Secrets of Paris (15 page)

“You say they will rent it for the weekend?” Didier asked.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s take it from Friday night through Sunday and make a country-house weekend of it. Hold the ball on Saturday night and shoot the ads then. We justify the expense of the château by using friends as guests instead of paid actors.”

“That’s clever,” said Lydie, who had been thinking the same thing. “When do you think we should stage it? After August, when people are back from vacation?”

“Absolutely. After the
rentrée
, at the end of September. Give people something to look forward to.” Lydie heard him clucking at his end of the wire. “Especially Patrice,” he said. “I suppose she has told you about her mother? Last night I had to give a tranquilizer to the poor girl.”

“I know she seems to be under a strain,” Lydie said. She had not yet met Mrs. Spofford, and although she knew that some women did not like their mothers, she thought Patrice’s bad reaction to her mother’s arrival petulant and mean. Patrice had said her mother didn’t travel easily. Lydie wondered how Mrs. Spofford must feel, coming to Europe to visit her only daughter and finding her furious. Patrice had said to Lydie, “I’m in a killing rage anytime she’s in the room.”

“I am mad about your ideas,” Didier said. “In marketing meetings I tell my managers, ‘Take a look at
this
plan, you assholes.’ Listen, we will divide the guest list in two. You invite half, I invite half.”

“Michael and I don’t know that many people in Paris,” Lydie said. “We’ll ask ten guests, you can have the rest. Will Patrice’s mother still be here?”

“God willing, no,” Didier said.

When she hung up the phone, Lydie took notes on ideas for the ball. If the weather was fine, perhaps they could hold it outdoors. She would have to arrange for a sumptuous banquet. She envisioned oysters, spider crabs, a roast capon, something
en croute
, platters of
tartes
, Paris-Brest, and petits fours. Every guest would be required to come in costume, and she needed a theme. Eighteenth century? Subjects of famous paintings? The court of Louis XIV?
She left a question mark after the word “theme.” She would have to visit the château again, to get a feel for the possibilities.

This project would take the place of Lydie’s August vacation, and it was just as well, considering that Michael’s work on the Louvre had shifted into high gear. Just as the rest of Paris was winding down, preparing for the great exit when every minister, cabdriver, waiter, executive, and concierge took off for Ile de Ré, Saint-Tropez, Arcachon, Biarritz, or Deauville, Lydie and Michael would be digging in. Paris would be a ghost town, like New York on a hot Sunday in July. The blare of horns on Avenue Montaigne would cease; the few restaurants that remained open would be quiet and relaxed. She could stroll through the garden at the Musée Rodin and find an empty bench. They could stand directly in front of Manet’s
Déjeuner sur l’herbe
for as long as they pleased without being jostled. The idea of it made Lydie feel luxurious, and she put down her pen and stretched.

She knew that Patrice and Didier planned to spend all August at Saint-Tropez with Mrs. Spofford, and for the first time Lydie wondered about Kelly. Would she go with them? Or would Patrice give her August off? Lately the thought of Kelly had made Lydie frown, and she wasn’t sure why.

The telephone rang, and Lydie answered on the third ring. “Come out to lunch with us,” Patrice said, an edge of desperation in her voice. “I need you.”

They sat beneath a red umbrella in the courtyard of the Hôtel Diaz de la Peña. Ivy covered the four walls and cascaded from romantic, asymmetrically positioned iron balconies and stone balustrades. Lydie saw red everywhere: the umbrella, the pots of geraniums, the lipstick worn by Patrice and her mother.

“This was always my favorite hotel in Paris,” Mrs. Spofford said in a voice that was at once warm and regal. She appeared much too young to be Patrice’s mother. Her skin was unlined, powdered white, and her hair was honey-blond. Where Patrice was dark-haired and large, even robust, her mother was fair with a delicacy that bordered on frailty. Lydie could not take her eyes off the woman’s wrists, which were thin, elegant, graceful as a ballerina’s. The way Mrs. Spofford moved them made Lydie think she too was aware of them. And Patrice as well. How could they support the weight of those bracelets? All three women were captivated by Mrs. Spofford’s wrists. It hurt Lydie to look at Patrice, whose anger was a mask blazing with too much eye shadow and lipstick. Like her mother, Patrice wore an armful of gold bracelets. Mother and daughter wore Chanel suits. “Patsy’s father thought this hotel flashy, but I adored it.”

“She calls me ‘Patsy,’ ” Patrice said. “Didier just loves that.”

“Well, dear, your name is ‘Patricia.’ ” A subtle emphasis on the “is.”

“Mother, has it ever crossed your mind that ‘Patricia’ in French is ‘Patrice’? When a ‘Pierre’ moves to Boston he is called ‘Peter.’ Get it? You have to conform to the culture.”

“Whatever,” Mrs. Spofford said, turning to Lydie. “Where are you from, dear?”

“New York City, originally. Still, I guess. My husband and I are only here for a year.”

“A year in Paris! How marvelous! I spent a year in Paris my junior year abroad. But how much better to have the additional perspective of being an adult. You appreciate more, don’t you? I see it in Patsy: she has absolutely melted into France. Her accent is flawless.”

“How was your trip, Mrs. Spofford?” Lydie asked.

“Oh, call me Eliza. You make me feel so old. It was fine, thank you for asking. So much easier, now that Air France flies out of
Logan. I only wish we had more time in Paris, instead of going straight to the Riviera.”

“Imagine,” Patrice said. “Having to spend a month at a house built into the cliff overlooking the sea. With a saltwater pool. Torture.”

“Darling,” Eliza said. “Saint-Tropez is lovely. But there is so much I want to do in Paris—I want to see that ghastly pyramid, I want to spend a day at least in the Musée d’Orsay, sitting right in front of those Degas horses. And I want to visit dear Sainte Chapelle, which has been closed the last two times I visited you. Is that unreasonable?”

“How do you know it’s ghastly if you haven’t even seen it?” Patrice asked, lighting a cigarette. At that moment the waiter brought their first course,
salade de langoustines;
Patrice gave him a dirty look, as if she thought his timing was deliberate, and put out the cigarette.

“Patrice loves the pyramid,” Lydie said.

“Didier tells me your husband was chosen out of an enormous field of architects to work on the Louvre,” Eliza said. “I think that is stunning. I don’t know anyone who’s worked on the Louvre.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell him you said so,” Lydie said.

“This is delicious, isn’t it, Patsy?” Eliza said.

Patrice said nothing. She prodded a
langoustine
with her fork. Lydie felt her stomach tighten as Patrice craned her neck, looking for a waiter. Don’t do it, Lydie thought, willing her friend to behave.

“This fish is not fresh,” Patrice said to the waiter. “Send over the maître d’.”

“Madame, I shall take care of it myself,” the waiter said, gathering the plates. Eliza Spofford wore an expression of pure astonishment.

“Put those plates down and send me the maître d’,” Patrice said, her voice rising.

“Right away, madame,” the waiter said. He hurried away.

“My dear, they are fine,” Eliza said. “Maybe a tinge of iodine, but that’s par for the course with crustaceans. Now, don’t spoil a nice lunch.”

Patrice no longer looked angry, but she looked bold, as if she had a mission. “How can we have a nice lunch if the fish is bad? You know what happens if one eats bad fish? One vomits, and one has to spend the day in bed.” To the maître d’, who had been standing by, she said in a cool tone, “We don’t come to a restaurant like this to eat rotten
langoustines
. Bring us something different.”

“What would madame desire?”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Patrice said. “Look in your larder and bring us whatever is fresh.”

Lydie looked away. Although the red umbrella blocked direct sun, it absorbed the heat, and Lydie felt sweat on her brow. The atmosphere was airless.

“I think I’ll take this opportunity to powder my nose,” Eliza said, pushing back her chair, striding with dignity into the hotel lobby.

“Those
langoustines
were perfectly fine,” Lydie said. “I think you’re acting like a jerk.”

“Fuck you. Didn’t you see the expression on her face as she said how delicious it was? Pure distaste. Believe me, she would have suffered through it, and tonight she would have told Didier it tasted like iodine.”

“It was delicious. Why did you invite your mother to visit you if you’re going to be mean the entire time?”

“Listen, I know you love your mother, and I think you’re lucky. But all my love goes to Didier, not my mother. You don’t know her. She is perfectly capable of being pleasant at a little luncheon. I know what’s happening—you’ll leave here thinking I’m cruel, one of those parent abusers they’re starting to write about in
People
magazine.”

“I don’t think that,” Lydie said. She was silent, looking across the wide table at Patrice. “I know it’s hard for you. She seems really nice, but I believe you if you tell me she’s not.”

“She’s not.”

“She’s beautiful. She looks so young.”

Patrice snorted. “She’s been face-lifted to within an inch of her life. And before you start thinking she’s so wonderful, let me tell you what she’s going to say about you when we get home. She’ll say you’re ‘cute’ in a way that makes it clear you’re not beautiful. And she’ll say you’re ‘youthful’ in a way that makes it clear you’re not sophisticated. And she’ll ask me where in New York City you’re from, because she knows it’s not the East Side.”

Lydie laughed. “You’re convincing me. She’s not nice.”

“Keep that in mind.”

“Okay, but
you
act nice. I mean it. It’s only a month out of your life, and someday you’ll regret it if she leaves on bad terms.”

“Lydie, I’ll do it for you,” Patrice said.

“It’s only fair,” Lydie said. “I want to give back a little of what I’ve learned from you.”

“That’s me, a fountain of knowledge,” Patrice said, lifting her eyebrows in puzzlement. “What am I missing here?”

“I’m thinking about you and Didier. You two are really on your own. Where I come from, a marriage comes complete with two entire families. Especially when there’s a problem, like in my family. It seems to take up so much time.”

Patrice smiled. “You mean we’re good influences on you and Michael.”

“On me, anyway,” Lydie said. “Michael didn’t have any trouble breaking away, coming to France.”

“Of course not, my dear,” Patrice said. “Over here he gets you all to himself.”

Lydie laughed. Wasn’t it nice to think that way? Then Eliza
returned, excited, saying that she had just run into an old business acquaintance of Patrice’s father in the lobby, a handsome man visiting Paris with the wife to whom he had been married for forty years: so unusual for a marriage or the parties involved to survive so long! Then the waiter brought plates of
coquilles St. Jacques
, warm, on a bed of sauteed leeks; the maître d’ poured wine and offered his deepest apologies; Patrice began to relax. She smiled at her mother. She inquired about her aunts and about her godmother, Eliza’s best friend. Lydie watched Patrice, knowing she would miss her terribly when she went to Saint-Tropez. Patrice had a different way of looking at the world, and Lydie was happy to absorb some of it. Mainly, she was happy to have such a good friend in Paris.

Michael stood behind partitions that roughly defined the space that one day would be the Salle des Quatre Saisons, making a list of people to call: cabinetmaker, stonemason, electrician. He had lined up workmen and artisans, and the French government had finally issued papers authorizing the work to be done. He yawned; the pen felt heavy in his hand. The sleepless exhilaration that came with being in love was taking a slow toll. At night he would lie awake beside Lydie, thinking of Anne. Remembering what had passed between them that day, and not only lovemaking: the expression in her eyes when she smiled up at him, the thrill he’d felt at lunch yesterday when she’d reached under the café table to take his hand.