“Which gallery?” Betterson was still scrutinizing Lulu. “Someone really ought to put her in a book. She deserves her immortality even if it’s one of those cold butterfly books.”

“She’s hardly hiding her light under a bushel. She’s Lulu of Montparnasse! She’ll live forever.”

“Nobody lives forever, honey,” said Betterson. “Least of all me.”

Genevieve tried not to be annoyed. “Yes, yes. Five years to live—we all know about that. I’m attempting to suggest a title for our joint venture. The Gallery has a dignified feel, don’t you think? And it tells you just what the magazine will be.”

A surge of applause. Lulu had finished her song. The applause stretched on, and Betterson let out a wolf whistle. From the back of the room, someone threw a single rose. Lulu stooped to pick it up, plucked off one of its petals and ate it. The petals were the same red as her lips.

“And another thing, Norman…have you had a chance to look at my poetry notebook?”

Betterson twisted around in his seat, perhaps to see who had thrown the rose. “Hey, look who’s here! Come join us, you old dog.”

Genevieve wasn’t sufficiently interested to turn around. Instead she looked over at the bar, where Camby was demonstrating something to Kisling with the use of a fork and a wine cork.

Up by the piano, Lulu ate a second petal. “Bring me a drink, won’t you, Laurent? My friend at the bar will pay. The fellow who’s brandishing cutlery and taking himself too seriously.”

The war hero winked his remaining eye in assent.

“‘Girl from Clermont’?” asked Marcel.

“No. I’m so bored of that one. I never want to sing it again.”

A glass was passed across from the bar, hand to hand, until it reached Lulu. She held it up to the light, examining the round brown fruit rolling around in the amber liquid.

“Did I ask for a cherry?” she called out to Laurent.

“That’s what the gentleman ordered for you,” said the barman.

“Camby’s no gentleman.”

“No, not him. The gentleman over there.” Laurent pointed across the room.

Norman Betterson was raising his glass. “Vive la France et les pommes de terre frites!”

Lulu plucked the cherry from her glass, sucked it till her mouth was all burning brandy sweetness, then spat the stone across the room in Betterson’s direction. “Vive l’Amerique et le chauffage central!”

“What am I playing?” asked Marcel.