Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [33]
“It’s a bore,” Didier said. “It’s like going into a jewelry store and asking to see the rings and watching the salesman hold out the display case.”
“I think the stylist wanted the jewelry to speak for itself,” Lydie said. “I mean, each piece is so striking.” She couldn’t stop staring at the eye.
“Of course it’s striking—it’s fucking diamonds, for heaven’s sake. Look, we don’t need to sell the jewels. They do that for themselves. But we need to perpetrate creativity, and we need to have a little fun.”
“A little fun is good,” Lydie said.
“I mean, that piece you did on Bulgarian royalty was fun. That old dutchess with the seven chins and the pearl choker hidden somewhere in there. I liked that.”
Lydie smiled. She didn’t bother to correct him, to tell him the dutchess had been Hungarian.
“You should know that the magazine editor was responsible for printing that photo,” Lydie said. “I had another shot, one that I preferred, of the choker in the dutchess’s jewelry chest. At least as boring as black velvet.”
“Not so,” Didier said, shaking his head. “Everyone wants to look inside a dutchess’s jewel chest. That is fascinating. I would consider it a privilege, as long as you didn’t rearrange what was there to make it more interesting or photogenic. Did you rearrange anything?”
“Yes,” Lydie said.
“Well, that is the illusion. It is disappointing to know after the fact, but no one who read Vogue that month would have guessed. Except maybe another stylist—the rest of us would have been fooled. So, what do you think? Can you put my jewelry into a story?”
“A story?” Lydie asked.
“A tale. Something that will live off the page.”
Lydie sat back, thinking of the possibilities. She found jewelry one of the best items to style with; because it could be moved, worn, displayed so imaginatively, it was much easier to work with than, say, brass lamps or crystal animals. Telling a story to show off jewelry would be a cinch. She thought of fairy tales, with queens and princesses wearing sapphire crowns, of a jewel thief escaping on the Orient Express, of a space explorer zooming through constellations of diamonds. Yet Lydie had not accepted a major project since moving to Paris. She had taken on small assignments that might require an hour or two of research and an afternoon of shooting, things that could be wrapped in a day.
She thought back to that evening on the quai when she had stood on her toes to kiss Michael. She remembered feeling a shivery sense of change, a hint of life getting back to normal. She had that same sense now. Didier sat across the desk from her regarding her with—what? She gazed back at him and decided it was appreciation. Lydie remembered his ideal, many-faceted woman, and wondered whether she measured up. She smiled at Didier.
“Yes?” Didier asked.
“Yes,” Lydie said. They shook on it.
Michael sat on the terrace, looking over the Seine. It was ten o’clock and still not dark. A barge slid by, its engine thudding gently. Voices, jolly and a little raucous, carried up from the quai, and then they were gone. He stared at his book, not reading it. Lydie moved around inside, cleaning up after dinner.
He looked down the river, wondering where Anne lived. In the kitchen the water had stopped running; that meant Lydie had finished and would soon be out. What did it mean, that he would rather fantasize about Anne than spend time with his own wife? He saw Anne in his mind: so soft and small, nude, instantly responsive to his touch. He imagined his hand resting on the base of her back, where it curved into her ass.
Here came Lydie, pulling a chair close. He thought of touching Lydie, of how she responded to his touch: she tightened. She didn’t exactly pull away, but she drew into herself. She didn’t want to be touched. Making love, she felt stiff, all bones and joints. Remembering how it used to be, how his secret image at the moment of coming with Lydie had been a mouth—kissing, open, warm and wet—he had to look away from her.
“I’m looking forward to working with Didier,” she said.
“It sounds good,” Michael