Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [78]
“Listen, Lydie—” Michael said. “I thought you’d want to come to my opening. I suppose you’re not going to invite me to the ball.”
“I haven’t decided,” Lydie said, although until that moment she had intended to invite him.
“Thanks, Lydie.” Long pause, then, coolly, “Are you asking someone else?”
“That’s your style, not mine,” Lydie said.
“Shit,” Michael said.
“I have to go now,” Lydie said.
“This Kelly Merida thing—” Michael said. “I suppose you’re investing all your energy in her now?”
“Not really,” Lydie said, surprised by his vehemence. “But what if I were?”
“Your father used to say your own grades went downhill when you started spending all your time tutoring.”
“My father was full of shit,” Lydie said, hanging up on Michael. She sat there, staring at the phone, all the confidence and good feeling draining out of her, and she knew she was right back where she had been before she opened Michael’s letter box and started reading.
I am off to take my little girl to Livry. Don’t worry about her at all, I look after her extremely well and I’m sure I love her much more than you do.
—TO FRANÇOISE-MARGUERITE, JULY 1672
PATRICE STUDIED THE place card Lydie had just lettered. Now, why was it so much better than the ones Patrice had done? Lydie’s had flair, the way her letters swooped and flowed. They weren’t nearly so neat, so symmetrical, as Patrice’s, but they were undeniably more distinguished. What a waste, that stupid calligraphy class Patrice had taken on Saturday mornings at the Boston Y all during seventh grade. “It will come in so handy, all through your life,” Eliza had said, obviously having graduation and wedding invitations in mind. Yet this was the first chance Patrice had had to use the so-called art.
Well, she wasn’t creative; she had never claimed to be. She sat back in the armchair at the head of Lydie’s dining table, watched Lydie hunched over the little cream-colored card. They had been tentative with each other since Lydie had made her announcement about Kelly’s petition. Patrice wanted very much to overcome her hurt feelings and open her heart to Lydie. “I want to be there for you,” she imagined best friends saying to one another, soulfully, in California. But she and Lydie were just two East Coast girls transplanted to Paris. She thought of the invitation she and Didier had received to Michael’s opening and wondered why Lydie hadn’t mentioned it.
“Mind if I smoke?” Patrice said.
“Go ahead,” Lydie said, not looking up. “This is the third countess I’ve made a card for.”
“Don’t I know it,” Patrice said. “Didier’s inviting all the big guns to this thing. And of course they’re all so excited about the media attention. I mean, I think Didier has led them to believe the photographers will be from Women’s Wear Daily instead of an ad agency. They’re bringing their own hairdressers and makeup artists. Give me a break.”
“Actually, that will make my life easier,” Lydie said. “I won’t have to hire a beauty crew.” She set Countess Abelard’s card aside, started another.
“You’re a regular handwriting factory,” Patrice said.
“Only two hundred more to do,” Lydie said, laying down the crow-quill pen. “I thought we were going to keep this down. How is Didier’s insurance company going to feel about flashing his jewels around all these people?”
“You know only a select few will be chosen to actually wear the d’Origny baubles. Everyone else will mill attractively about in the background.”
“I know, but still. I’m getting nervous I won’t order enough food.”
“Well, make sure,” Patrice said. “It isn’t like America where the chic party girls just pick at their food—over here they actually eat it.”
“Okay.”
“Have you heard how Michael’s project is coming along?” Patrice asked. It seemed the only delicate way to learn whether he had invited Lydie to the opening.
“It’s nearly done,” Lydie said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t invited you to the opening.”
“Well, he did,” Patrice said, relieved to have it off her chest. “I’ve been wondering why