Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [60]
She knew he had intended it as a joke, to be kind, but Lydie couldn’t laugh. The tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, turning away.
“I’m sorry.” Arthur patted her shoulder. She knew he had walked away when she felt Michael’s hand on her back.
“Lydie?” he said. “Lydie?”
“I hate doing this,” she said, truly humiliated, feeling pathetic.
“I wanted you to come,” he said. “The truth is, I hadn’t planned on coming myself, but Arthur kept badgering me about taking the night off, bringing you to this party. I wanted you to come. I’ve been having a good time …”
Lydie gulped until she stopped crying. She wiped her face with the napkin the bartender had handed her with her drink. “If I’ve just learned a lesson, it’s to never make the first date with your husband after he’s moved out a cocktail party at the American Embassy.”
“It was a bad idea,” he agreed.
“Why did you invite me?” Lydie asked. “I don’t get it.”
Michael looked blank. “Because I wanted to. I had to come—for business, to be political. But I thought it might be fun; I thought you might enjoy it.”
So it really was a date. Lydie supposed she should feel happy he had asked her. But after eight years of marriage, how worked up could she get over another courtship?
“I’m going home now,” she said.
“Let’s go out to dinner,” Michael said. “That’s what we should have done in the first place.”
Lydie was silent, considering. She wanted to go. Earlier in the evening, she had imagined dinner with Michael after leaving the party, a bistro dinner within walking distance of their apartment. She shook her head; she felt too mistrustful of him. She felt ugly and disheveled, the way someone would feel who had just had the rug pulled out from under her before an audience she had once hoped to impress. “I can’t,” she said.
“Oh, come on, Lydie,” Michael said in a sweet tone that made Lydie want to cry again. “Don’t we have to start somewhere?”
“I just can’t tonight.”
“Then we’ll do it soon. We should talk,” Michael said.
She didn’t kiss him good-bye. “We should talk,” she thought, walking past the armed police. It sounded like something he would say to an insurance agent. It sounded earnest and casual. Lydie had intended to walk home, but her feet hurt and she felt tired. She changed her mind, headed toward the taxi stand in front of the Crillon. She stood alone for a few minutes before anyone else came.
“Hello there,” said Dot Graulty, leaning against a man who appeared as drunk as she did.
“Hello,” Lydie said, wondering if the man was her husband. It had to be; how could a lover be enticed by her? She was so tipsy, what could there be to look forward to?
“Lost your fellow?” she asked.
“He’s staying late. I’m a little tired.” Lydie scanned the Place de la Concorde for a cab. She saw one coming and planned to let Dot take it, even though Lydie had been there first. Suddenly she thought of Kelly. “Do you handle visas at the embassy?” she asked Dot.
“I’m not in the visa section, no, but after twenty-five years I know a thing or two about visas,” Dot said.
“Because I might want to take my assistant to the United States when I go back,” Lydie said. The cab drew to the curb; the passenger inside was arguing about the fare. “And she’ll need a visa.”
“She’s French?” Dot asked.
“Filipino.”
“Oh, the U.S.A. is tough on them. Call what’s-his-name. The one from Baltimore … Bruce Morrison.”
“Thanks, Dot,” Lydie said. “Why don’t you take this cab?”
“No, honey, you take it,” Dot said, leaning against the man with her eyes closed. “We’ll get the next one. We’re enjoying the air.”
Lydie said good-bye and climbed in. She gave the driver her address, then removed a notepad from her purse and wrote down the name “Bruce Morrison.” By the time she glanced up they had already driven out of the Place de la Concorde, one of her favorite night sights: she loved the fountains, the obelisk, the way the spotlights made all the stately buildings look gold. Driving along the dark, tree-lined Cours Albert Premier, she was