Consider this passage:

“As for dining in love, I can think of a lunch at the Lafayette in New York, in the front cafe with the glass pushed back and the May air flowing almost visibly over the marble tabletops, and a waiter named Pons, and a bottle of Louis Martini’s Folle Blanche and moules-more-or-less-marinieres but delicious, and then a walk in new black-heeled shoes with white stitching on them beside a man I had just met and a week later was to marry, in spite of my obdurate resove never to marry again and my cynical recognition of his super-salesmanship.”

And consider that in the middle of that description of food and that pithy (and bitchy!) character summary, she mentions what shoes she was wearing. Now you see why.