12
Mia turned up late at the gates of the Jardin du Luxembourg. She looked around for Paul, then sent him a text.
Where are you?
On a bench.
Which bench?
I’m wearing a yellow raincoat,
so you can spot me easily.
Seriously?
No!
Seeing her approach, Paul stood up and waved.
“Oh, so you’re the one wearing a slicker today,” she said, “even though it’s not raining.”
“That remains to be seen,” he replied, setting off along the path, his hands behind his back.
Mia followed.
“Did you have another bout of writer’s block last night?”
“Nope. I even managed to finish a chapter. I’ll start another one tonight.”
“Look at that. Do you fancy a game?” Mia asked, pointing to a group of men playing boules.
“Do you know how to play?”
“It doesn’t seem all that complicated.”
“Well, it is. Like everything in life, I suppose . . .”
“Easy, now. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”
“How about . . . if I win, you have to make me dinner!”
“And if I win?”
“It would be dishonest of me to let you think you have a chance of winning. I’ve become seriously good at this stupid little game.”
“I’ll try my luck anyway,” Mia replied, heading for the boules pitch.
She asked two players who were chatting if she could borrow their set of boules. They looked wary, so she leaned close to the older of the two and whispered something in his ear. The man smiled and gestured at the pitch, where the boules and the jack lay unused.
“Shall we?” she said to Paul.
Paul began the first round by throwing the jack. He waited for the little wooden ball to stop rolling, then bent forward, arm pulled back, and threw his boule. It arced through the air before rolling along the ground and coming to rest next to the jack.
“Difficult to get any closer than that.” He whistled. “Your turn.”
Mia got into position, watched by the two old men, who looked amused. Her boule did not go as high as Paul’s and came to a halt an inch or two behind his.
“Not bad. Promising, but not a game changer,” said Paul.
For his second throw, he twisted his wrist slightly. The boule slowly circled around the others before kissing the jack.
“Perfect!” Paul laughed triumphantly.
Mia got back into position, narrowed her eyes, and took aim.
Paul’s two boules were knocked away from the jack, while Mia’s appeared glued to its sides.
“Putain!” one of the old men shouted, while the other burst out laughing.
“Now that was perfect,” Mia declared.
Paul stared at her, speechless, then walked away.
Mia waved at the two men, who applauded. Then she ran after Paul.
“Come on. Don’t be a sore loser!” she said, catching up with him.
“And you let me think that was the first time you’ve played . . .”
“I spent every summer of my childhood in Provence, as you might recall. Next time, try listening to women when they talk to you.”
“I was listening,” Paul protested. “But my head was kind of spinning that night. Or must I do the unspeakable and remind you about the circumstances of our first encounter?”
“What’s really the matter, Paul?”
He took out a sheet of paper and handed it to her.
“I got this last night,” he mumbled.
Mia stood still and began reading.
Dear Paul,
I’m very glad you are coming to Seoul, even if we won’t have as much time to enjoy each other’s company as I would have liked. I have professional obligations at the Book Fair from which I cannot escape. I think you will be pleasantly surprised by the welcome you’ll receive from your readers, and I suspect you will be even busier than I am at the fair. You are famous here, and people are very excited about your arrival. Be prepared to devote a lot of your time and energy to your admirers for the duration of the visit. For my part, I will try to free myself as much as I can so that I can show you around my city . . . if your editor allows you enough
time.
I would have loved for you to stay with me, but I’m afraid that is impossible. My family lives in the same apartment building, and my father is very strict. For a man to spend the night in his daughter’s apartment would be against all decorum, and it is something he would never allow. I can imagine your reaction to this news, and I share your disappointment, but you must understand that morals and customs are not the same here as they are in Paris.
I look forward to seeing you soon.
Have a good trip.
Your favorite translator,
Kyong
“Well, it is a little cold,” Mia admitted, handing back the sheet of paper.
“Just a little.”
“Don’t overreact. You have to be able to read between the lines. She seems to be a very reserved person.”
“Believe me, she’s not so reserved when she comes to Paris!”
“But Seoul is her home. It’s different.”
“Listen, you’re a woman. Work your magic and read between the lines for me. Tell me what I’m missing. Does she love me or not?”
“I’m sure she does.”
“Then why doesn’t she write it? Is it really such a hard thing to admit?”
“For someone so reserved . . . it might be.”
“When you’re in love with a man, don’t you tell him?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What exactly would be stopping you?”
“Fear,” Mia replied.
“Fear of what?”
“Of scaring him off.”
“Oh, God, it’s all so complicated! So what are you supposed to do, what should you say or not say when you’re in love with somebody?”
“Maybe it’s best to hold off, to wait awhile.”
“Wait for what? Until it’s too late?”
“Until it’s . . . not too early.”
“And just how do I figure that out? How do I know the time is right?”
“When you no longer feel any doubt, I suppose.”
“Has that ever happened to you? Being free of doubt?”
“Yes, on occasion.”
“And that’s when you told him that you loved him?”
“Yes.”
“And he said that he loved you?”
“Yes.”
Mia’s face darkened, and Paul noticed.
“I’m sorry! What a jackass. You’re fresh out of a relationship, and here I am prying open old wounds. That was a selfish thing to do.”
“Not really. It was quite touching, actually. If more men would find the courage to show their sensitive side, things could be so different.”
“You think I should reply to her?”
“I think you’re going to see her soon, and when she’s with you, she’ll fall under your spell once more.”
“If I’m being ridiculous, you can tell me.”
“Not at all. You’re being sincere. Whatever you do, don’t change that.”
Paul spotted a little refreshment stand just ahead of them.
“Hey. How would you like a waffle with Nutella?”
“Sure, why not,” Mia said with a sigh.
He led her over to the stand. He bought two waffles and handed the first one to Mia.
“If he came back hat in hand, begging your forgiveness, would you be willing to give him a second chance?” he asked with his mouth full of waffle.
“I really don’t know.”
“So he hasn’t called at all since—”
“No,” Mia cut in.
“Okay. What next? There’s a pond over there where kids play with sailboats, but that might be awkward without a kid. We have donkey rides over there . . . any of that sound appealing?”
“Not really, to be honest.”
“You know, I think I’ve seen enough donkeys as it is. Over there, we have some tennis courts, but we’re not playing tennis. And . . . that’s pretty much all we got. Let’s go—enough of this park and all these happy, smooching couples.”
Mia followed Paul out into Rue de Vaugirard. Together they walked down Rue Bonaparte, all the way down to the flea market at Place Saint-Sulpice.
They strolled up and down the aisles before stopping at one of the stalls.
“That’s pretty,” Mia said, looking at an old watch.
“Yeah, but I’m too superstitious to wear anything that once belonged to somebody else. Unless I know that the wearer was a happy person. Don’t laugh, but I actually believe objects have a kind of memory. They can give off good or bad vibrations.”
“You’re going to have to elaborate.”
“A few years ago, I bought a glass paperweight at a market like this. The vendor told me it was nineteenth-century. I didn’t believe him for a minute, but there was a picture of a woman’s face engraved inside, and I thought she was pretty. As soon as I brought that thing home, my life turned to absolute shit.”
“Define ‘absolute shit.’”
“You know something? I kind of like it when you swear.”
“What are you on about now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the accent. But it’s kind of sexy. And now I’ve lost my train of thought.”
“Absolute shit.”
“You did it again! You should swear more often. It really suits you. Anyway, it started with a leak in my apartment. The next day, my computer breaks. The day after that, my car gets impounded. That weekend, I’m bedridden with the flu. Then on Monday, my downstairs neighbor has a heart attack, and then I put a mug on my desk near the paperweight and knock the thing over. A couple of days later, the handle on the mug breaks off and I nearly scald my thighs. That was when I began to suspect it had evil powers. You know. Cursed. Next thing I know: I’m totally blocked. Blank white pages, nothing but white in all directions, think Mount Everest, you get the idea. And then I trip on the edge of my rug, fall flat on my face, and break my nose. It’s a sad sight, blood pouring out everywhere while I scream my head off in my apartment. Luckily, one of my writer friends is psychic. Every other week, I eat dinner with a bunch of writers in a bistro, and we tell each other about our lives. Anyway, this guy sees me with my nose all bandaged up, asks what happened. I tell him all the things that went wrong since I bought the paperweight. He closes his eyes . . . and asks me . . . if there was a face engraved in the glass.”
“Whoa! And you hadn’t even told him?”
“Maybe I did. I can’t remember. Anyway, he tells me to get rid of the cursed thing ASAP, but warns me not to break it at all, or else the evil spirits could escape.”
“So, what—did you throw it in the bin?” Mia asked, biting her lip.
“Better. I wasn’t messing around. I wrapped it in a big scarf, tied it up nice and tight, hopped in my car, drove to the Alma bridge, and . . . adios, paperweight! Straight into the Seine.”
Mia couldn’t contain herself any longer. She burst out laughing.
“You’re too much!” she said, her eyes wet with tears of laughter. “Just adorable.”
Paul stared at her, dumbstruck, and started walking again.
“You really get a kick out of teasing me, don’t you?”
“Not at all, I swear. And so your problems stopped right after you drowned the paperweight?”
“Yep. Pretty incredible, huh? Everything went back to normal.”
Mia laughed even more, and hung on to Paul’s arm as he quickened his pace.
They passed a bookshop specializing in antique manuscripts. In the window were a letter written by Victor Hugo and a Rimbaud poem scribbled on a piece of paper torn from a notepad.
Mia peered in at them, fascinated. “A poem or a nice letter couldn’t be an evil talisman, could it?”
“No, I’d say you’re in the clear.”
She opened the door of the shop.
“It’s really a beautiful thing,” she said, “to hold a letter by an illustrious writer in your hands. It’s a bit like entering a private world, becoming a confidante. A century from now, maybe people will marvel over the letters you wrote to your translator. She’ll have become your wife, and those letters will mark the beginning of a precious and powerful correspondence.”
“There’s no way I’ll ever be considered an illustrious writer, Mia.”
“I must say I disagree.”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve read any of my novels.”
“I’ve read two so far, for your information. The letters from the mother in the first one brought me to tears.”
“There you go, messing with me again.”
“I am not! Cross my heart. I would do a full reenactment, but bawling in here seems a bit inappropriate.”
“Wow. I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“No, you’re not. That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile all day.”
“I guess in a way it does make me happy . . . not because you cried, but . . . okay, fine, yes, because you cried. To celebrate, let me take you to Ladurée for some pastries. It’s not far and their macarons are absolutely life changing. But there I go again, trying to tell a chef what’s what about food.”
“Sounds good, but I will need to head back to the restaurant right after. My cooking won’t be quite so delightful if I’m not there to supervise it.”
They sat at a table in the corner and ordered a hot chocolate for Mia and a coffee for Paul, along with an assortment of macarons. The waitress kept staring at them as she prepared their drinks. They could see her whispering to a coworker, the two of them stealing peeks in Paul and Mia’s direction.
Shit, she’s recognized me. Where are the toilets? No, I can’t go to the loo—she might talk to him while I’m gone. If it gets out that I was seen here with a man, Creston will kill me! My only option is to convince her that she has mistaken me for someone else.
The waitress came back a few minutes later and, putting the cups down, asked in a shy voice:
“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but notice. Aren’t you—”
“Nope, I’m not who you think,” Paul replied sternly. “Wrong guy, sorry!”
Deeply embarrassed, the young woman apologized and walked away.
Mia, whose face had gone bright red, put on her sunglasses and turned to Paul.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her. “That does happen to me occasionally.”
“I understand,” said Mia, whose heart was still pounding. “So it’s not only in Seoul that you’re famous?”
“Just this specific neighborhood, but that’s it. Believe me, I could spend two hours in the book section of a Fnac without any of the staff recognizing me. Which is a good thing, of course. But she must have been one of my readers—I shouldn’t have treated her like that.”
Your ego just saved me! “Don’t worry about it. Next time you come here, bring a signed copy of one of your books. I’m sure she’d love that.”
“Now that is an excellent idea.”
“So, tell me. What’s happening with your opera singer?”
“The critic follows her home. He approaches her, but without revealing his suspicions. He introduces himself as a writer and says she looks like a character from one of his novels. Maybe, just maybe . . . he’s starting to feel something for her.”
“And what about her?”
“I’m not quite sure yet, it’s too early to tell. What she doesn’t admit is that she noticed him a long time ago. She’s scared, but at the same time she feels less lonely.”
“So what does she do?”
“She runs, I think. Takes off to keep her secret under wraps. She can’t be sincere with him because she’s lying all the while about who she really is. I’m thinking about introducing her old impresario to up the stakes. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to read it before I could give an opinion.”
“Would you be interested in reading the first few chapters?”
“I’d love to, if that’s what you want.”
“I’ve never let anyone read one of my books before it’s finished, apart from Kyong. But your opinion has come to mean a lot to me.”
“Right! Well, whenever you feel ready, I’d be honored to be your first reader. And I promise to be honest with you.”
“And while we’re on the subject, I’d love to come have dinner at your restaurant.”
“Oh . . . that’s not such a great idea. Chefs are never at their best during a shift. Too much pressure, too much sweat . . . Don’t take it the wrong way, but I’d really prefer if you didn’t.”
“No, no, I understand,” said Paul.
They said good-bye outside the métro station at Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Paul walked past his editor’s office and thought he caught a glimpse of him through the window. He continued on his way and arrived back at home.
He spent the evening working, trying to imagine what would happen to his tragic opera singer. The more he wrote, the more his character took on Mia’s facial expressions, her way of walking, of answering a question with another question, her fragile smile when she was being thoughtful, her bursts of laughter, her absent gaze, her discreet elegance. The sun was rising when he finally made it to bed.
Later that day, Paul was awoken by a call from his editor. Cristoneli was expecting him at his office. On the way, he stopped to buy a croissant and ate it behind the wheel, arriving only a half hour late.
Cristoneli welcomed him with open arms and Paul began to suspect he was up to something.
“I have two pieces of news for you. Both good!” the editor exclaimed. “Amazifying news!”
“Start with the bad news.”
Cristoneli frowned at him, baffled.
“I received a message from the Koreans: they want you to be a guest on the evening news, which will be followed by their flagship literature show.”
“And the good news?”
“What do you mean? That was the good news!”
“Any time I have to do a book signing with more than twenty people, I get so nervous I practically faint. How in the world do you expect me to appear on television? Unless you want me to fall flat on my face on live TV.”
“There’ll only be the two of you writers there. No need to be nervous.”
“Two of us?”
“Murakami is the headliner. Do you realize how lucky you are?”
“On TV and side by side with Murakami to boot? Maybe before I faint I’ll manage to throw up on the presenter’s shoes. That’ll give the viewers something to remember.”
“It’s a great idea! You would probably sell many books the next day.”
“Are you listening to me? There’s no way I can appear on television. I would suffocate. I’m suffocating right now just thinking about it! I would die in front of millions of viewers. In Korea. You’d be an accessory to murder.”
“Oh, give me a break! Just have a Cognac before you go on camera and everything will be fine.”
“Even better—drunk on live television! Amazifying idea.”
“Smoke something, then. Isn’t it legal in your country now?”
“The only time in my life I ever ‘smoked something,’ I spent two days in bed staring at cows grazing on the ceiling.”
“Listen, my dear Paul, just pull yourself together and everything will go perfectly. I assure you.”
“I hope you’re right. So what’s your other bit of news?”
“Because your press schedule is getting fuller and fuller, we’ve had to advance the date of your departure.”
At those words Paul simply turned and left. Left without saying good-bye. On his way out, he picked up a copy of his latest novel from a coffee table in the lobby.
He walked down Rue Bonaparte, his mind spinning at the change of dates, and stopped in front of the antique-book shop. He went inside and emerged fifteen minutes later having negotiated the purchase of a little handwritten note by none other than Jane Austen, payable over three months.
Continuing on his way, he came to a halt at the patisserie, spotted the waitress, and approached her, asking her name.
“Isabelle,” she replied, looking a little bemused.
Paul opened the copy of his novel and wrote on the first page:
To Isabelle, my faithful reader. Please accept my thanks and my apologies for yesterday.
Best regards,
Paul Barton
He handed her the book, and she read his inscription with a blank look on her face, clearly missing the significance.
But, being a polite young woman, she thanked him, then left the book on the countertop and went back to work.
He felt like calling Arthur, but he didn’t know if his friend was still in Rome or if he and Lauren had already caught the flight back to California.
On Rue Jacob, he thought about how much he would like to find a shop where he could purchase a sibling or a caretaker, or at least rent one for a few hours. He could already imagine himself alone in his apartment, succumbing to a fierce panic attack. He picked up his car, which he had left in front of the Hotel Bel Ami, gave a hollow laugh as he noticed the name, and drove off toward Montmartre.
“Maybe my luck is finally turning around,” he muttered to himself as he found a parking space on Rue Norvins.
He got out of the car and walked up the street.
She told me I couldn’t eat at her restaurant, but she didn’t say I couldn’t stop by. Would that be thoughtful or thoughtless? Let’s say it does disturb her, it’s not like I’ll stay long. I’ll just give her this little gift, along with the first chapters of my novel, and then go. No, not the novel with the gift—she might think it’s a bribe to get her to read it. I’ll go in, give her the letter, and walk straight out. That’ll be fine. In fact, it’ll be perfect.
Paul retraced his steps, left the manuscript in the trunk of the Saab, and returned with just the pretty little envelope, tied with a ribbon, containing Jane Austen’s note.
A few moments later, he walked past La Clamada, glanced through the window, and stopped dead.
Mia, wearing a large violet apron, was setting tables.
The woman who had approached Mia’s apartment the night of their misadventure stood in the kitchen at the back of the dining room. She appeared to be giving Mia orders.
Paul watched for a second and then hurried away, hiding his face behind his hand. Once he was past the restaurant, he began walking even faster, not stopping until he reached Place du Tertre.
Why would she lie? Why should it even matter if she’s the owner of the restaurant, or just a waitress? And they talk about men having fragile egos! Did she think I wouldn’t want to be friends with a waitress? What kind of person does she think I am? “Irresistible cuisine,” my ass! Then again, it’s not that big a deal, when you think about it. I’ve pretended to be other people before, under different circumstances. The way I see it, I could walk in there and call her bluff right now—which would be satisfying, but mean. Or I could say nothing at all, I could just dangle the carrot until she admits it herself. Maybe that’s the best move.
He sat on a bench, took out his phone, and sent a text to Mia.
Everything OK?
Mia felt her phone vibrate in the pocket of her apron. Last night, David had sent her three messages, begging her to call him back. She had held firm this long; she wasn’t going to crack now. She straightened the napkins while squinting into the kangaroo pouch of her apron.
“Just making sure your belly button’s still there?” Daisy asked.
“No!”
“Was it David again?”
“Probably.”
“Look, either turn off your phone or read his message before you start dropping plates.”
Mia took out her phone to read the message, and smiled as she typed her reply.
I’m fine. How about you?
Do you have a minute?
I’m in the kitchen.
It won’t take long.
Fine. But if I call you, it doesn’t count!
Because you asked me to.
Don’t call. I’m on a bench at Place du Tertre.
No raincoat this time.
Are you OK?
Yeah. Can you come?
Give me five minutes.
Daisy, ladle in hand, was watching Mia.
“I’ll be right back,” Mia said suddenly. “I need to run out to the store. Do you need anything?”
“Apart from a waitress, you mean?”
“The tables are all set and there are no customers,” Mia replied, taking off her apron. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
She looked at herself in the mirror above the bar, patted her hair into place, and grabbed her purse and sunglasses.
“Pick up some Krisprolls,” said Daisy.
Mia winced. “Um, I wasn’t going to go to the supermarket. Sorry!”
She walked quickly, passing the caricaturist without saying hello, and finally located the bench where Paul sat waiting.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, sitting down next to him.
“I came to bring you the first chapters of my novel, but, like an idiot, I left them at home. It seemed a waste to leave without at least seeing you, though.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“You look tired. Do you have a lot on your plate? No pun intended.”
“I didn’t sleep much last night. I had a nightmare.”
“A nightmare is merely a dream that has outstayed its welcome . . .”
Mia stared at him in silence.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Paul asked.
Because I want to kiss you right now, the way you just said that . . .
“No reason.”
“‘An angel passed.’ That’s what the French say about a comfortable silence.”
“Since you forgot to bring me the chapters to read, maybe you could at least tell me what’s going on with your opera singer.”
“She’s fine.” Paul rubbed his chin. “Well, actually she’s not. She has a problem.”
“A serious problem?”
“She wants to become friends with the critic. And he has proven to be very attentive toward her.”
“So what’s stopping her?”
“Maybe the fact that she hasn’t told him the truth about herself yet. Maybe she doesn’t want to admit that she’s just an usher.”
“Why would that matter?”
“That’s exactly what I’m wondering.”
“That kind of prejudiced attitude is outdated.”
“One would think . . . But not for everybody . . .”
“Well, if anyone still thinks like that, they shouldn’t. It’s unfair.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“You’ll have to give her a different problem.”
“Meanwhile, the critic no longer has any doubt as to her real identity.”
“But she doesn’t know that.”
“True, but how can she ever really be sincere with him, when everything she says is a lie?”
Mia looked into Paul’s eyes and slid her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose.
“Where were you coming from when you called me?”
“Saint-Germain. Why?”
“So you took my advice and gave a copy of your book to that waitress.”
“Funny you should mention that. I did, yeah.”
Mia felt her heart start to race. “And . . . what did she say?”
“I barely even got a thank-you. She must still be bitter about it.”
“And that was it?”
“Yeah, she had lots of customers. She went back to work and I went on my way.”
Relieved, Mia pushed her glasses back up.
“I can’t stay long,” she said. “Is there anything special you wanted to talk about? You look a little run-down.”
“I went to Saint-Germain to meet with my editor. They’ve changed my departure for Korea to an earlier date.”
“That’s great news! You’ll see your girlfriend even sooner.”
“The bad news is the reason for the earlier timing. I have to appear on live television.”
“But that’s wonderful!”
“Wonderful for someone else, maybe. But I feel like I’ve been having a heart attack ever since he told me. What the hell am I going to say? Live TV is terrifying!”
“When you’re in front of a camera, it’s not the words that count but the way they sound. It hardly matters what you say, as long as you say it with a smile. And if you’re nervous, viewers might just find that charming.”
“What do you know about being in front of a camera? Like you’ve ever been on TV!”
“Right, of course I haven’t,” Mia replied with a little cough. “And if it ever happened to me, I’m sure I’d be just as scared as you. But I was speaking as a viewer.”
“Here,” Paul said, taking the ribbon-tied envelope from his pocket. “This is for you.”
“What is it?”
“Open it up, you’ll see. Careful, though—it’s fragile.”
Mia drew out the little note from the envelope and read it.
“‘Three pounds of carrots, one pound of flour, a packet of sugar, a dozen eggs, a pint of milk . . .’” Mia read out loud. “It’s very lovely . . . I guess . . . Does this mean I’m supposed to get your groceries for you?”
“Check out the signature at the bottom,” Paul said with a sigh.
“Jane Austen!” Mia exclaimed.
“Jane herself. I know it’s not her most elegant prose, but you wanted something personal. Even illustrious writers have to eat, you know.”
Without thinking, Mia kissed Paul on the cheek.
“This is so sweet of you. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
Mia held the little note in her hands, caressing the ink with her fingertips.
“Who knows,” Paul said, “maybe this note will inspire you to come up with a new recipe. I thought you might want to frame it and hang it in your kitchen. That way, Jane Austen would be with you while you cook.”
“No one has ever given me anything like this before.”
“Come on. It’s only a little shopping list.”
“Written and signed by one of the greatest English writers of all time, thank you very much.”
“So you really like it?”
“Like doesn’t cover it. I’ll never let it go!”
“I’m glad. You’d better go—I wouldn’t want the plat du jour to be overcooked because of me.”
“Thank you for a wonderful surprise.”
“But we’re in agreement this visit of ours was totally impromptu? So it doesn’t count.”
“Exactly, it doesn’t count.”
Mia stood up and kissed Paul’s cheek again before leaving.
The caricaturist had watched the whole scene unfold.
He and Paul both watched her walk down the street.
When she arrived outside La Clamada, her phone buzzed again.
Is your restaurant closed on Sundays?
Yes.
You know what I’d love?
What?
To taste your cooking.
Mia bit her lip.
Why don’t we eat at your place?
No strings attached, of course.
Mia looked at Daisy through the window.
My roommate will be there.
Even better. The three of us!
She opened the door of the restaurant.
All right, see you Sunday. You know
the address. We’re on the top floor.
See you Sunday!
Thank you. Signed, Mia Austen ☺
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Daisy asked, coming out of the kitchen.
“We need to talk.”
“Yes! Finally.”
Daisy categorically refused to take part in Mia’s little scheme.
“Don’t you dare leave me in the lurch. I can’t possibly have him over here, just the two of us!”
“And why is that?”
“Because it might push us straight into one of those gray areas—into the danger zone!”
“You ask me, you’re already in the danger zone.”
“No, we’re not. He hasn’t said or done anything ambiguous.”
“I wasn’t talking about him. I meant you.”
“This is the beginning of a friendship, and that’s all. I’m not over David yet.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. I can see the look on your face whenever your phone starts vibrating. Still, you have to realize you’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I’m not playing any games at all, I’m living my life. He’s funny, and he’s not trying to get me into bed. He has a long-distance girlfriend. We’re just fighting off the loneliness.”
“Well, tomorrow, you continue your fight without me.”
“I don’t even know how to make a proper omelet!”
“Just break some eggs and beat them with a bit of cream.”
“There’s no need to be mean. I’m asking you for a favor, that’s all.”
“I’m not being mean. I just refuse to take part in this charade.”
“Why do you always assume the worst?”
“I can’t believe what you’re saying! You are planning on telling your friend the truth at some point, aren’t you? Have you immersed yourself so deeply in your role as a waitress that you’ve forgotten who you really are? What will you do when your film comes out—when you have to promote it with your husband?”
“Paul’s leaving for Korea soon. Probably for good. When the time comes, I’ll write to him and confess the truth. By then, he’ll be back with his translator and he’ll be happy.”
“Life isn’t a movie script, Mia.”
“Fine, then I guess I’ll have to cancel.”
“You’re not going to cancel anything—that would be rude. No, I imagine you’ll play your role to the end, no matter the consequences.”
“Why are you torturing me?”
“Because!” Daisy yelled before going out to meet some customers who had just entered the restaurant.