11
He felt guilty at how little he had written in the last few days. And the previous night had only made matters worse. He wanted to revise the first few chapters so Kyong would like them. Even though she had yet to reply to his email, which worried him a lot.
He drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness, turned on his desk lamp, and sat in front of the computer.
It had been a prolific day: ten pages, five coffees, two liters of water, and three bags of chips in seven hours.
Now he was hungry—starving, in fact—and he decided to stop working and go to the local café. It wasn’t the best place to eat in the arrondissement, but at least he wouldn’t have to dine alone. Whenever he sat at the counter, the café owner always stopped to chat. He could be relied on for all the neighborhood gossip—who had died or got divorced, who’d moved away, which shop had opened or closed, what the weather was supposed to be like, and so on—as well as more serious news, like political scandals. All the murmurings of the city and the wider world reached Paul through the voice of Moustache, as he called him.
Back in his apartment, Paul opened the curtains to watch the evening fall. He checked his email: nothing from Kyong, but he did find one new message.
Dear Paul,
I hope all is well. Our time in the South was magical. Makes me wonder again why I spent four years in Paris when I could have gone to Provence instead. The people are so kind, the countryside so beautiful, and there are loads of street markets and endless sunshine . . . maybe you should consider it? Sometimes happiness can be found closer to home than we think.
We sure do miss you, man. We’re spending a few days in Italy now, having just arrived. Portofino is one of the prettiest towns I’ve ever been to. In fact, all of Liguria is just gorgeous.
We’ve decided to go to Rome next, and to fly directly back to San Francisco from there.
I’ll call you when we’re home. In the meantime, let me know what’s happening on your end.
Lauren sends her love . . .
Arthur
The email had been sent only a few minutes earlier. Assuming that Arthur was still online, he replied immediately:
Hey, old buddy,
I’m thrilled that your vacation is going so well. You should stay a bit longer . . . or should I say, you kind of have to! In a funny turn of events, I came across a short-term apartment-rental website the other day. I’d heard great things about it and wanted to give it a whirl. You wouldn’t believe how popular your apartment has been!
Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of everything. Your tenants, whom I handpicked personally—a nice couple with their four mild-mannered children—will stay there until the end of the month. The rent will be paid directly to the agency: you’ll just have to show up to pick up your check. So hopefully that should help pay for your Italian adventures.
And now, old buddy, we’re even!
Other than that, no real news in my life, except that I’m doing lots of writing and the Seoul trip looms.
Give Lauren my love . . .
Paul
Almost immediately, the following words appeared on the screen:
Please tell me you’re kidding!
Savoring his vengeance, Paul thought about letting Arthur stew a bit longer. But he knew his friend would not stop pestering him until he had the truth, so he decided to reply before getting back to work.
Arthur,
Were it not for my fear that my godson would end up spending more time with his godmother than he should, I would have done it. Fortunately for you, I’m just too nice for that kind of thing. I had you going, though, didn’t I?
Don’t worry, you’ll still get what’s really coming to you.
Paul
And with that, he devoted his night to the creation of a new chapter.
“Tell me, just how did you meet him?”
“Meet who?”
“Him,” Daisy said, sliding the book down the counter of the bar.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“And why not? I believed you when you turned up on my doorstep like a lost puppy, didn’t I? When you asked me to let you stay, and when you cried all night in my arms over what David had done to you, and when you said it was all his fault. Right?”
“I met him through your dating site,” Mia admitted, lowering her eyes.
“I knew I’d seen his face somewhere!” Daisy railed. “You’ve really got a lot of nerve, you know that?”
“It’s not what you think, I swear.”
“Oh, now she’s swearing! Spare me, please.”
Daisy walked past Mia and went to set the tables.
“Leave it,” said Mia, following her. “I can take care of that. You’ve got enough work to do in the kitchen.”
“I’ll do whatever I want in my own restaurant, thank you very much.”
“Am I fired?”
“Are you in love with him?”
“No, of course not!” Mia protested vehemently. “He’s just a friend.”
“What kind of friend?”
“Someone I can talk to, with no ambiguity at all.”
“On his end or on yours?”
“None at all, no gray zone. We agreed to that during our first dinner.”
“Ah, so you’ve dined together. When? The night you slept in your raincoat due to your debilitating retinal migraine?”
“No. We went to the Opera that night.”
“This just gets better and better!”
“Our dinner together was the night I told you I went to the cinema.”
“The Swede. I should have known. So you’ve been lying to me all this time?”
“You’re the one who said he was Swedish.”
“What about his phone?”
“Oh, that was true. He really did forget it.”
“And your migraine?”
“It was real, it just didn’t last that long . . .”
“The truth comes out!”
“He’s just a friend, Daisy. I could even introduce you to him. I’m sure the two of you would hit it off.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“He works nights, like you do. He’s a bit gauche, but he’s very funny, just like you. He’s American, he lives in Paris, and he’s single—another thing you have in common.”
“And you don’t fancy him yourself?”
“Well . . . I guess I should say nearly single.”
“No way! Forget it. I’ve had it up to here with guys who are ‘nearly single.’ Why don’t you start setting these tables instead of setting me up?”
Mia didn’t wait to be asked twice. She grabbed a pile of plates and began placing them on tables. Daisy went into the kitchen and started peeling vegetables.
“You should at least meet him,” said Mia.
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because first of all, it never works like that. Second, because he’s only ‘nearly single.’ And most importantly, because you like him more than you’re willing to admit.”
Mia turned toward Daisy, hands on her hips. “I think I’d know how I feel about someone.”
“Is that so? Since when? You cross the city to give him his phone back, you lie like a teenager, you go with him to the Opera and—”
“No, not to the Opera—on the Opera!”
“What?”
“We didn’t go to see a performance, he took me up on the roof—to see Paris at night.”
“Either you really are completely naive or you’re lying to yourself. Either way, leave me out of it.”
Mia frowned.
“Get to work!” Daisy yelled. “The customers will be here any minute.”
At two a.m., Paul was still struggling with the last line of a paragraph when he decided to call it a night. He checked his email again and, his pulse quickening, finally found a reply from Kyong, which he printed out. He liked to read her words on paper, as it somehow made her seem less virtual. He picked up the hard copy from his printer tray and waited until he was in bed before starting to read.
Soon afterward, he turned off the light and hugged his pillow to him.
At three a.m., Mia was awoken by the vibrations of her phone. She grabbed it from the bedside table. The name David appeared on the screen.
Her heart began pounding wildly. She put the phone back on the table, lay down again, and hugged her pillow.