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of crows cawed overhead, reclaiming their territory in the large and ancient trees along the front driveway. The house had perfect symmetry with three windows on the right and three on the left of the grandiose front door. Steps swept up to the door, which for today’s event was left open. Popsy took a moment to admire the huge urns on either side.
    Pyracanthas had been clipped to look like a giant ball and were in full bloom; they were covered in bright orange berries. These were under-planted with variegated ivy, which spilled out of the urns and down to the ground. It gave a feeling of understated opulence with a Halloween twist. Popsy made a mental note to do something similar in twelve months’ time.
    Once inside, they were greeted by beaming caterers offering a choice of sparkling water or even more sparkling champagne. Both women went for the champagne.
    Jenny Lennox descended upon them in a flurry of air kisses and exclamations of how good everybody looked. Popsy gave her the flower arrangement she’d brought, and Sandra presented her with a jar of limited-edition caviar. As usual, Jenny insisted that they “shouldn’t have” but took the gifts with grace.
    Checks were deposited into an aquamarine objet d’art that was stationed just inside the front door. It was, doubtless, a terrifyingly expensive piece of glasswork, but Jenny was blasé.
    “Just toss the donations into the vase there and come in to where all the fun is.”
    Stripped of their checks and armed with a champagne flute each, they were ushered into the drawing room. Popsy got the distinct impression that they were being herded like cows.
    “Cheers, to your health and future decisions.” She winked and clinked glasses with Sandra, and they headed into the fray.
    Popsy and Sandra had a way of working a party. They would arrive together, then drift apart to mingle, but then they would drift back together again at regular intervals when either one of them needed moral support. This way they got to meet interesting new people but had each other as backup if they were a little lost. This method had worked well for them over the last thirteen years.
    It didn’t take long before Popsy was standing in front of the much-discussed Renoir. It was larger than she expected, almost two feet by two feet, and the frame made it look even bigger. It was hardly surprising then that it took pride of place over the mantelpiece in Jenny Lennox’s enormous drawing room.
    “Exquisite, isn’t it?” the lady beside Popsy inquired.
    “It is beautiful. Isn’t she lucky? A genuine Renoir.”
    “It better be genuine. Eddie paid a cool $100 million for it.”
    It was enough to make Popsy snap around to face the lady she was talking to as opposed to admiring the painting. “I’m sure it can’t have been that much. $100 million? That’s too expensive, isn’t it?”
    “Cheap at the price.” The lady sniffed.
    Popsy wondered if perhaps her companion had drunk a little too much champagne. “How do you work that out?”
    “That’s what Jenny told him it would cost to stay in the marriage.” The redhead moved closer to whisper. “I understand that poor Eddie was caught being a naughty boy, and when Jenny discovered it, she threw him out. He begged her to take him back, which of course she did, but for a price. This little token of affection.”
    Popsy was incredulous. “That’s a lot of affection,” she said and looked back at the painting.
    “Yes, I hear it is a really good painting— La Petite Fille . Jenny tells me it’s a charming and irreverent portrayal of the hedonistic life and subtlety of lust in the late 1800s.”
    “Ah.” Popsy felt the need for more champagne. “Good to know.” As far as she was concerned, it was just a really pretty painting done by a very famous artist. But wasn’t art full of hyperbole like that?
    Before she had to expand on her views, mercifully her art critic companion took her leave, which gave Popsy a few moments to