Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [23]
Charles wouldn’t know a frank response if it bit him in the ass. Michael mistrusted any guy who took as long to dress as Charles obviously did. Could his eyelashes be that dark naturally? Walking the corridor that ran the length of the third floor, Michael knew he was thinking like an asshole. He passed the offices of other curators; glancing into one open door, he saw windows that gave onto the Seine and the Left Bank. Just before he reached the stairs, he heard Anne’s voice.
Michael stopped dead. The mere sound of her voice made his heart beat faster. So this was where she worked. Every day she passed him downstairs; they would talk for a minute or two, or wave, and that was all. He tried to see inside, but her door was open only a crack. A male voice answered her. Michael did not think it could be Jean; the accent was too refined. He leaned against the stone wall. It felt smooth and cool, and it stung Michael like an electric shock. He was jealous of a faceless voice. The realization disgusted him, and he hurried down the stairs.
Patrice had harbored a curiosity about Lydie’s work since meeting her, so she felt especially eager to watch Lydie in action on what Lydie was calling “the rose project.” They strolled together through the Bagatelle. Although it was early morning, the heat flourished. Patrice realized that Lydie had hoped for mist, but what she had was steam. Patrice found the setting relaxing. Songbirds in the trees, roses everywhere. But Lydie moved with such purpose, obviously working, that Patrice didn’t want to interrupt her by spouting pleasantries.
“This idea might be a flop,” Lydie said, reaching into her bag for an antique doily. She scanned the closest bush for the perfect rose on which to place it.
“Isn’t that pretty?” Patrice said.
“Martine!” Lydie called the photographer and her assistant and spoke to them in French. “Will you shoot this, please? No, into the sun—make it hazy.”
“Soft focus?” the photographer asked.
“No, sharp,” Lydie said. “Let the light soften it for you.”
Lydie arranged the linens, and Martine took pictures of them, angling the shots from above or below, depending on Lydie’s direction. Patrice reached for a linen napkin, slightly yellow with age. If it had ever been folded, the creases had been pressed out of it. That made her think of Kelly, of the pile of ironing Patrice had left her to do. When Kelly ironed a sheet, her expression looked as solemn, as intent as Lydie’s did now. Yet how could she compare Lydie’s job with Kelly’s drudge work? Days had passed since Kelly’s last session on the computer. Patrice sensed, uneasily, that since Lydie’s arrival on the scene, she had begun neglecting Kelly.
A rose garden seemed the perfect place for Lydie to be, Lydie with her translucent white skin and fine copper hair. Patrice felt so big beside her, but she was spared a true feeling of insecurity by the knowledge that her own sundress, from St. Laurent, was a bit better than Lydie’s, from Tiktiner. She felt that they had just arrived, but Lydie already seemed to be wrapping things up. Yet when she checked her watch, she saw that fifty minutes had passed.
“Four rolls of film should be plenty,” Lydie said. “Were you bored?” Martine had moved to the shade of an oak tree, to pack her camera cases and drink some orangeade. Lydie tipped the thermos, handed Patrice a cupful.
“Not at all.” Patrice surveyed the scene: napkins and doilies draped over buds and roses and leaves. It suddenly struck her as hilarious, grown women arranging linens on rosebushes. She laughed, and so did Lydie. Lydie downed her orangeade