A squeak of Bibendum leather from the salon and he was standing in the doorway, staring down at her as she fumbled with the buttons on her shoes.

“But my dear, you don’t live here anymore. Have you forgotten?”

She dropped the first shoe on the floor and reached down to remove the second, using the wall to steady herself. “Please, Robert. I really need to sleep.”

“So do I. But I don’t suppose I’ll be able to.”

She dropped the second shoe. “I know I owe you an explanation—”

“An explanation. I should think you owe me a damn sight more than that!” He was bristling with anger. His whole body was shaking with it.

Wearily, she placed the hat with its bedraggled ostrich feather on the hall table. “I can’t talk at the moment. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t get to call the shots anymore. That’s something you don’t get to do.”

Her arms ached as she straightened up and slipped off the Chanel jacket.

“So, do I take it your cobbler doesn’t want you?”

She flinched. “How did you—”

“I’m not a fool, Genevieve. Whatever you might think.”

“I know that.”

“Then why did you treat me like one?”

“Oh, Robert. For pity’s sake.”

“So I’m supposed to pity you now? I’m to pity you?”

Genevieve tried to swallow. “Look, if you want me to go, I’ll go. I’ll find a hotel.”

“You…” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her till it felt like every bone in her body was rattling. “Damn you!” And then he let her go and stood looking down at his own hands.

“Let’s have a drink,” she said. “Come on. Come and sit down.”

The roses on the mantelpiece had dropped all of their petals. They lay scattered at the base of the vase. Some of them had fallen onto the hearth below. She poured a bourbon for him and a cognac for herself. She took her time over fixing the drinks, fussing with the ice tongs, reluctant to face him again, though face him she had to. All she could think about was Paolo, behind a closed door, not knowing that she was there on the other side. Perhaps never finding out. All she could think about was those little girls. And her little girl.

“You were right—what you said. He didn’t want me.” She saw Olga, her face wracked with pain and fever, the wet strands of hair plastered across her forehead. She handed Robert his bourbon, seating herself on the padded stool by the hearth.

“So you thought you’d just drop by here and cozy down for the night, did you? What’s your plan for tomorrow and the day after and the day after that?”

“I don’t have a plan.”