Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [79]
“Yes,” Lydie said. “I told him I wasn’t going, but now I want to. I change my mind every ten minutes.”
“What’s the problem about going? Why wouldn’t you want to?”
“Because I’ve been to it a thousand times—in my mind. Sometimes I go, and everyone whispers about me because Michael and I are separated and he’s there with his girlfriend. Sometimes he’s there with her, but I walk in wearing something new by Sonia Rykiel, and everyone scorns him for leaving such a gorgeous creature as myself.”
“That’s a good one,” Patrice said, giggling. She thought of her own favorite fantasy: the moment when President Mitterand pins the Légion d’honneur to her bosom in recognition of her enlightening study, The Fourth Woman of the Marais, with Didier’s sister Clothilde looking on. If Liz Taylor could win one, why not Patrice?
“The reason I’m not going is because of what I really hope will happen,” Lydie said. “That I’ll walk in and see him with her and at that moment he’ll realize who he really loves: me.”
“That could happen,” Patrice said.
Lydie shook her head. “I doubt it.”
“Are you still leaving France after the ball?” Patrice asked. “Have you told Michael about that?”
“That’s my plan,” Lydie said. “I think Michael was shocked to hear it. It’s strange, though—for a long time, I couldn’t wait to leave. To go home to New York. But I don’t feel it so strongly anymore. The other day, for the first time, I noticed that when I look at my watch, I don’t calculate the time difference between here and New York. I’m living on Paris time now.”
“You mean to say that you would look at your watch, see that it’s noon here, and automatically think it was six A.M. in New York?”
“Yes,” Lydie said. “Didn’t you do that when you first arrived?”
“Never,” Patrice said. “I was very happy to abandon my previous time zone forever. But maybe Kelly does it too. Sometimes, she’ll be doing the breakfast dishes and suddenly say, ‘Now they’re sleeping in the province.’ ”
“It’s a way of staying connected to people at home.”
“When you and Kelly flee the continent, I wonder whether you’ll ever think of me, automatically calculate my time of day.”
“I’m sure I will,” Lydie said, seeming not to notice the edge Patrice permitted to sound in her voice. But it was obvious, after all, that she had: she propped her chin on her hand, leaned forward, said, “You’re still upset about that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Patrice said. “At first I thought it was a little … well … sneaky. The way everything just fell into place the minute I left Paris.”
“But it wasn’t,” Lydie said. “Kelly and I talked about it that time you sent her over with the strawberry jam. Then I met someone from the embassy, and it took off from there.”
“It just seems mighty odd that Kelly couldn’t have mentioned it to me—and that she had to wait until I was out of the picture before she mentioned it to you.”
“I think it was her first opportunity. She’s always working when I go to your house, and she probably figured you’d feel compromised if she asked you to get me to take her to America. She did say you tried to get your mother to take her.”
“That was a lie,” Patrice said sadly. “My mother disapproves of the whole thing. She lied to Kelly just to make me look good. And I went along with it. Isn’t that rotten?”
“I don’t think it was rotten,” Lydie said. “I also don’t think you had to lie.”
This type of frankness was not Patrice’s typical style, and it exhilarated, even frightened her. Saying what was on her mind without veils of subterfuge and Lydie talking right back, neither of them overly fearful of the consequences, was so different from her mother’s untruthful approach to life. Eliza had taught Patrice that history could be rewritten on a whim. Patrice remembered her mother’s visit in July, of the disaster it had really been and the pleasant little twist Eliza had given it for posterity. Perhaps if Patrice hadn’t been an only child, perhaps if she’d had a sister with whom to compare notes …
“That guy from the consulate is going to interview Kelly soon,