Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [103]
“Do you think Lydie requires extra workers at the ball?” Marie-Vic asked.
“No, she told me there are enough. Lydie wants me to help the photographer.” She giggled with pleasure. “Imagine, me working at the very ball I discussed with Mr. Wright.”
“It is very hard to believe.”
“You should have heard me telling him about the shopping Lydie and I did to get everything ready.”
“To shop for a living! Wow!” Marie-Vic said, laughing.
“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” Kelly said, wondering whether she had sounded convincing in her interview.
“I hope the spell works and the petition is granted,” Marie-Vic said.
“I pray for it,” Kelly replied.
Patrice was writing in her diary. She had written twenty pages so far, covering her memories of the first year she had lived in Paris. She figured it would take her all winter to get up-to-date. She intended to fill the notebooks with personal details, including her innermost thoughts, her relationships with Didier and his friends and family, her experiences with Lydie. She would mention the food served in restaurants and at dinner parties; she would describe trips to the Midi, Courcheval, Saint-Lô, Corsica. She would discuss the elections, the tension between the political right and the Socialists, the new spirit of cooperation within the Common Market. She would relate, in detail, the immigration problem. She would weave facts with memories, humor with gravity, legend and predictions, gossip and confession. She knew the world would never see her words, but she found pleasure in recording her impressions, just as Madame de Sévigné must have done three hundred years ago in a house just across the Place des Vosges.
It was Kelly’s day off; at the sound of the doorbell, Patrice breathed deeply and lay down her pen. She had invited Clothilde, Didier’s sister, to tea. It was becoming a habit, their Tuesday afternoon teas; it was habit, also, the way Patrice’s stomach would tense at Clothilde’s arrival.
“Gros bises!” Clothilde said, kissing both Patrice’s cheeks.
Patrice led her into the salon, then went to the kitchen to make tea. When she returned, Clothilde was standing by the window. “The Bretechers are upset about not being invited to the ball,” she said.
“That’s tough cookies for them,” Patrice said, pouring the tea. “They should have realized this day might come when they had their little fête at Longchamps.”
“Mais Patrice,” Clothilde said, “they know Didier hates horse racing.”
“Well, I happen to love it,” Patrice said. “The reality of the situation is that I have a long memory, and I expect people to do unto me as they would have me do unto them.”
“I’m sure it was an oversight that you were not invited to Longchamps … ”
“You just said it was because Didier hates horse racing. Look: if you want the Bretechers, feel free to include them in your quota. Care for a biscuit?”
Clothilde shook her head. Watching her weight as usual, Patrice thought as she helped herself to an oatcake. She had to admit the d’Orignys really knew how to take care of themselves. Just once she would like to get Clothilde into the bright sun without dark glasses and a hat and check out her hairline for facelift scars. How old was she, anyway? Older than Didier, and she looked barely forty. She claimed to go to the same homeopathic doctor as Catherine Deneuve, and Patrice could believe it.
“Listen, Clothilde,” Patrice said. “What I need you to do is suggest two of your friends whom you would trust to wear jewels at the ball.”
“But I trust all my friends,” Clothilde said. A little testily, it seemed to Patrice.
“Of course, of course. But we want only about fifteen people to wear jewelry for the photo session, and not all at