What am I doing?

Lulu was in the mood for devilry that evening. She wanted to go “somewhere fancy” and to dress the part too. Arriving early at the Rue de Lota, she went riffling through Genevieve’s wardrobes, settling on an Atelier Martine sheath dress in black lace that had never been worn.

It was Genevieve’s idea to go to the bar at the Ritz. She’d told Lulu she felt nostalgic for the night they first met, but the real reason was its nearness to Paolo Zachari’s shop. Maybe…Just maybe…

She couldn’t help gazing about her as they got out of the cab, but there was no sign of Zachari. Would he be in his workshop this evening? Or upstairs above the shop in what she now knew to be his apartment? Perhaps, later on, she’d look for an opportunity to slip away…just to take a look and see if his lights were on, if any sounds were being made within…No. No, she mustn’t do that. She had to stay away from him.

But then Genevieve noticed something that completely took her mind off Zachari for the time being. Something that had not escaped the notice of the hotel doormen, the cab driver and several passing officials from the Ministry of Justice.

Lulu was not wearing any underwear beneath the lace dress.

“What does a grapefruit look like?” asked Lulu as the girls sipped their Chambéry and fraise. “What color is it?”

“Yellow,” said Genevieve. “Big and round and yellow. The taste is very sharp. Sour, really. Why do you want to know?”

“Sour.” Lulu closed her eyes and seemed to be trying to imagine the taste. “Yes, that makes sense. They’re Camby’s favorite fruit. So he says. I’d like to try to get some for him.”

“In Paris? I doubt you’ll find any.”

“That’s a shame.” Lulu frowned. “He’s not been at all himself lately. I don’t know what the matter is, but there’s something, that’s for sure. I wanted to get him a present to cheer him up. And I remembered him talking about these grape fruits, whatever they are.”

Genevieve smiled. “I suppose we could try the Necessary Luxuries Company. If anyone has grapefruit, they will.”

“Excellent, chérie.” Lulu downed her drink. “I knew I could rely on you.”

“Come on,” said Genevieve. “Let’s have another. I want to get tight.”

Two drinks later, they were both becoming shrill. Genevieve knew that most of the men in the bar were watching them. Peeping from behind newspapers, openly gazing, or looking sidelong, as if considering the merchandise. Young English aristocrats, just out of Eton. Americans “doing the Tour,” sharp French boys on the make. Their elegantly coiffed, heavily jeweled lady-friends looked on edgily.