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Back The Shoe Queen
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

“But not so stupid that she can’t throw the best party of the year. How could I possibly compete with this?”

Lulu flapped a dismissive hand. “Oh, chérie. Don’t even bother thinking about Violet de Frémont. She’s nothing. Violet’s trying to buy her way in, but she can’t get at the real Paris.”

“So what about me? Am I a part of the real Paris?”

“Ah, chérie. Stick with your friend Lulu and you won’t go wrong. Live your life at nighttime in the 6th, where Violet de Frémont is nothing but a tourist. The rich are mere consumers here. The real Paris is about the art that’s in your heart and your mind.” And she winked. “Anyway, tell me about Guy Monteray.”

“You seem to know more about him than I do.”

“Come on, Vivi. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Do I?”

“I saw the way you were looking at each other.”

“Window-shopping. That’s all.”

“If you say so.” But her face still wore that expression—suggestive, mischievous.

“Stop it!”

“Stop what?” But now the mischief was evolving into something approaching sympathy. “Oh, Vivi, this insistence on the sanctity of your marriage—it’s sweet but ultimately—”

“Ultimately what?”

“Unrealistic.” The smallest sigh.

Genevieve pursed her lips and scanned the room again. “So where’s Camby tonight?” Lulu was in love with the renowned photographer Frederick Camby. Had been for years.

“How should I know? The man’s a fool.” No discernible emotion from behind the makeup mask.

“There’s Norman Betterson.” Genevieve touched Lulu’s arm. “I need a word with him. I gave him some of my poems to read a while ago, and…” But the sentence was left unfinished. She’d caught sight of something unmissable. A pair of shoes…

At the Shelby Kings’ apartment on the Rue de Lota in the fashionable 16th Arrondissement, a whole room was devoted to Genevieve’s shoes. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, and each shelf crammed with wooden boxes. Boxes that were cushioned on the inside with velvet and silk. Inside each box, a pair of shoes. The boxes multiplied, week on week, month on month. Hundreds of boxes. Shoes made especially for Genevieve by the world’s most exclusive designers. Shoes with glass heels. Shoes studded with gems. Shoes so perfect that Genevieve could hardly believe they really existed, so that she’d have to keep taking them out of the box and touching them and then putting them away again—afraid of soiling them, ruining them.

Shoes that, for the most part, had never been worn.