Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [68]
“You’re back,” Lydie said. “I didn’t expect you until Monday.”
“Didier decided the office couldn’t survive another day without him.”
“Come in,” Lydie said, standing aside. “God, you look great—so tan!”
That’s more like it, Patrice thought. That’s the sort of greeting she wanted from her best friend. She stood in the middle of the room, looked out Lydie’s big windows at the Seine, then turned, beaming, to wrap Lydie in a big hug.
“How was your vacation?” Lydie asked.
“And I missed you too!” Patrice said, stepping back.
Lydie gave her a smile, the first one Patrice had seen. “I missed you,” she said.
“Which do you want to hear about first? The seclusion experience or the Paris-by-the-sea experience? This is for you.”
Lydie took the parao, wrapped it around herself. “It’s beautiful. I’ll wear it at the beach next summer and think of you. Let’s sit out on the terrace,” she said. “That way you can update your tan.”
“This time yesterday I was lying on the beach, those little cups over my eyes … oh, well.” As she spoke, Patrice tossed back her head, looked at the sky. “Two days ago, however, we had lunch at Club 55, which is more Paris than Paris. The only people we didn’t know we recognized from films.”
“The best of both worlds.”
“In many ways, Saint-Tropez is our Paris concentrated into one small area. Like frozen orange juice before you add the water. Didier has a bunch of pals from the old days—from school, college, his first marriage, his second marriage, a regular rat pack. They all were there.”
“Do you like them?”
“Yes, but …” Patrice said, smiling slyly. “A little goes a long way. You should have come. I’d have had a great time, filling you in on the intrigues. Who’s sleeping with whom, who’s slept with whose wife.”
“That sounds sordid,” Lydie said, shocking Patrice with her bitterness. She sat on the deck chair, knees drawn up, scowling.
“It is sordid. That’s the point,” Patrice said quietly, trying to get the lay of the land. “That’s why I wish you had been there.”
“I didn’t think Didier went in for that sort of thing,” Lydie said.
“Of course he doesn’t. He’s a big prude. But I’m telling you, his friends are like a fraternity—they have the average mentality of twenty-year-olds. All they think about are their penises and their wallets.” Patrice stared at Lydie. “Maybe we should talk about seclusion instead. Let’s see … our house was very secluded. Days went by when we saw no one but each other. The sky was very blue. The sea was even bluer. Most of the time, Club 55 was just a bad memory. Do you like me again?”
Lydie nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. Patrice noticed shadows under her eyes. She looked terrible. “What?” Patrice said, touching the back of her hand.
“Michael is staying at a hotel.”
From the look in Lydie’s eyes, Patrice knew the hotel wasn’t in Dubrovnik. “He’s moved out?” Patrice asked. When Lydie didn’t answer, Patrice squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry. I never would have thought …” She shook her head. “I know you said there was trouble, but I never would have thought …”
“Neither would I,” Lydie said. Suddenly she seemed unblocked. Her eyes went wild. “I didn’t realize how extreme things had gotten. He’s moved out. Patrice, he’s in love with someone else!”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Patrice said. The only word for Lydie’s expression—for the dazed look in her eyes and the way her shoulders slumped—was “devastated.” To come to Paris married—in love with your husband—and to have him leave you for another woman must be the worst thing in the world.
“It’s terrible,” Lydie echoed.
“When did you find out about this?”
“A few weeks ago.” Lydie glanced up, a slightly fearful cast to her eyes—as if she thought Patrice would feel offended that Lydie hadn’t called to tell her.
“Don’t worry,” Patrice said. “I understand you had to keep it to yourself.”
“It’s not that,” Lydie said. “I’m thinking of what I just said—that it’s been weeks. At first I thought he’d come home after a few days.”