Secrets of Paris Read Online Free PDF Page B

squat beside white porcelain statues of the Buddha, a form that, like the cabbages, perfectly echoed the pouf skirts.
    “I must wait to see the proof sheets,” Jean-Claude said, “but this might work.”
    Lydie knew he wanted the public to believe the pictures had been taken in Hong Kong; she had tried to avoid any background that would give away the Paris location. This was all part of the image, and Lydie understood it. Financial backing would come easier to Jean-Claude if he gave the impression of success. She wondered how old he was. Twenty-five? She had the urge to tell him his ponytail made him look as though he were imitating Karl Lagerfeld, but she did not. She felt fond of him because he was young and because he was desperate to be successful. She considered telling him not to worry. She considered giving him asisterly kiss on the forehead. Instead she made her expression serious and shook his hand. “I really hope you like the pictures,” she said.
    “Do you need a ride home?” he asked.
    “Actually, I’m going to the Place des Vosges, if you’re heading in that direction,” Lydie said.
    “It’s not far out of my way,” he said. “Come along.”

I wanted my two maids with me so that there would be someone there whom I knew
.
    —T O F RANÇOISE -M ARGUERITE , M AY 1675
    W AITING FOR L YDIE McBride to arrive, Patrice walked through the cool rooms of her old house to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. She powdered her cheeks with a sable brush. Patrice loved the regality of makeup. She thought it courtly: the powder, the scents, the brilliant and subtle colors, reminiscent of queens and another age. She dabbed her finger in a pot of scarlet lip gloss and rubbed it over her lips.
    Turning from the mirror, she walked directly into her bedroom. She couldn’t quite fathom why she felt so anxious about Lydie coming over. Patrice was used to visitors. Since marrying Didier, Patrice had entertained with a vengeance. Dutch diamond cutters, Hong Kong gold brokers, Australian gem dealers were always arriving with their wives, expecting to be courted with food and wine. Patrice had perfected a foreigner’s idea of the trueFrench dinner: paupiettes of sole, then leg of lamb, then cheeses, then petits fours.
    For Didier’s family and French friends she usually served provincial dishes, the way they themselves did. Sausage and potatoes, pot-au-feu, roast chicken. Didier had known his two best friends since boyhood; his sister Clothilde lived half a mile away. At first they had seemed to embrace her without reservation—telling her all the old stories, making sure she knew where to find the best dry cleaner in Paris, giving her the best seat at their regular tables at Taillevant, La Coupole, Chez Georges.
That
had tipped her off—the way they always treated her with a certain
politesse
. Just last week Patrice had discovered a funky little
salon de thé
in the Place Dauphine, but when she invited Clothilde, Clothilde had insisted they go to her usual spot full of bourgeois matrons in the Rue Royale. Where, of course, she had insisted that Patrice take the seat with the best view.
    Patrice had high hopes for Lydie. Although people said Patrice spoke French impeccably, it wasn’t the same as speaking your own language: the tongue was only part of it. She looked forward to talking to a married woman her own age, from the eastern United States, with an interesting career. She wondered whether Lydie would find her life frivolous; Patrice lived the life of a housewife and she knew it. In Boston she had managed an art gallery on Newberry Street. Although she had enjoyed meeting the artists, selling their work to appreciative collectors, Patrice had felt happy to give it up. Living in France, Patrice tried to experience everything as the French did—she felt grateful to Didier’s friends and sister for showing her the way, even if she also, simultaneously, resented them for it.
    Patrice was drawn to things