, silken mouth.”

“Is it mine? The baby, I mean.”

A breath. “There is no baby.”

“I see.” He cracked his knuckles one by one. “I’m going out for a walk.” As he turned away, he looked smaller, somehow. Like he’d shrunk. Like he was an old man. “Wait here. We’ll talk when I get back.”

( VIII )

FACINGS

( forty-three )

GENEVIEVE SHELBY KING SAT alone in the Closerie des Lilas at a corner table, a small suitcase by her side, a cognac in front of her, and a cigarette pinched between two fingers of her right hand. She was wearing a Chanel day ensemble in black wool jersey and silk. Round-necked with long, loose sleeves, a wide, low belt and a pleated skirt. Around her throat were her mother’s pearls. On her feet were Zachari’s gold-embroidered shoes. On her head a cloche hat with a diamond pin and a black ostrich plume. She’d been here a while now, and her clothing was considerably more sober than she was.

The case contained her red velvet Zacharis and her Mary Janes. She’d also packed (in some haste) the diamond tiara she’d worn on her wedding day and her sapphire-and-diamond cluster ring, thinking they’d fetch quite a bit of money if necessary. These pieces were family heirlooms. She didn’t want to take anything that had been a gift from Robert. She was also carrying the contents of her cash box—five hundred dollars, a couple of thousand francs—and her passport.

A lot of Hemingway and McAlmon soundalikes were trooping through this place today, sitting down with their clever women with fashionably waved hair, Lulu-esque beauty spots, short V-necked dresses and hard laughter that came out like rounds of artillery. Snippets of conversation drifted across to Genevieve through the smoke haze.

“Oh, really? A novelist, you say? I thought it was the name of a racehorse. Or a small town in Brittany…”

“But you don’t understand. When I’m alone with her I feel I’m lost in a vast, damp cave, calling out for help and hearing my own voice echoed back forever and ever…”

“Trois Filles Nues, at the Bouffes-Parisiennes. Marvelous dancing. They dress as shrimps. Yes, I did say shrimps…”

They were all chasing it, these would-bes. The buzz—the jazz buzz, the crazy buzz—that lit Paris far more brightly than the streetlamps, and flowed, electric, from person to person. Genevieve had craved so much to be a part of it, and lately she’d come close. She’d felt it sparking when she was with Paolo Zachari. The air around Lulu crackled constantly. She’d glimpsed it in Norman Betterson’s home. Even when she ran from Guy Monteray.