“There’s a party tonight,” she told Genevieve, at their usual table in Rumpelmayer’s. “It’s on a barge owned by a crazy Dutch couple. It’s going to be fantastic, and we have to be there!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? You’ve already told me that Robert is going out for the evening. He wouldn’t mind, surely? It’s due to start at seven—you can leave when you want to, but you must come. It’s been forever, chérie.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it? You can’t mope around after your shoemaker forever. Oh, yes, I’m well aware of what’s behind this, Vivi. You don’t fool me.”

Genevieve stared into her noisette, saying nothing.

“He’s just a man, chérie. He’s not important. I, on the other hand, am your best friend.”

The barge was moored near the Pont Neuf, at one of Genevieve’s favorite spots. Often she would take a walk to the Île Saint-Louis to wander its narrow streets and gaze at its tall, elegant houses. She’d cross over to the Île de la Cité, passing the gloomy giant, Notre Dame, and over to the Quai Saint-Michel to walk along the river, browse among the bookstalls and go down the steps to the little park by the Pont Neuf, where she’d watch the long cane poles of the fishermen and bask in the leaf-dappled mid-afternoon sunshine.

She descended those steps now, hitching up her Chanel evening dress—Etruscan red silk patterned all over with intricate embroidery and crystal bugle beads—revealing her delicate Rambaldi satin shoes with Louis heel and hand-painted bird motif. But her excitement faded somewhat at the sight of the rust-bucket barge.

“Is this it?” After the way Lulu had been raving on, she’d expected something highly glamorous, along the lines of the three barges Paul Poiret had kitted out for the Exposition.

Lulu, resplendent in a jeweled turban and shocking pink dress with plunging neckline (she even had a beauty spot painted on her cleavage tonight), effected not to have heard. “Come on, Vivi. Let’s go aboard.”

There was barely room to swing a cat on the poky barge. But as they climbed aboard, a man in an artist’s smock was doing just that—swinging a cat by its hind legs while it yowled and squealed.

“Don’t worry about her,” he called. “She loves it.” He set the cat down on a canvas that lay on the deck and let her stagger dizzily about, leaving little red paw prints wherever she trod.

The boat was crammed with people, and there were many more on the shore. They paddled at the river edge and stood about on the shingle, drinking white wine out of glasses, teacups and, in one case, a bucket.