“He’s not been about much lately. Not since his woman came in on the boat.” McAlmon swigged at the wine. “What’s her name again?”

“Whisper,” said Betterson. “At least, that’s how she was introduced to me. Pretty girl. Filthy rich, too.”

“Not for long,” McAlmon said. “I hear the husband’s stopped her money and ordered her to come home.”

“Poor Guy.”

Genevieve gave a snort of derision. But actually she was pleased to hear that Monteray was busy with another woman. The death-head still hovered at the back of her mind.

Mosquitoes darted about at the water’s edge, their number swelling as the light slowly faded. Genevieve felt them nibbling at her calves and ankles as she put the finishing touches to her caricature. “How’s the magazine coming along?”

“Well,” said Betterson. “The lineup’s almost complete. There are Guy’s poems—but then you know about those already. I have Gertrude Stein’s latest—really superb stuff. There’s a new story from Ernest Hemingway; the merest snippet of a thing from Fitzgerald—not a proper story but nice. You’ll see what I mean when you read it. There are a few poems by yours truly, and Bob here gave me his story yesterday.” He peered over at the notebook. “Say, that’s really funny! Take a look, Bob.”

McAlmon peered across. “You’re a cruel woman, Genevieve. Is that a claw sticking out of my mouth?”

“She has you nailed.” With that, Betterson burst out coughing and had to get his hanky out.

More and more people were packing onto the boat and milling around on the shore. Some men dressed as sailors were dancing on the shingle with three girls in tennis dresses. A further few were wearing swimwear—they might have been dancers from the cast of Le Train Bleu, still in costume.

“So, it’s almost ready,” Genevieve said. “Our first issue.”

“Yup. Just about. And Bob came up with the best title. Tell her, Bob.”

“Fiesta,” said McAlmon with a flourish. “What do you think?”

“Well, I was rather keen on The Gallery.”

“The Gallery.” McAlmon seemed to be testing the words out. “Don’t you think Fiesta has just that little bit more drama? Think about it, Genevieve. Fiesta.”

“Is this really any of your concern, Bob?” Genevieve closed the notebook and handed it back to Betterson. “It seems to me this is for Norman and me to decide.”

“Ah.” Betterson patted her hand. “There’s been a development. I’m very pleased to say that McAlmon is joining me as coeditor. And he’s putting a little of his own money into the pot too.”

His own money indeed! Robert McAlmon’s money came in the form of regular payments from his wife or ex-wife or whatever she was. Everybody knew it.

“It rather sounds,” said Genevieve, “as though you don’t need me anymore.”