16Seven months earlierParis in April. Marcel de Fleuray had met Esmé Ridding in December, at an apéro held by his sort-of friend, the minister of public works. She was, unsurprisingly, the center of attention, and nearly every man in the room was vying for her notice. She was dressed in a white silk sheath that made her look impossibly narrow, almost boyish. Her blonde hair spilled down over one eye, curling just past her shoulders, and she looked like a Gallic reincarnation of a young Lauren Bacall, sultry and sophisticated. Esmé sat on the back stairs of the apartment that led up from the kitchen. Men crowded around, some staring, some desperately trying to be witty.
Marcel, however, stayed in the other room talking about grouse-hunting to a Scot who was in Paris for a week with his wif
