Lulu was lying flat on the cold bar, heedless of the puddles of drink, the mess of cigarette ash. As she continued her story, she stared up into the eyes of her lover, Frederick Camby.

“The door finally comes open. Bang!” Lulu sat bolt upright, her eyes huge. “She is there. Lying in the bath.”

She surveyed her audience through long lashes. Across the room Betterson and Monteray were both still at their table, but Genevieve’s seat was empty.

“Later that day, the owner’s wife cleans up the mess with a mop and bucket. Now she will have to find another girl to live in that room.” She lowered her head. The bar was completely silent. Even Camby and Kisling were paying attention. “You can stop playing now, Marcel.”

At home, in her bedroom, Genevieve allowed herself to be comforted by the sound of Robert’s gentle snores from the other side of the cornflower-blue, silk-covered wall.

It’s all right, she told herself. It doesn’t matter if he comes to the party. He understands that it’s over between us.

Putting one foot up on the low table in patinated bronze, she gave her full attention to a nasty stain on her green suede Jules Fernand T-strap shoe. Someone among that solid wall of people at the Coyote had spilled a drink on her foot as she’d blundered to the door.

It’s all right, she decided. It’ll come clean. Best to try a soft cloth or a little wire brush in the morning.

Setting the shoes down, she began peeling off petal-like layers of silk, draping them over the Oriental screen, dropping them on the African rug. When she was down to her slip, a small, balled-up piece of paper fell out onto the floor.

Carefully she unraveled it and smoothed it out on the bedside table. It was a sketch. Just a small one, in pencil. A death-head.

( thirteen )

VIOLET DE FRÉMONT’S SHOES. Gossamer light. They might have been spun by a spider rather than a mere man. They were magical. Unobtainable. With only five days to go until the party, there had still been no word from Zachari. Once Robert had left for work, Genevieve went to the telephone and asked to be connected to the shop. Again.

“Good morning. This is—”

“Good morning, Mrs. Shelby King. And the answer is no.”

“Olga…May I call you Olga?”

“He’s not here.”

“Of course not. He never is, is he? It must be very difficult for you, having to fob people off all the time. He shouldn’t treat you that way.”

“We will call you when your shoes are ready.”

“Olga, when one is to host an important event, one needs to look one’s best. Don’t you agree? What one needs are Zachari’s shoes. Brand new, delicate as a flower, glamorous beyond all imagining but fitting like the softest glove.”

“Certainly.”