Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [32]
Lydie had to pass the Louvre to get to d’Origny Bijoutiers. She glanced up, wishing she had time to stop in to see Michael, but she was nearly late for her appointment with Didier. That sort of unplanned visit was the sort of thing Michael loved, the sort of thing they had done constantly when they were first married. But Lydie didn’t berate herself, the way she would have just days ago, before dinner at Patrice’s. She felt good, excited about her meeting; she didn’t want to waste time feeling sorry for anything. She just hurried along, wondering how the meeting would go.
The d’Origny offices overlooked the Place Vendôme, the view from the front window bisected by the great bronze column. To Lydie, this was the most refined spot in Paris. The architecture was grand and pristine and uniform. Across the Place stood the Ritz. She crossed her legs and imagined her stockings were real silk. Except for the receptionist, Lydie had seen only men so far, and it struck her as funny that a jewelry company would employ no women.
“Madame McBride?” the receptionist said after five minutes. She tilted her head in a discreet manner and led Lydie down a walnut-paneled corridor to an office with an even larger window facing the Place.
“What a view!” she said to Didier, who was coming around his Louis XVI escritoire to kiss her cheeks. He seemed to bend from the waist, he was so tall. His black suit was impeccable, certainly custom-tailored, the perfect garment to wear to an office on the Place Vendôme.
“You know, it is beautiful,” Didier said, frowning as he faced the window, “but it is a fucking bore. Nothing happening out there. Just rich Americans going in and out of the Ritz.”
Lydie laughed. “Rich Americans crossing the Place to buy baubles from you.”
Didier scowled. “You would think so, but they come into the store looking for trinkets—little things like keychains and money clips that would make souvenirs for the people back home.” Then his face relaxed into an easy smile. “But some want the big pieces. More Japanese and Arabs than Americans, these days.”
“So, how can I help you?” Lydie asked.
“We just fired the man who was going to direct our next series of advertisements, and I would like you to take over.”
“What was wrong with his work?”
“Everything,” Didier said. “And I’ll tell you, we’re willing to sink a lot of money into these ads. We want to update the company a little. I’ve finally convinced the board that our image is too staid.”
“Did your father start this business?” Lydie asked.
“My father’s great-great-grandfather started it. He was jeweler to the last King of France. Yes—many of the crowns and scepters you see in the Louvre were designed by our house.”
“And the offices have always been in this building?”
“Oh, yes.” Didier laughed. He motioned Lydie to a tufted satin sofa and sat beside her. He lit a cigarette. “But of course the Place was not always so grand. It was just a swamp, and monks used to come here to bugger each other. They were cruising through the mud for pickups. You know, there were a lot of monks in Paris in those days, and many of them had their dwellings on the Rue de Castiglione, which then was just a dirt path. The intellectual monks on one side, and the brute monks on the other side. They drove each other crazy.”
“With lust?” Lydie asked.
“Absolutely,” Didier said. “Those guys were always getting it up the ass.”
Lydie smiled, a little shocked that Didier would say such rude things about monks. She watched him reach for a black lizard portfolio and spread some photographs across his knees.
“These are the pictures I was telling you about,” he said. Lydie examined the photographs, which showed set and unset jewels arranged on abstract forms covered with black velvet. A diamond and ruby tiara; a necklace of important sapphires; two unset diamonds; a brooch of diamonds and sapphires in the unsettling shape of an eye. All were wedged, nestled, or draped within folds of black velvet in a manner Lydie supposed the stylist had intended to be sensual.
“It’s a little unimaginative,