Secrets of Paris (20 page)

With work behind them, they fell in love. Instantly, Lydie loved everything he said. Every single thing. He couldn’t stop touching her, kissing her. They went to bed; she could see Michael’s face beside hers on the pillow, his brow damp. He said, “I love you,” after they both came in a rush unlike any Lydie had ever felt.

“Turn around,” Michael said now in a low voice.

“Leave,” Lydie said. “I don’t want to look at you.” And she meant it. She couldn’t stand to know another thing about it. It would be easier if she never had to see Michael again, if she could begin to cure herself of him starting now.

He grabbed her arm, hard, yanked her around. “Is this how you want it to go?” he asked. “Do you really want me to leave?”

“If you love her,” Lydie said, choking on the word “love.” “Yes. I want you to get out of here.”

He stared at her, still holding her arm. She felt his energy, imagined that he wanted to throttle her. But his silence gave her hope. “Or don’t you love her? Tell me what you want. Make up your mind!”

Still he said nothing. After a while he shook his head, took away his hand. “I don’t know what I want,” he said. “That’s the rotten thing. I’ve loved you for so long, Lydie, but I don’t trust it much now.”

She saw that he was crying. She thought, Why couldn’t he have had a secret affair? Why couldn’t he have kept it to himself, a fling in Paris to see him through middle age? But that bloodless thought cleared her mind. Suddenly she knew what he was saying about her. By wishing she didn’t know about his affair, she was wishing for a happy little marriage. Something pretty, unreal. The kind of marriage her mother wanted for her.

Lydie stood close to Michael, not touching him. She couldn’t quite move. Do you love her instead of me or in addition to me? she wanted to ask. Love. She had always loved Michael; perhaps the problem was that “love” had become a state of being rather than action.

“I’m going to leave now,” he said calmly.

“To go where? Will you be …?”

“I’ll be alone,” Michael said. “I’ll be at a hotel. This is between you and me, Lydie. We have to decide whether we still want each other.”

She sat down heavily on the sofa. “I can’t believe this is happening. I never thought this was possible, that it could happen to us.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Michael said. “It can happen to anyone.”

“Michael …” Lydie said.

He looked at her for a long time. “Do you know how much I loved you?” he asked. Then he left.

L
YDIE’S DREAMS AND
days became interchangeable. When asleep, she dreamed of the mundane: reading the newspaper, washing her hair, wondering whether to cook for dinner or to go out. She wakened exhausted, as though she had actually spent the past eight hours washing and rewashing her hair; meticulously planning a dinner for two, shopping for the food, cooking it, then at the last minute abandoning the meal to meet Michael at an Alsatian brasserie. Awake the mundane was blurred, thus dangerous. Twice she forgot appointments. Twice she nearly walked into traffic. After the second near miss she steadied herself by leaning against a light pole. She walked along rue du Boccador, not even glancing at the restaurant she and Michael had made their
cantine
—their
regular hangout. She thought of her two brushes with death and figured the first time she had wanted to kill Michael, the second time herself.

She made sure to arrive home every night before dark. She told herself that coming home alone, late, to an empty house was dangerous. But had she always felt that way? When Michael was away on business trips? When he had a late dinner with George or clients and she had the chance to see a movie with Julia or a friend? She had never before felt menaced by an empty house. But now it seemed safer to install herself early, before night fell, when the simple transition from daylight to darkness signified less than to walk in late, after dinner, and realize that she was the only one there.

She told no one that Michael had moved out. She told herself that the reason for this was to prove him wrong, to show that she didn’t need to tell her mother and Patrice everything. In fact, she felt ashamed of the situation and she feared that talking about it would make it more real. Although Michael called often, six days passed without her seeing him. But she came awake, wide awake, on the morning of the seventh day, when he invited her to a cocktail party at the American Embassy.

“Arthur Chase invited me,” Michael said. “Would you like to go?”

“Yes. That would be nice,” Lydie said, shocked. She had expected that their first meeting would be private, a chance to talk about their troubles during dinner or a long walk. How weird this felt, being asked out, as if on a date, by Michael. What would she wear? Would he pick her up or meet her there? In the end, they decided to meet in the bar of the Hôtel Crillon, across the street from the embassy.

“Hi,” Lydie said when he entered. She felt happy when he kissed her.

“You look pretty,” he said, taking in her black linen suit, the silver necklace he had given her for their fifth anniversary, her hair held back by tortoiseshell combs. His face was set, grave, as though he was afraid of what was about to happen. He called the waiter, ordered two Lillets.

Drinking, she began to relax. She began to remember other cocktail hours with him. He was telling her about his day, a truly familiar topic. She listened avidly about the project, how construction was making a mess of the Louvre, how he expected to see a finished information center in three weeks.

“It’s just wonderful,” she said, meaning his work. If he would only look at her, into her eyes instead of at her hands, she would smile in a way that would make him love her.

“Thank you,” he said. Then, before the drinks were half gone, “Shall we go? We shouldn’t be late.”

“It’s just across the street …”

“I know, but I think we should go.”

She sensed that he felt confused, was perhaps having a better time than he had expected to. She went along with him. Just ride it out, she said to herself, suddenly feeling superior, more adept. Bear with him, he’ll get over this. She wore a secret smile. She stood behind him as he paid the waiter, noting the cut of his suit. His body was so trim, like that of a twenty-year-old athlete instead of a nearly forty-year-old architect. She longed to touch the small of his back.

She knew few people at the party, but Michael seemed to know everyone. He introduced her to an American painter, some American businessmen, an editor from a French publishing house, representatives of the French Ministry of Culture, embassy personnel. The editor was young, pretty. Lydie wondered: is that the one? But nothing special passed between her and Michael. Just hellos, the introduction of spouses.

“How do you know all these people?” she asked him, bristling at the reminder of his secret life.

“I don’t know anyone well. I’ve met them along the way, through work, I guess.”

A woman the age of Lydie’s mother seemed to want to speak to them. She caught Michael’s eye, and he turned to her. “Are you the fellow who’s redoing the Louvre?” she asked.

“Is that what they’re saying about me?” Michael asked, sounding fake, hearty, the way he sometimes did with women that age.

“Absolutely. Absolutely—it’s the talk all through the embassy.” She took a long drink of her whiskey; from the pouches under her eyes and the red patches on her cheeks, Lydie deduced that she liked whiskey a lot.

“We’re Lydie and Michael McBride,” Lydie said, shaking her hand. “Do you work at the embassy?”

“How do you do? I’m Dot Graulty. I’m an old-timer in the consular section—twenty-five years. Art Chase was just pointing you out to me. He comes to me for special favors. Little things that need doing, everyone comes to me.” She took another drink. She looked overweight, a little uncomfortable in her tight red jersey dress. She wore two strands of pearls at the throat.

“What sort of things?” Michael asked.

Dot laughed, touched his arm. “Anything! Any nitpicking when it comes to the government—the U.S. government, not the French one. If it’s legal, I know the loophole.” She frowned. “Does that sound terrible? Like I’m trying to put something over on Uncle Sam?”

“Not at all,” Michael said. “Why have you stayed in Paris for so long?”

“My husband is with the
Herald Tribune
. Listen, I’m so happy to have met you.” Her gaze had fixed on the bar; her glass was empty. Her fingers wiggling in a distracted sort of wave, she walked away.

“What do you think she really does at the embassy?” Michael asked, watching her go.

“She’s probably special deputy to the ambassador,” Lydie said. One of her and Michael’s favorite pastimes at large, impersonal parties was inventing stories about everyone they met. “She’s his trouble-shooter. She finds the loophole that will let him take fresh foie gras home to the States for Christmas.”

“She finds the loophole that will let her drink that entire bottle of scotch tonight,” Michael said. “She does have that motherly way, though. Doesn’t she? Kind of like Julia.”

“Yes,” Lydie said, touched that he would mention Julia. It seemed a peace offering. She regarded him, thought that she had never seen him so handsome. Perhaps time apart had been exactly what they needed. She warned herself about putting it in the past tense, but she hoped that he would come home with her tonight.

“Now, here she is,” said an unfamiliar voice.

“Lydie, I’d like you to meet Arthur Chase,” Michael said.

“I’ve heard so much about the lovely Lydie McBride,” Arthur said, shaking her hand. “And I didn’t want to wait until Michael’s great unveiling party to meet you.”

Lydie grinned. “I’ve been wanting to meet
you
. And to thank you—for helping Michael’s project get off the ground.”

“It was the least I could do. It was my pleasure. Michael is making up for lost time, working night and day. I’m sure he wouldn’t have come here tonight if I hadn’t insisted on finally meeting you.”

Lydie turned to Michael. By his expression and the blush that was spreading across his cheeks, by the way he continued to look at Arthur and not her, she knew that he had invited her to the party because of Arthur. Tears sprang to her eyes; she couldn’t help it. She felt like a fool. She hated her husband. When she could speak, she let out a little laugh. “He’s a workaholic,” she said.

Arthur had noticed her tears; he looked from Lydie to Michael, worried. “My wife used to say that about me, and don’t think I don’t know how rough it can be on a wife. Poor Sylvia. It’s better, now we’re in Paris. Being cultural attaché to India, living in Bombay—that was rough. Make him pay for it, Lydie! Go shopping!”

She knew he had intended it as a joke, to be kind, but Lydie couldn’t laugh. The tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, turning away.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur patted her shoulder. She knew he had walked away when she felt Michael’s hand on her back.

“Lydie?” he said. “Lydie?”

“I hate doing this,” she said, truly humiliated, feeling pathetic.

“I wanted you to come,” he said. “The truth is, I hadn’t planned on coming myself, but Arthur kept badgering me about taking the night off, bringing you to this party. I wanted you to come. I’ve been having a good time …”

Lydie gulped until she stopped crying. She wiped her face with the napkin the bartender had handed her with her drink. “If I’ve just learned a lesson, it’s to never make the first date with your husband after he’s moved out a cocktail party at the American Embassy.”

“It was a bad idea,” he agreed.

“Why did you invite me?” Lydie asked. “I don’t get it.”

Michael looked blank. “Because I wanted to. I had to come—for business, to be political. But I thought it might be fun; I thought you might enjoy it.”

So it really was a date. Lydie supposed she should feel happy he had asked her. But after eight years of marriage, how worked up could she get over another courtship?

“I’m going home now,” she said.

“Let’s go out to dinner,” Michael said. “That’s what we should have done in the first place.”

Lydie was silent, considering. She wanted to go. Earlier in the evening, she had imagined dinner with Michael after leaving the party, a bistro dinner within walking distance of their apartment. She shook her head; she felt too mistrustful of him. She felt ugly and disheveled, the way someone would feel who had just had the rug pulled out from under her before an audience she had once hoped to impress. “I can’t,” she said.

“Oh, come on, Lydie,” Michael said in a sweet tone that made Lydie want to cry again. “Don’t we have to start somewhere?”

“I just can’t tonight.”

“Then we’ll do it soon. We should talk,” Michael said.