Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [94]
“Isn’t he a talented man!” Anne said, dimpling again.
“Well, she’s just as talented,” Patrice said forcefully, leaving no doubt. “She’s staging an incredible ball at Château Bellechasse, which, as you must know, is a gem of eighteenth-century architecture.”
“Well, eighteenth century,” Anne said, scoffing. Her gaze enveloped the Salle, taking everything in. “Now, this is a marvel. I feel all of the seventeenth century in this room, as concentrated as bouillon. I feel that I can almost drink it.”
“It is superb,” Patrice agreed. At that instant she made a wish: that Lydie’s ball would be superb, that it would outshine Michael’s triumph. Where Patrice had once thought of it only as the “d’Origny ball,” she found herself thinking of it more often as “Lydie’s ball.” What did that mean? Lydie was the artist, but Didier was putting up the money and the jewels. As an only child, Patrice had long found it hard to turn the spotlight on someone else. But she felt she was doing it now: making Lydie shine. She felt like a magician doing sleight of hand. Illuminating Lydie for Michael and the public while at the same time shielding her from Anne.
Thus, it shocked and dismayed Patrice when, twenty minutes later, Michael reported that Lydie had left. Patrice ate some hors d’oeuvres and made small talk with Pierre and Giselle Dauphin. As soon as she and Didier arrived home, she telephoned Lydie.
“You couldn’t even say good-bye?” Patrice asked, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice.
“You were talking to Anne Dumas,” Lydie said. “I’m really sorry. I told Michael to say good-bye for me.”
“Well, he did,” Patrice said, unable to define the source of her disappointment. “You didn’t have to leave, you know. It was obvious Michael wants to be with you.”
“I couldn’t stand seeing her. What were you two so intent on?”
“The seventeenth century,” Patrice said. “I was keeping her out of your hair.” Then it dawned on her: she had been distracting Anne Dumas, a woman whom she had admired for longer than she had known Lydie, in order to protect Lydie. And she felt annoyed with Lydie for not acting appropriately grateful.
“The seventeenth century, well …” Lydie said. “She must be crazy about the Salle des Quatre Saisons. Isn’t it great?”
“Great,” Patrice said. “What did you and the architect have to say?”
Lydie was silent, but Patrice could almost hear her smiling. “It’s getting better,” she said after a moment.
“Lovely,” Patrice said, now even more annoyed with Lydie for keeping her conversation with Michael such a big secret. “Should we plan tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Isn’t tomorrow our little pilgrim’s big day? Her interview?”
“Of course,” Lydie said. “Two o’clock? Near Smith’s?”
“See you there,” Patrice said. She felt deflated. She felt herself collapsing inward, like an empty corn husk. She hadn’t harbored a mean thought toward Kelly for quite some time, but here she was wondering what embarrassing thing Kelly would choose to wear tomorrow.
She stretched out on her chaise longue. Three Women of the Marais lay open across the tufted arm. She tried to close it, but it had lain there for so long it seemed permanently divided at page 340 into two sections. Lydie, no, events, had taken away her pleasure in reading it. She thought of Lydie, alone in her apartment, a thrilling little smile on her face. She could imagine Lydie reliving her meeting with Michael, her imagination listening for what he had said, fathoming what he had not. Lydie, Patrice felt sure, was in the throes of love.
“Hello, my baby,” Didier said in his soft, low voice. He sat at the end of the chaise and commenced rubbing Patrice’s feet.
“Hi,” she said.
“You look so far away,” he said. “What is bothering you?”
“Nothing,” Patrice said, then, “Do you think I’m interesting enough?”
Didier frowned. He stopped rubbing her foot, held it lightly in his hand. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, am I boring because I don’t have work like Lydie’s?”
Didier resumed his massage, and his face relaxed. “If you were