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was doomed to fail.
    “We must get together to celebrate,” said Adele. “Le Chat Roux would be the perfect place.”
    Lucien grimaced; it was also the most expensive place. “We’ll see,” he replied.
    “I remember whenever my parents said ‘we’ll see,’ it always meant no,” said Adele.
    “No, we’ll go. I promise.”
    “My love, Bette, my manager, just came in and I must talk to her about the upcoming show. It’s been bedlam around here, getting ready for it. Remember, I’ll never forgive you if you don’t come to my show. Call me tomorrow and I’ll let you know my schedule.”
    “I’m going to use these incredible concrete arches that’ll—”
    “Precious Lucien, Bette is waiting. Call me tomorrow,” said Adele, abruptly cutting him off.
    ***
    After Adele replaced the receiver, she turned to gaze at her nude figure in the floor-length mirror in the hall. For a girl pushing forty, she was quite pleased with what she saw. Not a gram of fat on her body, her breasts still protruded proudly, and her legs, her strongest feature, were still lean, with perfectly formed calves and, most importantly, slim ankles (she had no idea how she got those ankles—her mother’s were like tree trunks). Unpinning her long blond hair and shaking it loose, Adele turned to admire her derrière , which blended beautifully into her waist. The plain fact that none of her runway models’ bodies could come close to hers gave Adele the greatest pleasure of all. Occasionally, just to show who was still the top hen in the roost, she would start to change into an outfit for a fashion show, then parade completely naked in the dressing room where her girls were getting ready. As she stopped to chat with them at their dressing tables, they would get a full view of their boss in the mirror in front of them.
    Adele ran her hands down her thighs and walked down the hall to her bedroom. Her apartment had been designed by Lucien in a very moderne manner, which delighted her because it was so daring and ahead of its time. Most Parisians, for all their cosmopolitan ways, were old-fashioned, living in apartments that looked like something right out of Versailles. Few had the nerve to try the new style introduced at the Exhibition in Paris in 1925. A leader in fashion had to be at the forefront of all things creative, she believed. The sleek, clean look, with its glass walls and black leather and stainless-steel furniture, was stunningly beautiful, making it the perfect place to hold parties. Before the war, that is.
    She paused at her bedroom door, made of black opaque glass, and watched Colonel Helmut Schlegal take off his shirt, revealing a tan, muscular body that sent a surge of excitement through her. He placed the shirt carefully over his tunic, which was hanging on the back of a chair. She loved the Gestapo’s black uniform. It was elegant, and so much nicer than the Wehrmacht’s ugly muddy green uniforms. Even the Waffen-SS uniforms of black and green were not quite as handsome. Although she did admire the ceremonial chained dagger worn at the waist of Wehrmacht officers—it was a nice accessory, which she could perhaps adapt for a chain belt on one of her dresses. Yes, the Gestapo definitely had the best-looking uniforms, and Adele firmly believed you could never go wrong with black, whether an evening dress or a knee-length winter coat. As Schlegel began to remove his shiny black boots, Adele moved quickly to the thick beige carpet and helped him pull one off.
    “And who was that? One of your many admirers?” Schlegel asked.
    “A very talented architect, as a matter of fact. He’s going to be designing a factory for one of those industrialists who are doing war work for the Germans.”
    “He’s going to be very busy. Many contracts will be awarded in the next few months. The Reich needs all the war materiel it can get to win in Russia.”
    “Lucien will design the best factories the Germans have ever seen. Beautiful