Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [58]
She made sure to arrive home every night before dark. She told herself that coming home alone, late, to an empty house was dangerous. But had she always felt that way? When Michael was away on business trips? When he had a late dinner with George or clients and she had the chance to see a movie with Julia or a friend? She had never before felt menaced by an empty house. But now it seemed safer to install herself early, before night fell, when the simple transition from daylight to darkness signified less than to walk in late, after dinner, and realize that she was the only one there.
She told no one that Michael had moved out. She told herself that the reason for this was to prove him wrong, to show that she didn’t need to tell her mother and Patrice everything. In fact, she felt ashamed of the situation and she feared that talking about it would make it more real. Although Michael called often, six days passed without her seeing him. But she came awake, wide awake, on the morning of the seventh day, when he invited her to a cocktail party at the American Embassy.
“Arthur Chase invited me,” Michael said. “Would you like to go?”
“Yes. That would be nice,” Lydie said, shocked. She had expected that their first meeting would be private, a chance to talk about their troubles during dinner or a long walk. How weird this felt, being asked out, as if on a date, by Michael. What would she wear? Would he pick her up or meet her there? In the end, they decided to meet in the bar of the Hôtel Crillon, across the street from the embassy.
“Hi,” Lydie said when he entered. She felt happy when he kissed her.
“You look pretty,” he said, taking in her black linen suit, the silver necklace he had given her for their fifth anniversary, her hair held back by tortoiseshell combs. His face was set, grave, as though he was afraid of what was about to happen. He called the waiter, ordered two Lillets.
Drinking, she began to relax. She began to remember other cocktail hours with him. He was telling her about his day, a truly familiar topic. She listened avidly about the project, how construction was making a mess of the Louvre, how he expected to see a finished information center in three weeks.
“It’s just wonderful,” she said, meaning his work. If he would only look at her, into her eyes instead of at her hands, she would smile in a way that would make him love her.
“Thank you,” he said. Then, before the drinks were half gone, “Shall we go? We shouldn’t be late.”
“It’s just across the street …”
“I know, but I think we should go.”
She sensed that he felt confused, was perhaps having a better time than he had expected to. She went along with him. Just ride it out, she said to herself, suddenly feeling superior, more adept. Bear with him, he’ll get over this. She wore a secret smile. She stood behind him as he paid the waiter, noting the cut of his suit. His body was so trim, like that of a twenty-year-old athlete instead of a nearly forty-year-old architect. She longed to touch the small of his back.
She knew few people at the party, but Michael seemed to know everyone. He introduced her to an American painter, some American businessmen, an editor from a French publishing