Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [52]
“I know—Didier sent a note to my office.”
“You didn’t tell me!”
Michael smiled at her. “I just received it. I’m telling you now.”
And suddenly Lydie had the terrible, electric feeling that she was not only nagging him, but turning into a nag: a harpy with a perpetually downturned mouth, with frown lines between the brows, with a caw instead of a voice.
“Let’s go to Saint-Tropez,” she said, lowering her voice an octave. “I’ll go topless on the beach.”
“You don’t have to,” Michael said. Lydie, who had so far been too modest to bare her breasts or even wear a bikini at any French beach, suddenly smiled and began to slowly roll up her T-shirt. They lived on the top floor; who besides Michael could possibly see her? She walked around the table toward him and sat facing him on his lap. Michael held her away, so he could look down at her breasts. Then his hands covered them and he kissed her lips. Lydie began to shiver. His kiss was soft and lazy, off to a slow start, and his arms went around her as Lydie began to unbutton his shirt.
He was pressing against her so hard she couldn’t move her fingers. The kiss stopped; they rested their heads on each other’s shoulders. It took some time for Lydie to realize that they were no longer hugging, but clutching each other. Michael whispered “Lydie,” but he didn’t seem to want her to reply.
The atmosphere in Paris turned close, unstable. Every morning the sky was white, and nothing relieved the heat until late afternoon when thunder would rumble east from Brittany, rain would pour down, and lightning twice struck the Eiffel Tower. Lydie caught a summer cold. She spent two days sitting in her living room, a washcloth and a bowl of ice water on the floor beside her, watching the weather change. The tableau of blank sky replaced by violet storm clouds seemed malevolent, biblical, like an Old Testament scene painted by Géricault.
Michael would call to see if she was okay. “I’m fine,” she would say, and that was all, even when her fever was 104. Something had passed between them, that night on the terrace, and now his solicitous inquiries for her health reminded her of a man calling his ailing ex-wife: it cost him little and meant nothing.
Or was she delirious? She didn’t really know. Her throat was parched, her skin dry. She didn’t have the energy to get to the bottom of anything. She was a cool, uncurious observer. Lying on her back she let herself drift into a trance where she and Michael didn’t love each other. What was “falling out of love,” anyway, but a mystical phrase for something painfully mundane: you stop caring about each other. You no longer ache for each other. You don’t mind being alone; perhaps you prefer it. Falling out of love: it didn’t happen overnight.
Then the shock of the notion roused her from her trance. Do you really have to work so late? Why don’t we make love? Why had she never asked the questions? She knew why: Lydie did not want to hear the true story. She had been raised in a house where you kept your troubles, no matter how awful, to yourself, where you were told to stop crying, where things, bad and even sometimes good, were willfully ignored until they went away or blew up in your face.
Patrice called. The sound of her voice made Lydie cry, but she did not let Patrice know.
“In less than an hour someone will appear at your door bearing gifts,” Patrice said.
“What are you, the Delphic Oracle?” Lydie asked.
“No, I’m a fortune cookie. How are you?”
“Sick. I have a cold.”
“You poor thing! I must have gotten vibes, because I’m having Kelly bring you a little something.”
“Really? What?”
“You’ll see.”
“Well, thanks in advance. How’s the beach?”
“Fantastic. I’m tan, and I mean all over. No bikini lines. Why haven’t you and Michael come yet?”
“Work. They’ve started construction at the Louvre. Michael is thrilled.”
“I’m very proud of him,” Patrice said. “Why don’t you come alone?”
Lydie didn’t answer for a second. “I’m busy too. Getting everything ready for the ball. By the way, I had invitations printed.