Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [92]
“Which one?”
“The one who looks like a Minister.”
“Yes?”
“He’s Jacques de Vauvray, the Minister of Culture. The guy he’s standing with—the stumpy one? He’s Pierre Dauphin, a sort-of friend of Didier’s.”
“I think I’ve heard Michael mention him,” Lydie said. She could see Michael now, talking to a man covered with war decorations. By the way he edged back, she knew he had seen her and was trying to end the conversation. “Here he comes,” she said.
“Did I say I need to use the ladies’ room?” Patrice asked diplomatically, but Michael had already joined them.
“Hello,” he said. The moment was awkward. He should have kissed Patrice’s cheeks, but how could he do that without kissing Lydie?
“It’s wonderful,” Lydie said of the Salle. “I love that painting.” Michael glanced up at Apollo and Daphne. He had had his hair cut for the occasion. Was it Lydie’s imagination, or was that hair oil? She had never seen him use it before, but she thought he looked handsome, his wavy hair slightly slicked back, like someone from the Lost Generation. “The painting was my second choice,” he said.
He wore a double-breasted pinstriped suit that looked extremely European compared to his usual single-breasted blazers from Brooks Brothers or J. Press. His shoes were not shoes at all, but boots. Ankle-high black boots with slightly pointed toes: Italian jodhpur boots. Lydie could hardly believe it. She had a clinical urge to engage him in conversation—like a graduate student doing research to learn how deeply he had changed—but she felt speechless.
“This is the most fantastic information center I have ever seen,” Patrice said. “It’s beautiful and informative. I do have one question, though: where’s the ladies’ room?”
“Through that door,” Michael said, pointing.
As Patrice walked away, Lydie resumed watching Michael.
“So, you like it?” he asked.
“Yes—a lot,” she said. She knew she should tell him what she liked and why, but she felt totally captivated by his personal affects: hair, clothes, shoes.
“Didier’s kept me up-to-date on the ball,” Michael said, “but what’s happening with Kelly?”
“She’ll be interviewed at the embassy soon,” Lydie said. “Can I ask—is that hair oil you’re wearing?”
“Greasy kid stuff,” Michael said, grinning.
“No kidding,” she said. “It looks good.”
“There’ll be pictures later, and I didn’t want to look too American. Give the journalists fuel for their fire.”
Now Lydie looked around. She found the Salle very comfortable and harmonious, the paintings well positioned, the information table solid and authentic. “Why are you worried?” she asked. “This place does just what it should do: it provides information in a gallery atmosphere. If there’s a long line at the information desk, people can look around at the paintings.”
“That was the idea,” Michael said. “I’m glad you think it works.”
Under cover of social pleasantries, passionate looks were passing between Lydie and Michael. She felt a burning desire to touch his hand. She wanted him to bend her over backwards in a long kiss. It hit her hard, the fact that everything that had happened might be worth it if they could fall in love all over again. How many couples, after all this time, had the chance to feel the intensity of new love?
“Can I get you something?” Michael asked. “How about a glass of champagne?”
“Sure,” Lydie said. “That would be fine.”
As he walked away, Lydie surveyed the room. There, in the corner, was Patrice talking to Anne Dumas. The sight of them, her tall friend and the dwarfish home-wrecker, brought Lydie out of the romantic mist. She watched them, chatting like two old friends, and felt a variety of things: hatred for Anne, fury at Patrice for being civil to her, curiosity for what they were talking about. Michael came back with the drinks.
Lydie accepted the champagne and drank a sip of it. She had known this would likely happen, that the possibility of running into Anne Dumas was strong. She felt her teeth against the glass.
“Don’t let it upset you,