Secrets of Paris (27 page)

“You’re a regular handwriting factory,” Patrice said.

“Only two hundred more to do,” Lydie said, laying down the crow-quill pen. “I thought we were going to keep this down. How is Didier’s insurance company going to feel about flashing his jewels around all these people?”

“You know only a
select few
will be chosen to actually wear the d’Origny baubles. Everyone else will mill attractively about in the background.”

“I know, but still. I’m getting nervous I won’t order enough food.”

“Well, make sure,” Patrice said. “It isn’t like America where the chic party girls just pick at their food—over here they actually eat it.”

“Okay.”

“Have you heard how Michael’s project is coming along?” Patrice asked. It seemed the only delicate way to learn whether he had invited Lydie to the opening.

“It’s nearly done,” Lydie said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t invited you to the opening.”

“Well, he did,” Patrice said, relieved to have it off her chest. “I’ve been wondering why you haven’t mentioned it. He did invite you?”

“Yes,” Lydie said. “I told him I wasn’t going, but now I want to. I change my mind every ten minutes.”

“What’s the problem about going? Why wouldn’t you want to?”

“Because I’ve been to it a thousand times—in my mind. Sometimes I go, and everyone whispers about me because Michael and I are separated and he’s there with his girlfriend. Sometimes he’s there with her, but I walk in wearing something new by Sonia Rykiel, and everyone scorns him for leaving such a gorgeous creature as myself.”

“That’s a good one,” Patrice said, giggling. She thought of her own favorite fantasy: the moment when President Mitterand pins the Légion d’honneur to her bosom in recognition of her enlightening study,
The Fourth Woman of the Marais
, with Didier’s sister Clothilde looking on. If Liz Taylor could win one, why not Patrice?

“The reason I’m not going is because of what I really hope will happen,” Lydie said. “That I’ll walk in and see him with her and at that moment he’ll realize who he really loves: me.”

“That could happen,” Patrice said.

Lydie shook her head. “I doubt it.”

“Are you still leaving France after the ball?” Patrice asked. “Have you told Michael about that?”

“That’s my plan,” Lydie said. “I think Michael was shocked to hear it. It’s strange, though—for a long time, I couldn’t wait to leave. To go home to New York. But I don’t feel it so strongly anymore. The other day, for the first time, I noticed that when I look at my watch, I don’t calculate the time difference between here and New York. I’m living on Paris time now.”

“You mean to say that you would look at your watch, see that it’s noon here, and automatically think it was six
A.M
. in New York?”

“Yes,” Lydie said. “Didn’t you do that when you first arrived?”

“Never,” Patrice said. “I was very happy to abandon my previous time zone forever. But maybe Kelly does it too. Sometimes, she’ll be doing the breakfast dishes and suddenly say, ‘Now they’re sleeping in the province.’ ”

“It’s a way of staying connected to people at home.”

“When you and Kelly flee the continent, I wonder whether you’ll ever think of me, automatically calculate my time of day.”

“I’m sure I will,” Lydie said, seeming not to notice the edge Patrice permitted to sound in her voice. But it was obvious, after all, that she had: she propped her chin on her hand, leaned forward, said, “You’re still upset about that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Patrice said. “At first I thought it was a little … well … sneaky. The way everything just fell into place the minute I left Paris.”

“But it wasn’t,” Lydie said. “Kelly and I talked about it that time you sent her over with the strawberry jam. Then I met someone from the embassy, and it took off from there.”

“It just seems mighty odd that Kelly couldn’t have mentioned it to me—and that she had to wait until I was out of the picture before she mentioned it to you.”

“I think it was her first opportunity. She’s always working when I go to your house, and she probably figured you’d feel compromised
if she asked you to get me to take her to America. She did say you tried to get your mother to take her.”

“That was a lie,” Patrice said sadly. “My mother disapproves of the whole thing. She lied to Kelly just to make me look good. And I went along with it. Isn’t that rotten?”

“I don’t think it was rotten,” Lydie said. “I also don’t think you had to lie.”

This type of frankness was not Patrice’s typical style, and it exhilarated, even frightened her. Saying what was on her mind without veils of subterfuge and Lydie talking right back, neither of them overly fearful of the consequences, was so different from her mother’s untruthful approach to life. Eliza had taught Patrice that history could be rewritten on a whim. Patrice remembered her mother’s visit in July, of the disaster it had really been and the pleasant little twist Eliza had given it for posterity. Perhaps if Patrice hadn’t been an only child, perhaps if she’d had a sister with whom to compare notes …

“That guy from the consulate is going to interview Kelly soon,” Lydie said. “Bruce Morrison.”

“Good,” Patrice said. “I’m behind her one hundred percent—whether you believe me or not.”

“Is Didier serious about wanting to stage a hunt at the ball?” Lydie asked, perhaps wanting to change the subject as much as Patrice did.

“Yes, only call it a ‘shoot,’ dear. In France, it’s very top-drawer to go shooting. They talk about the old days when a safari was really a safari, when you could hide in the brush and kill elephants and tigers instead of circling them in a bus with a bunch of other tourists.”

“Why would anyone want to kill an elephant?” Lydie asked. “What kind of sport is that? They’re as broad as barns.”

“I don’t know. They just did. Isn’t it revolting?”

“Yes,” Lydie said.

“Now, the French, myself included, I’m sorry to admit, take it out on little things like grouse and rabbits.”

“I hadn’t intended to rent any hunting—‘shooting’—costumes or equipment. But Didier does seem very keen on it.”

“He is, but don’t worry. It’ll all be a stage set. Just a chance for you and me and a few selected others to dress for the occasion. Tumner carries this adorable line of shooting clothes for women—calf-length khaki skirts like the ones Meryl Streep wore in
Out of Africa
, flat brown leather boots, vests with little compartments for shotgun shells, mosquito repellent, your compact … Didier thinks they’ll look so funky with brooches and pendants.”

“We’ve already planned one shot—a woman with the rifle raised, looking through the scope, wearing an enormous marquise-cut diamond ring on top of her leather-gloved trigger finger.”

“I told you—” Patrice said.

“Let’s take a break,” Lydie said. “I have a cramp in my hand, and these cards are getting sloppy.”

“Yours are great,” Patrice said.

Lydie glanced up, surprised. “Mine are terrible, compared to yours. Your calligraphy is beautiful. Where did you learn it?”

“From a master in Tibet,” Patrice said.

“No, really. I’m serious,” Lydie said.

“So am I.” Why couldn’t Patrice accept Lydie’s compliment? She wished she knew. The moment someone singled her out for something, noticed an accomplishment, Patrice ceased to value it. Five minutes ago she had been wishing her lettering was as fine as Lydie’s, and here was Lydie telling her it was even better. Patrice handled it by coming up with a compliment to give Lydie.

“Your cheeks look pinker than I’ve seen them in a long time. Pretty. I think you should go to Michael’s opening with him.”

“Well, thanks for the advice,” Lydie said. Something told Patrice she was trying to be sarcastic. Lydie trying to be sarcastic was pretty funny. She thinned her lips and blinked her eyes. But her tone of voice stayed exactly the same as ever. By first grade Patrice had known more about sarcasm than Lydie would learn in a lifetime.

“You are very welcome,” Patrice said earnestly, as if she thought Lydie’s thanks were genuine. “You come to me anytime and I mean
anytime
you’re wondering what to do, how to behave, which fork to use. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Patrice?” Lydie said, grinning.

“Yes, sweet pea?”

“Piss off.”

“T
HIS IS REALLY
too emotional,” Bruce Morrison said. Although he was no older than forty, he wore half-spectacles to read Lydie’s petition. She wondered why someone so young and attractive would want to affect such a curmudgeonly persona. He also wore a bow tie and a green tweed vest. She bet that under the vest he wore suspenders instead of a belt. “You see,” he continued, “the government doesn’t care about Miss Merida’s hardships. It doesn’t care that you are extremely fond of her. It cares only that she is indispensable to your business and that her position cannot be filled by a United States citizen.”

“I see,” Lydie said. Her situation here was delicate; she wished to get as much advice from Bruce as possible without telling him the whole truth. His easy manner made her want to talk freely about her connection with Kelly, but she knew there was a line she
must not cross: he was employed by the United States government. They sat in his office overlooking the rue Cambon.

“For example,” he said, tapping the petition. “This section here, where you talk about the economy of the Philippines …” He looked up, removed his spectacles, and laughed. “That’s not news to us. Why do you think so many Filipinos want to emigrate to America? The living condition there is atrocious. It’s not a case for you to make—it’s a given.”

“Should I concentrate on why my business can’t run without Kelly?”

“You don’t have to go that far. You must submit evidence that she is indispensable. The paragraph where you say that she knows your taste in objects, that you can send her out to shops and museums to search for props—expand on that.”

“Okay,” Lydie said, making notes. She thought of Kelly walking into Bulgari, asking to see tiaras. It was an impossible image.

“Have you decided where you want her to be interviewed? Paris or Manila?”

“What do you think?” Lydie asked. She glanced up, saw him stuffing tobacco into a pipe.

“She’ll run into trouble either way. The consular section here is very tough on Filipinos in France illegally. We have an arrangement with the French authorities … even if I put in a good word, I’m not sure it would help. But I’ll give it a try. France, then?”

Lydie felt touched that he would say that. She hardly knew him, after all. “France,” Lydie said. “I really appreciate the help you’ve given me.”

“No problem,” he said. “Dot told me to take care of you.” He puffed a cloud of smoke from his pipe, then another.

“Is Dot’s office near here?” Lydie asked. “I’d like to thank her.”

“Let me walk you over,” Bruce said, coming around his desk to
hold the back of Lydie’s chair as she stood. His hand brushed her shoulder.

“Have you lived in Paris long?” Lydie asked.

“Three years. I’m a bachelor,” he said. Cleverly working it in? Although everything had been businesslike between them, Lydie had been waiting to feel sexual tension. They were practically the same age; she wanted to test whether he found her attractive. She had hoped for it, yet the waiting put her on edge, made her feel almost angry.

But that accidental brush was all. He didn’t even meet her eye. Naturally a guy who wears spectacles and a bow tie would be gallant, Lydie thought. Pulling back her chair went along with the Scottish country-house decor of his office: sporting prints of water birds and steeplechasers, the pipe rack, the tattered Persian rug. She bet he had a first edition of
Ivanhoe
somewhere around.

At the door of Dot Graulty’s office he shook her hand.

“Let me know if you need more help,” he said.

“Thank you for everything,” Lydie said.

Dot, sober, rose to greet her. Today she wore a trim navy blue suit that still managed to look matronly.

“Lydie McBride, isn’t it?” she said.

“You have a good memory!” Lydie said, shaking her hand. “I just want to thank you for putting me in touch with Bruce Morrison. He’s been so helpful.”

“He’s a peach, isn’t he?” Dot said. “Knows everything there is to know about visas.”

“Well, he certainly gave me good advice,” Lydie said. “I made my affidavit much too personal.”

“That is such a common mistake,” Dot said. “Just between you, me, and the wall, we have a good laugh over some of the sob stories we get here. There’s always a sick child or a poverty case or
persecution by the dictator. When we get to the word ‘scurvy,’ we’re rolling on the floor.”

Lydie, who found the confidence offensive, laughed politely. She thought of Kelly riding through the Black Forest in the trunk of a limousine, and tried to maintain a pleasant expression.

“Let me take a look at your petition,” Dot said.