Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [13]
“That’s not so awful,” Lydie said.
Patrice noticed Lydie’s clothes, which were good. A sleek black suit, not haute couture, but well made. Heavy silver earrings and bracelets. Tiffany, probably. Saving her place, she closed her book. “Shall we go upstairs?”
“I’d love to,” Lydie said.
Patrice preceded Lydie through the barrel-vaulted arcade that led to her front door. She was composing a little speech in her mind; if she struck the right balance between housewife and tour guide, she wouldn’t sound as though she were bragging.
“These houses were built in 1612,” she said, “and Didier bought an apartment in one of them ten years ago, from descendants of the original owner. Pity they had to subdivide. Here’s the spot where Henri II died after someone put his eye out in a joust. They used to hold jousts in the square until Catherine de Medici called them off. She was Henri’s widow.” Patrice nodded toward a heavy wooden door whose panels were held together by iron bolts. “That’s an original door. A princess lives there.”
“The age of Europe knocks me out,” Lydie said. “Everything seems venerable and ancient.”
“America is practically brand new,” Patrice said. Usually people were impressed when she mentioned the princess. It pleased her that Lydie was not. Then she pushed the button beside her front door, and they stepped off the square into a cobbled courtyard. Patrice led Lydie up one flight of stairs. “We don’t need an elevator for one flight because Didier and I are spry and youthful, but you should see certain older Parisians who come to dinner. Of course we tell them an elevator would spoil the character of the building.”
“Does every Paris building have some excuse for not having an elevator?” Lydie asked. “Our concierge told Michael there’s an old man in our building who has blocked an elevator for years because when he dies he wants his pallbearers to carry him downstairs in dignity. He claims if there were an elevator, his pallbearers would use it.”
“Poor guy,” Patrice said, finding her key and unlocking the heavy door. “He’ll probably keel over on the street and never even get to travel dead through the building.” She glanced around for Kelly, heard water running in the kitchen.
“This is truly incredible,” Lydie said, surveying the interior.
“It’s nice, isn’t it? Didier already had it when I married him, so I can’t take credit.” Patrice glanced at the Gobelins tapestry and wondered what a stylist like Lydie would make of it. She wondered whether Lydie would realize that many of the other pieces were copies. Most people could not.
Lydie turned around and around, her gaze lighting on the important pieces in a way that satisfied Patrice. Warm light slanting through the front windows made Lydie’s hair look more golden than red. When Patrice knew her better she would suggest a hair salon that specialized in the use of real Luxor henna. “Is Didier a collector?” Lydie asked.
“Well, mainly he just raided his grandmother’s attic, but yes, he does enjoy collecting.”
“Is d’Origny Bijoutiers …?” Lydie began.
“The family business,” Patrice said. She felt so happy to have Lydie over. She had really missed it, the casual visit to or from a friend. “Just wanted to say hi,” she used to say to Lynn or Holly, her two best friends in Boston. A conversation of no particular importance would ensue over tea or a drink: some gossip, or perhaps the story of a small disagreement with her boss. Occasionally a lengthy reminiscence about the past. About old boyfriends. Such a conversation with Clothilde would never be possible.
“Let’s sit down,” Patrice said. “Can I get you something?”
“Not right now,” Lydie said. “A couple of hours with those models has shown me the need to starve.”
“I think you look great,” Patrice said.
They both smiled, recognizing familiar patterns of girl talk.
“Tell me how you met your husband,” Patrice said.
“We first met in high school. We grew up in New York.”
“High school sweethearts?”
“No, we didn’t know each other well. I went to the convent