Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [81]
“For example,” he said, tapping the petition. “This section here, where you talk about the economy of the Philippines …” He looked up, removed his spectacles, and laughed. “That’s not news to us. Why do you think so many Filipinos want to emigrate to America? The living condition there is atrocious. It’s not a case for you to make—it’s a given.”
“Should I concentrate on why my business can’t run without Kelly?”
“You don’t have to go that far. You must submit evidence that she is indispensable. The paragraph where you say that she knows your taste in objects, that you can send her out to shops and museums to search for props—expand on that.”
“Okay,” Lydie said, making notes. She thought of Kelly walking into Bulgari, asking to see tiaras. It was an impossible image.
“Have you decided where you want her to be interviewed? Paris or Manila?”
“What do you think?” Lydie asked. She glanced up, saw him stuffing tobacco into a pipe.
“She’ll run into trouble either way. The consular section here is very tough on Filipinos in France illegally. We have an arrangement with the French authorities … even if I put in a good word, I’m not sure it would help. But I’ll give it a try. France, then?”
Lydie felt touched that he would say that. She hardly knew him, after all. “France,” Lydie said. “I really appreciate the help you’ve given me.”
“No problem,” he said. “Dot told me to take care of you.” He puffed a cloud of smoke from his pipe, then another.
“Is Dot’s office near here?” Lydie asked. “I’d like to thank her.”
“Let me walk you over,” Bruce said, coming around his desk to hold the back of Lydie’s chair as she stood. His hand brushed her shoulder.
“Have you lived in Paris long?” Lydie asked.
“Three years. I’m a bachelor,” he said. Cleverly working it in? Although everything had been businesslike between them, Lydie had been waiting to feel sexual tension. They were practically the same age; she wanted to test whether he found her attractive. She had hoped for it, yet the waiting put her on edge, made her feel almost angry.
But that accidental brush was all. He didn’t even meet her eye. Naturally a guy who wears spectacles and a bow tie would be gallant, Lydie thought. Pulling back her chair went along with the Scottish country-house decor of his office: sporting prints of water birds and steeplechasers, the pipe rack, the tattered Persian rug. She bet he had a first edition of Ivanhoe somewhere around.
At the door of Dot Graulty’s office he shook her hand.
“Let me know if you need more help,” he said.
“Thank you for everything,” Lydie said.
Dot, sober, rose to greet her. Today she wore a trim navy blue suit that still managed to look matronly.
“Lydie McBride, isn’t it?” she said.
“You have a good memory!” Lydie said, shaking her hand. “I just want to thank you for putting me in touch with Bruce Morrison. He’s been so helpful.”
“He’s a peach, isn’t he?” Dot said. “Knows everything there is to know about visas.”
“Well, he certainly gave me good advice,” Lydie said. “I made my affidavit much too personal.”
“That is such a common mistake,” Dot said. “Just between you, me, and the wall, we have a good laugh over some of the sob stories we get here. There’s always a sick child or a poverty case or persecution by the dictator. When we get to the word ‘scurvy,’ we’re rolling on the floor.”
Lydie, who found the confidence offensive, laughed politely. She thought of Kelly riding through the Black Forest in the trunk of a limousine, and tried to maintain a pleasant expression.
“Let me take a look at your petition,” Dot said.
“No, really—” Lydie said.
“I promise not to laugh. I shouldn’t have said anything to you—you’ll think we’re terrible. But you do get hardened. Give me a peek.”
Anything for the cause. Lydie handed it over. “Um, what do you do here, Dot?” she asked.
“I’m in charge of all the secretaries. I used to be personal secretary to Ambassador McGovern.” She scrutinized