Secrets of Paris (12 page)

“I think the stylist wanted the jewelry to speak for itself,” Lydie said. “I mean, each piece is so striking.” She couldn’t stop staring at the eye.

“Of course it’s striking—it’s fucking diamonds, for heaven’s sake. Look, we don’t need to sell the jewels. They do that for themselves. But we need to perpetrate creativity, and we need to have a little fun.”

“A little fun is good,” Lydie said.

“I mean, that piece you did on Bulgarian royalty was fun. That old dutchess with the seven chins and the pearl choker hidden somewhere in there. I liked that.”

Lydie smiled. She didn’t bother to correct him, to tell him the dutchess had been Hungarian.

“You should know that the magazine editor was responsible for printing that photo,” Lydie said. “I had another shot, one that I preferred, of the choker in the dutchess’s jewelry chest. At least as boring as black velvet.”

“Not so,” Didier said, shaking his head. “Everyone wants to look inside a dutchess’s jewel chest. That is fascinating. I would consider it a privilege, as long as you didn’t rearrange what was there to make it more interesting or photogenic. Did you rearrange anything?”

“Yes,” Lydie said.

“Well, that is the illusion. It is disappointing to know after the fact, but no one who read
Vogue
that month would have guessed.
Except maybe another stylist—the rest of us would have been fooled. So, what do you think? Can you put my jewelry into a story?”

“A story?” Lydie asked.

“A tale. Something that will live off the page.”

Lydie sat back, thinking of the possibilities. She found jewelry one of the best items to style with; because it could be moved, worn, displayed so imaginatively, it was much easier to work with than, say, brass lamps or crystal animals. Telling a story to show off jewelry would be a cinch. She thought of fairy tales, with queens and princesses wearing sapphire crowns, of a jewel thief escaping on the Orient Express, of a space explorer zooming through constellations of diamonds. Yet Lydie had not accepted a major project since moving to Paris. She had taken on small assignments that might require an hour or two of research and an afternoon of shooting, things that could be wrapped in a day.

She thought back to that evening on the quai when she had stood on her toes to kiss Michael. She remembered feeling a shivery sense of change, a hint of life getting back to normal. She had that same sense now. Didier sat across the desk from her regarding her with—what? She gazed back at him and decided it was appreciation. Lydie remembered his ideal, many-faceted woman, and wondered whether she measured up. She smiled at Didier.

“Yes?” Didier asked.

“Yes,” Lydie said. They shook on it.

Michael sat on the terrace, looking over the Seine. It was ten o’clock and still not dark. A barge slid by, its engine thudding gently. Voices, jolly and a little raucous, carried up from the quai,
and then they were gone. He stared at his book, not reading it. Lydie moved around inside, cleaning up after dinner.

He looked down the river, wondering where Anne lived. In the kitchen the water had stopped running; that meant Lydie had finished and would soon be out. What did it mean, that he would rather fantasize about Anne than spend time with his own wife? He saw Anne in his mind: so soft and small, nude, instantly responsive to his touch. He imagined his hand resting on the base of her back, where it curved into her ass.

Here came Lydie, pulling a chair close. He thought of touching Lydie, of how she responded to his touch: she tightened. She didn’t exactly pull away, but she drew into herself. She didn’t want to be touched. Making love, she felt stiff, all bones and joints. Remembering how it used to be, how his secret image at the moment of coming with Lydie had been a mouth—kissing, open, warm and wet—he had to look away from her.

“I’m looking forward to working with Didier,” she said.

“It sounds good,” Michael said. He felt inflated with desire for Anne; it actually hurt to talk to Lydie.

“He’s going to give me free rein. At least he says so now, but you know how people get. I’ll come up with something, then just watch. He’ll get into the spirit and start taking over. It always happens. Do you think it’s a mistake to work for a friend of ours? Remember Billy Jenkins?”

Michael glanced at her. She seemed open, enthusiastic about her work again, quite a counterpoint to the shuttered, introspective Lydie of the past year. “Billy Jenkins?” he asked.

“Yes, remember? He married Oona Lydon, that girl from my high school class. Remember I did a brochure for his motel chain and he refused to pay?”

“I’m sure Didier d’Origny is good for his debts,” Michael said.

Lydie snapped to look at him. “Of course he is—I’m not saying
that. But the business with Billy has totally ruined my friendship with Oona, and I wouldn’t want that to happen with Patrice. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Michael said. He felt all twisted, deliberately misunderstanding Lydie so she would turn against him, allowing him to justify what he was about to do to her and their marriage.

“Michael,” she said, her voice conveying a warning.

He stared into space. Could it be possible that now, just as Lydie was turning a corner, he didn’t want her anymore? Lydie, whom he had loved since high school, when she was too high-minded to pay attention to him, a jock?

“Is it my imagination?” she asked. “Or are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Michael said. That was true: he was long past being mad at her. He knew that he should try to explain the way he felt, the way his anger had turned into frustration and then into indifference. But talking about it might make things better between them and that would mean giving up his dreams of Anne.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” Lydie said. “Sometimes I hate myself. I think about what happened: how I’m a grown woman in my thirties and I let my life fall apart just because my father died. I mean, that’s not normal.”

“He didn’t just die, Lydie.” Michael glanced at her, watched her tuck her hair behind her ears, felt tender in spite of himself.

“Sometimes I think I had a nervous breakdown,” she said. “The way I just stopped functioning.”

“Well, except for the first couple of weeks you didn’t stop functioning.”

“No, I have. I just haven’t been
feeling
things. I mean, I get up in the morning and do my work, but that’s about it. I’m in a daze all the time.”

“I guess maybe coming to Paris was a mistake,” Michael said. “I
thought getting you out of New York would be the best thing. But you weren’t ready to leave.”

“It’s not really fair to say we came to Paris because of me, because you wanted to get me out of New York,” Lydie said. “We came because of your work.”

“That’s true,” Michael said grudgingly, because that certainly wasn’t all of it. But did she know how hard he had pushed to get it, thinking a year in Paris would be just what she needed to forget?

“I used to think coming here was a mistake,” Lydie said. “But I’m changing my mind. I’m starting to feel better. I feel like …”

She laughed.

“What?”

“I feel just fine,” she said. The way she smiled at him he could tell she thought the tension between them had lifted. He smiled back, then pretended to read his book. He thought of Lydie in her school uniform, the skirt a muddy purple tartan he’d never seen since. She had carried her books in a khaki knapsack and worn hiking boots to school every day, somehow managing to look more beautiful and sexy than any of the other girls. It still hurt to recall that he had asked her out twice and been turned down both times.

Michael remembered how she had followed Father Griffin around. Her crush on him was so blatant, the way she hung around his office, took up any cause he espoused. The way she’d follow him anywhere and tutor so-called kids. Half of them were older than Lydie. Most of them had been kicked out of school and many of them were criminals. Michael remembered the time one guy grabbed Lydie’s purse—while she was sitting right there, trying to teach him fractions—and took all her money. The news of it had circulated quickly through the school.

Michael had stopped Father Griffin in the hallway a couple of days later. He had the heaviest beard Michael had ever seen;
Michael remembered thinking it unseemly for a priest to look as though he needed a shave at ten in the morning. “Teaching the hoods anything new these days, Father?” Michael asked.

“They don’t have the advantages you do, Michael.”

“No, but I hear they’ve got a new pair of boots, thanks to Lydie Fallon.”

“Maybe that boy really needed that money—maybe his family was hungry.”

“Probably starving.”

“We weren’t put on this earth to judge him,” Father Griffin said. “Why don’t you come with us next week? Maybe you’ll learn something.”

“You didn’t even call the cops, did you?” Michael asked.

“Lydie didn’t want to,” Father Griffin said.

Because you didn’t want her to, Michael remembered thinking. Now with hindsight, he could recognize his resentment for what it was: jealousy that Lydie loved Father Griffin instead of him. He gazed at her. She stared across the Seine, the
Herald Tribune
folded in her lap.

“Remember when your student stole your money?” Michael asked.

Lydie turned to him. “I haven’t thought of that in ages,” she said.

“Why didn’t you turn him in?”

She frowned. “I don’t remember. I guess because I felt sorry for him.”

“I’ve always thought it was because the priest told you not to.”

“Father Griffin? Oh, I don’t think he’d have done that. But I have to admit, when I think of the sixties, I think of him. Peace, love, brotherhood, all that.”

“He was hot for you,” Michael said.

“I know,” Lydie said.

“You do?” Michael asked, surprised.

“I used to imagine seducing him—all the time. We’d be alone in a subway car and the lights would go out, and I’d close my eyes and will him to kiss me.”

“Did he?”

“Never. The most he’d do was touch the back of my hand when he was trying to make a point. My father never trusted him.”

Michael smiled. “That’s perfect. Neil seeing the dark side of a priest. I’ll bet he saw right through him, realized your virtue was at stake.”

“He said he thought Father Griffin shaved with a rusty razor so he’d always have five o’clock shadow. My father thought anyone with five o’clock shadow was suspect. He called Father Griffin a ladies’ man, said he’d quit the priesthood before he turned forty.”

“I wonder if he did,” Michael said.

Lydie nodded. “Sally Quinlan saw him once with his wife and two kids. Twin boys. At Playland, can you imagine?”

“Perfect,” Michael said, laughing. He looked over at Lydie, thought about taking her hand. He wondered whether Father Griffin knew she’d married him.

“So,” Lydie said. “Tomorrow I’ll start Didier’s project. What’s on your agenda?”

“I have a meeting tomorrow morning. With some guy who’s expert at repairing mosaics. And I planned to swim before work.”

“Swim?” Lydie asked.

“At that pool on the river. I’ve been thinking I need exercise,” Michael said, feeling sad and excited by all it implied.

The next afternoon, Lydie walked along the quai toward Notre Dame. She was thinking about the ad series. What if they photographed
the jewels worn by people at a fancy dress ball? She had her eyes open for props: gowns, feathers, masks, medals, anything festive and gaudy.

In the heart of Paris, thrilled by her new assignment, she suddenly remembered the night Michael had told her he had been chosen to work on the Louvre. Her first reaction, before she realized it meant leaving her mother, was delight. She remembered holding each other, dancing in circles like lunatics, Michael saying “I can’t believe it” over and over again, Lydie saying “I
knew
you were a great architect.” Michael had brought home champagne. They had drunk the bottle, drinking toasts that were silly, pompous, and serious. “To the Eiffel Tower,” “to great architects everywhere,” “to a graffiti-free Métro,” “to the most romantic city in the world,” “to our year in Paris.” That’s when she had realized that it meant leaving.