Paul Poiret wandered over to take a look, cocked his head and sucked on his fat little finger. “If we just—” He beckoned to the pin-laden girl to adjust the sash.

“I’m not sure.” Genevieve peered into the long, gilt-edged mirror.

Below the waist, the dress was a mass of jagged downward-pointing velvet flames, edged in gold beading. Or perhaps they were more like icicles in their shape and effect—but hot flaming icicles, rattling and rippling as she moved, allowing daring views of her legs, right up to the thigh.

“Chérie.” Lulu tipped vodka into her glass of champagne, under cover of the latest issue of La Vie Parisienne. “What is the matter with you? Are your eyes defective? The dress is sensational. You are sensational.”

“Do you think so?” Genevieve’s face was sulky.

Lulu’s lip tightened. Spoilt little rich girl. I knew I didn’t want to come here today. She thought about her own party dress on its hanger back at her tiny apartment. A shimmering silver sheath from a flea market, on which she’d daubed her best approximation of an early Picasso painting. It had cost next to nothing, but who cared about that? She’d look a million dollars, because she was Lulu of Montparnasse.

“It’s not the dress I’m worried about,” said Genevieve. “It’s the shoes.”

“Genevieve, darling.” Paul Poiret bit his lower lip. “They don’t come better than Perugia.”

“Yes,” said Genevieve. “They do.”

They were gold kid dancing pumps. Louis heels and a stitched-on flame motif in orange velvet. Not so long ago Genevieve would have been delighted to go to her party wearing Perugias. But that was before she’d seen Violet de Frémont’s pair of Zacharis.

When the fitting was over and the exasperated Poiret had waddled away, Lulu dismissed the girl with the pins and went behind the screen herself to help Genevieve out of the dress.

“He’s ruined everything,” moaned Genevieve as Lulu struggled with her fastenings. “How can I be happy tonight without my Zacharis? I wish I’d never set eyes on that damn shoemaker!”

“Here.” Lulu produced the bottle of vodka and shoved it at her. “It’s medicinal.”

“Lulu!”

“You’ll never get through the day without it. And nor will I. Go on, have a drink and stop worrying. Everything will be fine.”

With a sigh, Genevieve reached for the bottle. “Oh, Lulu. You don’t know the half of it.”

“Half of what?” Lulu frowned.

Genevieve seemed about to confide something, but then appeared to change her mind. “Nothing. I’m sure you’re right. It’ll all be fine.”