“I know about the appointments. I know that you don’t have one.” A sharpness in the woman’s expression. Something jagged. With her colorless hair, her pale eyes, her coldness, she put Genevieve in mind of shards of glass.

Genevieve opened her calfskin clutch bag and delved about for a card, holding it out stiffly.

“Please take this to Monsieur Zachari. Tell him that I am a friend and client of Coco Chanel and Paul Poiret. Tell him”—and this stuck in her throat—“tell him that I’m a close friend of the Countess de Frémont, and that I would be most obliged if he would give me a few minutes of his time. I would like to order a pair of shoes.”

The assistant made no move to take the card, and Genevieve thrust it further, holding it almost under her nose.

“Will you please take my card to Monsieur Zachari?”

The woman raised her hand, and it seemed as though she might be about to take the card, but instead she touched at her hair, tidying invisible stray strands. “He’s not here.”

Genevieve’s hand dropped. “Well, when will he be here? Can I make an appointment?”

A sound from somewhere in the building. Hard to say whether it came from above or below or just behind the shop room. A cough.

Genevieve frowned. “Are you sure he’s not here?”

“There is no one here.”

And another cough. There was no mistaking it. A man’s cough.

Genevieve took a step sideways and tried to peer down the narrow staircase at the back of the room, as though if she tried hard enough she might be able to see through the closed door at the bottom. The woman also moved, blocking Genevieve’s view. She looked suddenly weary.

“This is ridiculous. I don’t know why you’re lying to me, but let me tell you that you’re not doing Monsieur Zachari any favors. I will not forget this discourtesy.” She slapped her card down on the tallest of the little tables. “Please show this to Monsieur Zachari and ask him if he would be so good as to telephone me. I intend to order a pair of shoes from him. That is my intention.” A quick glance at the mirror showed that she was white in the face. The woman also looked into the mirror. They stood for a moment, both gazing at Genevieve’s reflection. She was smaller than the woman, and for perhaps the first time in her life she felt truly diminutive.

She made for the door.

“If you or Monsieur Zachari cared to make an enquiry or two, you would discover that I am not a woman to be trifled with. Not a bit of it.”

And she blundered out, tripping on the edge of the step.

“Oh, dear.” Lulu set down her coffee cup. “Not so good. But perhaps he’ll telephone.”