Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [43]
“How was your trip, Mrs. Spofford?” Lydie asked.
“Oh, call me Eliza. You make me feel so old. It was fine, thank you for asking. So much easier, now that Air France flies out of Logan. I only wish we had more time in Paris, instead of going straight to the Riviera.”
“Imagine,” Patrice said. “Having to spend a month at a house built into the cliff overlooking the sea. With a saltwater pool. Torture.”
“Darling,” Eliza said. “Saint-Tropez is lovely. But there is so much I want to do in Paris—I want to see that ghastly pyramid, I want to spend a day at least in the Musée d’Orsay, sitting right in front of those Degas horses. And I want to visit dear Sainte Chapelle, which has been closed the last two times I visited you. Is that unreasonable?”
“How do you know it’s ghastly if you haven’t even seen it?” Patrice asked, lighting a cigarette. At that moment the waiter brought their first course, salade de langoustines; Patrice gave him a dirty look, as if she thought his timing was deliberate, and put out the cigarette.
“Patrice loves the pyramid,” Lydie said.
“Didier tells me your husband was chosen out of an enormous field of architects to work on the Louvre,” Eliza said. “I think that is stunning. I don’t know anyone who’s worked on the Louvre.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell him you said so,” Lydie said.
“This is delicious, isn’t it, Patsy?” Eliza said.
Patrice said nothing. She prodded a langoustine with her fork. Lydie felt her stomach tighten as Patrice craned her neck, looking for a waiter. Don’t do it, Lydie thought, willing her friend to behave.
“This fish is not fresh,” Patrice said to the waiter. “Send over the maître d’.”
“Madame, I shall take care of it myself,” the waiter said, gathering the plates. Eliza Spofford wore an expression of pure astonishment.
“Put those plates down and send me the maître d’,” Patrice said, her voice rising.
“Right away, madame,” the waiter said. He hurried away.
“My dear, they are fine,” Eliza said. “Maybe a tinge of iodine, but that’s par for the course with crustaceans. Now, don’t spoil a nice lunch.”
Patrice no longer looked angry, but she looked bold, as if she had a mission. “How can we have a nice lunch if the fish is bad? You know what happens if one eats bad fish? One vomits, and one has to spend the day in bed.” To the maître d’, who had been standing by, she said in a cool tone, “We don’t come to a restaurant like this to eat rotten langoustines. Bring us something different.”
“What would madame desire?”
“Don’t give me that shit,” Patrice said. “Look in your larder and bring us whatever is fresh.”
Lydie looked away. Although the red umbrella blocked direct sun, it absorbed the heat, and Lydie felt sweat on her brow. The atmosphere was airless.
“I think I’ll take this opportunity to powder my nose,” Eliza said, pushing back her chair, striding with dignity into the hotel lobby.
“Those langoustines were perfectly fine,” Lydie said. “I think you’re acting like a jerk.”
“Fuck you. Didn’t you see the expression on her face as she said how delicious it was? Pure distaste. Believe me, she would have suffered through it, and tonight she would have told Didier it tasted like iodine.”
“It was delicious. Why did you invite your mother to visit you if you’re going to be mean the entire time?”
“Listen, I know you love your mother, and I think you’re lucky. But all my love goes to Didier, not my mother. You don’t know her. She is perfectly capable of being pleasant at a little luncheon. I know what’s happening—you’ll leave here thinking I’m cruel, one of those parent abusers they’re starting to write about in People magazine.”
“I don’t think that,” Lydie said. She was silent, looking across the wide table at Patrice. “I know it’s hard for you. She seems really nice, but I believe you if you tell me she’s not.”
“She’s not.”
“She’s beautiful. She looks so young.”
Patrice snorted. “She’s