10
The alarm went off. Lauren stretched like a cat and then curled up against Arthur.
“Did you sleep okay?” she asked, kissing him.
“Never better.”
“What’s put you in such a good mood?”
“There’s something you have to see,” he said with a grin as he sat up.
He picked up the laptop from under the bed and opened it.
“For a date that only lasted ten minutes, this is one solid follow-up!”
Lauren rolled her eyes.
“So they hit it off, despite your tasteless joke—good for them. But don’t jump the gun.”
“Just making observations from what I read, is all.”
“He’s in love with his Korean translator, so I’m not sure this mysterious stranger would make any difference. Or if she even wants to.”
“In the meantime, I’m going to print this out and leave it right on his desk where he can see it.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Just to let him know I’m not stupid.”
Lauren read the letter again.
“She just wants to be friends.”
“And you know this because . . . ?”
“Because I’m a woman, and it’s plain to see, written in black and white. Emails don’t count. Translated into womanspeak: I’m not trying to get you into bed. And she talks about something that might be pretty important going on at this restaurant, but Paul doesn’t seem to have anything to do with it.”
“And what about the whole ‘things that are out of reach are always more desirable’ thing? Come on, you don’t think she’s flirting there, just a little bit?”
“I think your mind is playing tricks on you because you’re so desperate for Paul to stay in Paris. If you want my opinion, this woman is fresh out of a relationship, on the rebound. She seems to be genuinely looking for a friend and that’s that.”
“You should have gone into psychology instead of neurosurgery.”
“I won’t dignify that with a response. But even assuming that there are mixed messages . . . if you want Paul to take the bait, the last thing you should do is bring it up.”
“You think?”
“How is it I sometimes feel like I know your best friend better than you do? Or at least the way his mind works.”
With that, Lauren went out to make breakfast.
In the living room, she could see Paul asleep on the sofa. As soon as she entered, he opened his eyes and yawned, then slowly got up.
“Didn’t quite make it to your bed, huh?”
“I was working late. I only meant to take a break, but it seems I must have crashed.”
“Do you always work that late?”
“Yeah, pretty often.”
“You look awful. You have to stop burning the candle at both ends.”
“Is that my physician speaking?”
“No. It’s your friend.”
While Lauren poured him a cup of coffee, Paul checked his email, even though he knew that Kyong almost never replied right away. Nonetheless, he retired to his bedroom with a stung look on his face.
Just at that moment, Arthur came in. Lauren waved him over.
“What?” he whispered.
“Maybe we should push back our departure a few days.”
“What’s up with him?”
“Nothing’s up, everything’s down. He seems really bummed.”
“He was in good spirits just last night.”
“That was last night.”
“Hey! My spirits are fine!” Paul shouted from his room. “And I can hear every word you’re saying,” he added as he came through to join them. Arthur and Lauren remained silent for a moment.
“Why don’t you come along with us, spend a few days in the South?” Arthur suggested.
“Because I’m writing a novel. I leave in three weeks and I want to have at least a hundred pages for Kyong. And, more importantly, I want her to like those pages. I want her to be proud of me.”
“You need to stop living in your books, man, and try living in the real world for a change. You need to go out and meet people—and I don’t just mean other writers.”
“I meet plenty of people during book signings.”
“And I’m sure you have very meaningful exchanges with them, spanning ‘hello,’ ‘thank you,’ and deep thoughts like ‘good-bye,’” Arthur said. “Do you call them on the phone when you’re feeling lonely?”
“No, I have you for that, even if the time difference is sometimes tricky. Please stop worrying about me. If I keep listening to you, I’m going to end up believing I have a problem—and I don’t. I like my life, I like my work, I like spending the night diving into my stories, I like the way it feels. You know the feeling, Lauren. You like the way it feels to spend nights in the OR sometimes, don’t you?”
“I don’t like it, though,” Arthur sighed.
“But it’s her life, and you don’t try to stop her, because you love her just the way she is,” Paul replied. “We’re not so different. Enjoy your romantic getaway, and if my Korean trip cures me of my flying phobia, I’ll come and see you in San Francisco in the fall. Now, there’s a nice title for a novel: Autumn in San Francisco.”
“True. But only if you’re the main character.”
Arthur and Lauren packed their suitcases. Paul accompanied them to the station, and when the train pulled away from the platform, in spite of everything he’d told them, he felt the heavy weight of solitude bearing down on his shoulders.
He stood a few moments in the place where he’d said good-bye to his friends. Then, hands in pockets, he turned on his heel.
When he picked up his car from the parking lot, he found a note stuck to the windshield.
If you move to Seoul, I will come and see you in the fall—I promise.
Autumn in Seoul could also be a nice title.
I’m gonna miss you, man.
Arthur
He read the note twice, then put it in his wallet.
After wondering how to brighten up his morning, he decided to go to the Opera. There was a favor he wanted to ask the director.
Mia was sitting on the bench in Place du Tertre, lost in Paul’s words. The caricaturist was watching her. He must have seen her open her purse and take out a tissue, because he left his easel to go and sit next to her.
“Bad day?” he asked.
“No, good book.”
“A real—what do they call it—tearjerker?”
“Actually, up to now it’s been very funny. But the main character just got a letter from his mother after her death. I know it’s ridiculous, but it really touched me.”
“There’s nothing ridiculous about expressing your feelings. Did you lose your own mother?”
“Oh, no, she’s very much alive. But I would love it if she wrote me something like this.”
“Maybe one day she will.”
“That’d be very surprising, given our relationship.”
“Do you have children?”
“No.”
“Then wait till you’re a mother yourself. You’ll view your childhood very differently, and your mother through completely new eyes.”
“I don’t really see how I could.”
“There is no such thing as the perfect parent, just like there is no such thing as the perfect child. I should go, though—there’s a tourist hanging around my stand. Oh, that reminds me—what did your friend think of her portrait?”
“I still haven’t given it to her. I’m sorry, it slipped my mind. I’ll do it tonight.”
“No hurry. It was just sitting in my portfolio.”
And the caricaturist returned to his easel.
Paul sneaked in through the artists’ entrance. Stagehands were busy moving parts of the set. He walked around them, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the director’s door.
“I’m sorry. Do we have a meeting?”
“No, but it won’t take long. I have a small favor to ask.”
“Another one?”
“Yeah, but this one’s really small.”
Paul made his request and the director refused. He had made an exception for him before, but for him alone. Because the Opera was being used as the backdrop for Paul’s novel, the director had wanted things to be described as they were rather than as one might imagine them. But the areas prohibited to the public had to remain prohibited.
“I understand,” said Paul, “but the woman is my assistant.”
“Was she your assistant when you entered my office?”
“Of course. I didn’t hire her in the last thirty seconds.”
“You said she was ‘a friend’!”
“She’s my friend and my assistant. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
The director stared at the ceiling as he thought.
“No, I’m sorry. I can’t allow it. And please don’t insist.”
“Then don’t blame me if I get anything wrong in my descriptions of your Opera.”
“All you need to do is devote more time to your research. Now I must ask you to leave. This is a busy time for the Opera.”
Paul left the office, but he was determined not to let the matter go. A promise was a promise, and he had defied far more powerful authorities in his lifetime. He stopped at the box office, bought two tickets for that evening’s performance, and went off to mull over his plan.
Once outside on the steps, he started dialing Mia’s number, then changed his mind and sent her a text instead:
Our tour of the Opera will take place tonight. Bring a sweater and a raincoat, and whatever you do, don’t wear high heels (although I haven’t seen you wearing any up until this point). You’ll understand why when you get there. I can’t say another word—it’s a surprise.
8:30pm, on the fifth step.
Paul
PS: Texts don’t count.
Mia’s phone vibrated. She read the message and smiled. Then, remembering the promise she’d made to Daisy, her smile quickly faded.
Gaetano Cristoneli was waiting for Paul at a table outside Le Bonaparte.
“You’re late!”
“My office isn’t just around the corner, like yours. I got stuck in traffic.”
“Really?” his editor said skeptically. “What was this something urgent you mentioned on the phone? Do you have a problem?”
“Is this the latest thing, everyone thinking I have problems? Are you going to start in on this too?”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“I’ve decided I am going to the book fair in Seoul.”
“Fantasmic news! Not that you really had a choice.”
“There’s always a choice. And I may still change my mind. Speaking of which, I have something personal to ask. If I decided to spend a year or two in Seoul, would you be able to provide me with a small advance? Just enough to get me on my feet over there. I can’t ditch my apartment in Paris until I’m sure.”
“Sure about what?”
“Sure I want to stay there.”
“Why would you go and live in Korea? You don’t even speak the language.”
“Good point. I hadn’t thought about that. I guess I’ll have to learn it.”
“You? You’re going to learn Korean?”
“Nan niga naie palkarakeul parajmdoultaiga nomou djoa.”
“What is that gibberish?”
“It’s Korean for ‘I like it when you suck my toes.’”
“That’s it. You’ve completely lost your mind!”
“I didn’t come here for your thoughts on my mental well-being. I came for an advance on my royalties.”
“So, you are serious?”
“You were the one who said that success over there would give my numbers a boost in the US and thus in Europe. My understanding is, if I catch that plane, we make a fortune. Right? So, according to your own logic, a small advance shouldn’t pose that much of a problem.”
“That was just in theory . . . Only time will tell whether or not I’m right.”
Cristoneli looked pensive, then finally added, “Then again, if you were to tell the Korean media that you’re moving to their country, the effect would be enormous. If your publisher over there had you on hand, they’d be more inclined to double their efforts at promoting your books.”
“Yadda yadda yadda,” muttered Paul. “So we have an agreement?”
“On one condition! No matter what happens over there, I remain your primary editor. I don’t want to hear anything about a new book contract signed between you and any Korean publisher—am I clear? I’ve driven your career forward single-handedly up to now!”
“Granted, you haven’t driven it very far.”
“What ingratitude! Do you want this advance or not?”
Paul stopped arguing. He scrawled the figure he hoped to extract from Cristoneli on a paper napkin. His editor rolled his eyes, crossed out the number, and cut it in half.
They shook hands on the deal—as good as a contract in the world of publishing.
“I’ll give you the check when we’re on our way to the airport. That way, I can make sure you actually catch your flight.”
Paul left Cristoneli to pay the bill.
Back at home after the lunch shift, Daisy found Mia lying on the sofa in a bathrobe, with a box of Kleenex at hand and a damp towel over her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Retinal migraine,” said Mia. “Head feels like it’s about to explode.”
“Want me to call a doctor?”
“There’s no point. I’ve had them before. It usually lasts about ten hours and then goes away on its own.”
“And when did it start?”
“Midafternoon.”
Daisy looked at her watch, and then back at her friend.
“Well, there’s no way you’re working in this state. Let’s forget the restaurant for tonight—you can help me out tomorrow instead.”
“No, no,” Mia protested, “I’ll manage,” whereupon she put her hands to her forehead and let out a small groan.
“Looking like that? You’ll scare away the customers! Go and lie down in bed.”
“No, it’ll be okay,” said Mia, still lying on the sofa, one arm trailing on the floor. “I don’t want to let you down!”
“Robert will have to make do in the kitchen while I wait tables. We’ve done it before. Now go to bed—that’s an order.”
Picking up the box of Kleenex and holding the towel over her eyes, Mia got to her feet and groped her way toward her room.
She came out again just as soon as Daisy had left the apartment. She put her ear to the front door and listened to the sound of her friend’s footsteps fading to silence. Then she ran to the bay window and watched as Daisy disappeared around the corner and out of sight.
She hurried to the bathroom and washed her face with cold water to remove the talcum powder from her cheeks and the eyeliner from under her eyes. If she’d learned anything useful in her profession, it was the art of makeup. Looking for a raincoat in Daisy’s wardrobe, she was surprised that she didn’t feel guilty at all. In fact, she was in a very good mood, and it had been too long since she’d felt that way. She had to make the most of it.
She decided to wear sneakers, wondering, at the same time, why she would need to dress like that for a night at the opera. In England, people tended to overdress rather than underdress for such occasions.
Examining herself in the mirror, she thought she looked a little bit like Audrey Hepburn, which pleased her. She considered adding a pair of sunglasses to her outfit, but decided in the end to keep them in her purse.
She half opened the front door, checked that the coast was clear, and then hurried over toward the taxi that had been waiting for her on the opposite side of the street.
Paul was waiting on the fifth step of the Opera.
“You look like Inspector Clouseau,” he said to Mia as she approached him.
“What a gentleman you are! You told me to wear a raincoat and flat shoes.”
Paul looked her over.
“I take it back. You look lovely. Follow me.”
They joined the line of people entering the Opera. After passing through a series of lobbies, Mia stopped to admire the large ceremonial staircase. She insisted they go closer to the statue of Pythia.
“Exquisite!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, amazing,” Paul agreed, “but we have to hurry now.”
“I feel ridiculous dressed like this, surrounded by so much beauty. I should have worn a dress.”
“No, trust me, you’re better off. Come on!”
“I don’t understand. I thought you were going to show me around when it was closed to the public. Are we here for a performance?”
“You’ll see.”
Reaching the mezzanine, they walked through the orchestra gallery.
“What is tonight’s performance?” Mia asked as they approached the entrance to the auditorium.
“No idea. Hello, gentlemen!” he said, walking past two statues.
“Who were you talking to?” Mia whispered.
“Bach and Haydn. I listen to them while I’m writing, so the least I can do is say hi, right?”
“Are you ever going to tell me where we’re heading?” Mia said as Paul led them on.
“To our seats.”
The usher showed them to two folding seats. Paul offered the first to Mia and then sat on the one behind her.
The seat was hard and uncomfortable, and they could see only the right-hand side of the stage. It was a far cry from the film premieres Mia was used to attending, where she always had one of the best seats in the house.
Funny, he doesn’t strike me as a cheapskate, she thought as the curtain lifted.
Ten minutes passed. Mia kept shifting in her seat, trying to find the least uncomfortable position. Paul tapped her on the shoulder.
“Sorry I keep fidgeting, but my bottom hurts in this chair,” she whispered.
Doing his best not to laugh, Paul leaned in close and whispered in her ear: “Please extend my sincere apologies to your posterior. But now we have to go—follow me.”
He walked, bent double, toward the emergency exit, which was located just in front of them. Mia watched him, dumbfounded.
Or maybe he really is mad . . .
“Come on!” hissed Paul, still crouching in front of the door.
Mia obeyed, imitating his peculiar stance.
He softly pushed open the door and led her into a corridor.
“So has your back gone out, or are we supposed to keep walking around like this?”
Paul shushed her, grabbed her hand, and set off down the corridor.
The deeper they went into the labyrinthine building, the more she began to wonder what in the world was going on.
At the end of another passageway, they came to a spiral staircase. Paul suggested Mia go first in case she tripped, while also advising her not to do so.
“Where are we?” Mia breathed, beginning to get swept up in the game.
“We need to get across this walkway. But please be absolutely silent: we’re going right over the stage. I’ll go first this time.”
Paul crossed himself and, in response to Mia’s surprised look, whispered that he suffered from vertigo.
When Paul reached the other side, he turned around and saw her, motionless in the middle of the walkway, staring at the auditorium below. He felt he was getting a glimpse of how she must have looked as a child; even her raincoat suddenly seemed too large. She was no longer the woman he had met on the steps of the Opera, but a little girl suspended in the air, wholly enchanted by the magical sight below.
He waited a few moments, then risked a small cough to catch her attention.
Mia gave a broad smile and walked over to join him.
“That was incredible,” she whispered.
“I know. But trust me, the best is yet to come.”
He took her hand again and led her toward a door that opened onto another staircase.
“Are we going to see the lake?”
“You Brits are very odd. Do you really think they’d put the lake on the top floor?”
Mia looked through the doorway. “Those steps could have led down!”
“Well, they don’t. We’re headed up these steps. There is no lake—it’s just a reservoir of water in a concrete tank. Otherwise, I’d have brought my snorkel and flippers.”
“In that case, what’s the raincoat for?” Mia asked, annoyed.
“I told you: you’ll see.”
As they were climbing an old wooden staircase, they heard a thunderous rolling sound. Mia froze with fear.
“Don’t worry. It’s just the stage machinery,” Paul reassured her.
When they reached the final landing, Paul pushed the panic bar on a metal door and ushered Mia through.
She found herself looking out at a walkway that spanned the rooftop of the Opera, offering an absolutely stunning view of Paris.
She swore out loud, then turned to Paul.
“Go ahead,” he told her. “It’s perfectly safe.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Yeah, just give me a minute.”
“Why would you come all the way up here if you can’t even take a look?”
“So you could. There isn’t another view like this anywhere in the world. Keep going—I’ll wait for you here. Take a good look. There aren’t many people lucky enough to see the City of Light from this vantage point. One winter night, you’ll be sitting by the fireside in an old English manor and you’ll be able to tell all your little great-grandchildren about the night you saw Paris from the roof of the Opera. You’ll be so old that you won’t even remember my name, but you’ll remember that you had a friend in Paris.”
Mia watched Paul as he clung to the door handle. Then she walked out over the rooftop. From where she stood, she could see the Madeleine church and the Eiffel Tower with its roaming searchlights. Mia looked up at the sky like a child who is convinced she can count every star in the heavens. Then she looked over at the skyscrapers in the Beaugrenelle district. How many people were eating, laughing, or crying behind those windows, each looking as tiny as those stars twinkling in the vast firmament above? Turning around, she saw the Sacré-Cœur perched on the hill of Montmartre and spared a thought for Daisy. The whole of Paris lay stretched out before her. She had never seen anything so beautiful in her whole life.
“You can’t miss this.”
“There’s no way I can make it out there . . .”
She went back to where Paul was standing, took off her scarf, and tied it around his head, covering his eyes. Then, holding his hand, she guided him along the walkway. Paul walked as if he were on a tightrope, but he didn’t resist.
“I know it’s selfish,” she said, removing the blindfold, “but how could I tell all my little great-grandchildren about this moment without having actually shared it with my Parisian friend?”
Paul and Mia sat on the ridgepole and admired the view together.
A fine rain began to fall. Mia took off her raincoat and spread it over their shoulders.
“Do you always think of everything?”
“I try. Now . . . can you please take me back?” he asked, softly pulling at her scarf.
Two security guards awaited them at the foot of the stairs. They escorted Paul and Mia to the director’s office, where three police officers stood, arms folded.
“I know, I went against what you said,” Paul said to the director. “But we didn’t do any harm.”
“Sorry—do you know this man?” asked Officer Moulard, the highest-ranking police officer in the room.
“Not anymore,” said the director. “You can take him away.”
Officer Moulard nodded to his colleagues, who took out two pairs of handcuffs.
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Paul protested.
“I disagree,” said the director. “These people strike me as the very definition of unruly.”
As Mia held out her wrists for the policeman, she glanced at her watch. Seeing how late it was, she suddenly felt nervous.
The detective took their statements. Paul acknowledged the charges against them, taking full responsibility himself while playing down the seriousness of their misdemeanor. He solemnly swore they would never do it again if they were allowed to go. Surely they weren’t going to be kept overnight at the station?
The detective sighed.
“You are foreign nationals. Until I am able to contact your respective consulates and verify your identities, I couldn’t possibly let you go.”
“I have a resident card,” Paul said. “I left it at home, but I assure you I am a French resident.”
“And I’m supposed to just take you at your word on that?”
“They’re going to kill me,” Mia muttered.
“Someone is threatening you, mademoiselle?” the detective asked her.
“No. Just a figure of speech.”
“Please exercise some caution with your vocabulary. This is a police station.”
“Who’s going to kill you?” Paul asked, leaning toward Mia.
“What did I just say?” the inspector demanded.
“I heard you! This isn’t school! Apparently, this situation has put my friend in an awkward professional position. You could show just a little flexibility.”
“You should have thought of that before breaking and entering into a public building.”
“There was no breaking and entering. All the doors were open, including the one leading to the roof.”
“And you think walking on the roof of the Palais Garnier is not a security breach? Would you find it normal if I did the same thing in your country?”
“If you really wanted to, Detective, I wouldn’t have any objections at all. I could even recommend a few spots with breathtaking views.”
“I’ve heard enough,” the policeman sighed. “Lock these two clowns up. And deal with the comedian first.”
“Wait!” Paul begged. “If a French citizen came here to testify to my identity, and brought you proof, would you consider letting us leave?”
“If your citizen makes it here within the next hour, I’d consider it. After that, my shift is over and you would have to wait until morning.”
“Could I use your phone?”
The detective handed Paul the phone from his desk.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Perfectly serious.”
“At this hour of night?”
“You don’t really get to choose what time this kind of thing happens.”
“May I know why?”
“Just listen to me, Cristoneli, because we’re running short on time. If you don’t go to your office, photocopy all my papers, and then come to the police station in the ninth arrondissement within the next hour, I’ll sign my next book over to Mr. Park.”
“Who is Mr. Park?”
“I have no idea. But there must be someone with a name like that at my Korean publishers!” Paul yelled.
Cristoneli hung up on him.
“Is he coming?” Mia asked in a pleading voice.
“Anything’s possible with him,” Paul replied dubiously, laying the phone back in its cradle.
“Well,” said the detective, getting to his feet, “if this man you were yelling at is stupid enough to help you, you’ll be sleeping at home tonight. If not, we have blankets here. France is a civilized country.”
Paul and Mia were escorted to the cells. Out of courtesy, they weren’t put in with the two drunks who had been left to sober up.
The door banged shut behind them. Mia sat on the bench and held her head in her hands.
“My business partner will never forgive me.”
“Why? It’s not like we ran over an old lady or something. Anyway, what are you so worried about? There’s no way she’ll find out we’re here.”
“She’s also my flatmate. When she gets back from the restaurant, she’ll see I’m not there. And I won’t be there tomorrow morning either.”
“You are allowed to sleep out at your age, aren’t you? Seems like a pretty controlling business partner. Unless she’s . . .”
“She’s what?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
“I pretended to have a migraine so I wouldn’t have to work tonight, even though she needed me.”
“Ah. That wasn’t a very nice thing to do.”
“Thanks for twisting the knife.”
Paul sat next to her and said nothing.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I have an idea, just an idea. Maybe you could neglect to mention the arrest and the police station and the handcuffs and all that to your great-grandchildren . . .”
“Are you kidding me? That would be their favorite part. Imagine Granny spending a night in the nick!”
They heard the sound of a key in the lock. The door to their cell opened and a policeman ordered them out. He led them to the detective’s office, where Cristoneli, after handing over a photocopy of Paul’s residence permit, signed a check to pay his fine.
“Perfect,” said the detective. “You can take him with you.”
Turning around, Cristoneli noticed Mia and stared accusingly at Paul.
“What is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed angrily, turning back to the inspector. “I should be able to take them both for that price!”
“Mademoiselle does not have her papers.”
“Mademoiselle is my niece!” Cristoneli said. “On that, I give you my word.”
“You’re Italian and your niece is English? That’s quite the international family you got there!”
“I am a naturalized Frenchman, Detective,” Cristoneli replied. “And yes, my family has been a mix of nationalities for three generations. You can call us immigrants, or the future of the continent, depending on how open-minded you are.”
“Okay, okay, just get the hell out of here, all of you! And you, mademoiselle, I want to see you again tomorrow afternoon, with your passport. Is that understood?”
Mia nodded.
Outside the police station, Mia thanked Cristoneli, who bowed respectfully.
“The pleasure was all mine, mademoiselle. It’s strange, but have I met you before? Your face is very familiar.”
“I doubt it,” Mia replied, blushing. “Maybe you know somebody who looks like me?”
“Probably. Although . . . I could have sworn that I—”
“Pathetic!” Paul groaned, cutting him off.
“What’s the matter with you?” Cristoneli asked, turning to face him.
“Is this how you try to seduce women, using stale old clichés like that? ‘Have I met you before?’” he repeated mockingly. “Pitiful!”
“You are the one who is pitiful, my friend. I was being completely sincere. I do feel quite sure I have seen mademoiselle somewhere before.”
“Look, we’re in a rush: mademoiselle’s carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin, so let’s just skip the pleasantries, shall we?”
“And that is all the thanks I get, I suppose?” Cristoneli grumbled.
“It goes without saying that we’re eternally grateful. Good night!”
“It also should go without saying that the fine will be deducted from your advance.”
“You two are like a grumpy old married couple,” Mia said, amused, as Cristoneli got back in his sports car.
“Well, he’s certainly got the ‘old’ part covered. Come on, let’s get a move on. What time does your business partner get back from the restaurant?”
“Usually between eleven thirty and midnight.”
“So, worst-case scenario: twenty minutes. Best case: fifty. Let’s do this!”
And he led Mia in a mad dash to his car.
After opening the door and telling her to buckle up, he drove off at top speed.
“Where do you live?”
“Rue Poulbot, in Montmartre.”
The Saab sped through the streets of Paris, veering into bus lanes and zigzagging between taxis, incurring a volley of abuse from a motorcyclist at Place de Clichy and a group of pedestrians at an intersection on Rue Caulaincourt, and swinging onto Rue Joseph-de-Maistre with tires squealing.
“Don’t you think we’ve had enough brushes with the law tonight? You might want to slow down,” Mia suggested.
“And what if we get there after your business partner does?”
“Good point. Keep going.”
The car accelerated, zipping up Rue Lepic. On Rue Norvins, Mia shrank back in her seat.
“Is the restaurant around here?”
“We just passed it,” she whispered.
At last, they turned onto Rue Poulbot. Mia pointed out her building. Paul slammed on the brakes.
“Hurry up!” he urged her. “We’ll say good-bye another time.”
They exchanged a look, and Mia rushed toward the front door. Paul waited to check that she’d got in, staring at the windows of the building, then smiled as the lights on the top floor came on briefly and went out again. He was about to drive away when he saw a woman walking up the street and entering the building. He honked his horn three times before setting off again.
Daisy came into the apartment, completely exhausted. The living room was dark. She turned on the lights and collapsed onto the sofa. Her gaze wandered to the coffee table, where she spotted a book. She picked it up and examined the author’s photo again.
After getting up, she knocked gently at Mia’s door and opened it a crack.
Mia pretended to wake up.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. I should be fine again tomorrow.”
“I’m so glad to hear that!”
“I hope it wasn’t too tough at the restaurant tonight.”
“It was pretty crowded, believe it or not, despite the rain.”
“Did it rain a lot?”
“Incessantly. What about here? Did it rain inside the apartment too?”
“Um, no . . . What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Daisy closed the door without another word.
Paul parked his car and went up to his apartment. He sat at his desk and was just about to start a new chapter, in which his mute opera singer ventures out onto the rooftop of the Opera, when the screen of his phone lit up.
My great-grandchildren would like
to join me in thanking you for giving
their future great-grandmother such
an unforgettable evening.
Did you make it back in time???
Two minutes later, and I’d have been
a goner!
I honked my horn to warn you.
I heard it.
Your roommate didn’t suspect anything?
I think she may have seen my raincoat
sticking out of the duvet!
You sleep in a raincoat?
Didn’t have time to take it off.
I’m really sorry about the police station . . .
We should split that fine.
Absolutely not—you were my guest.
Will you take me to see the Catacombs
next week?
Depends. Would that count or not?
Definitely wouldn’t count.
Why not?
Because!
Can’t argue with that.
So we’re on?
Wouldn’t you prefer an exhibition
at the Grand Palais? Not so many
dead people.
What exhibition?
Hang on, I’ll check.
Okay.
The Tudors.
Oh no, I’ve had my fill of the
Tudors.
Musée d’Orsay?
Jardin du Luxembourg?
Sold. You’re on.
Are you working?
Trying to.
In that case, I’ll let you go. Day after
tomorrow, 3pm?
Done. Outside the entrance, on
Rue Guynemer.
The screen went black, and Paul returned to his novel. His singer was about to start her walk across the rooftop when his phone lit up again.
I’m starving.
Me too.
But I’m trapped in my bedroom.
Take off your raincoat and
tiptoe over to the fridge.
Good idea. Okay, I’ll really leave you
to work now.
Thanks.
Paul put the phone on his desk. He kept checking the black screen, hoping it would light up again. Disappointed, he put it in a drawer, but kept the drawer half-open . . . just in case.
Mia undressed silently, pulled on a bathrobe, and half opened her bedroom door. Daisy was lying on the sofa, reading Paul’s novel. Mia went back to bed and spent the next hour listening to her stomach growl.