She pauses over more photographs of Serge, and traces her hand on the framed manuscript of some of his lyrics, wine-stained and ash-burned.
Does she miss the fights as well, I wonder?
"Oh," she says, "I miss them most of all."
What was her favorite?
She thinks for a moment. "One time we were in a bar and Serge had turned my basket, my famous basket, upside down and gone through the contents to the amusement of everybody because there were some very sordid things in the bottom. I was vowing vengeance and there was a custard pie on the table and before I could think twice my fingers were under the pie and the pie had been launched at Serge." She laughs. "He walked out, and with pieces of pie falling off him he walked down Boulevard St Germain. At this point I thought desperate measures were needed, so I dashed in front of him, ran down some steps to the Seine, and I threw myself into the river. There was a kind of whirlpool, which made it tricky."
What happened next?
"Well for one thing my top, which was St Laurent, hand-made, shrunk to nothing and Serge of course was absolutely delighted. Anyhow, I clambered out and we gaily walked home arm in arm." She pauses, thinks of strolling down the riverbank, soaking wet. "Serge was, you might say, a fan of the grand gesture.
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