14
On Tuesday night, Paul set his alarm and went to bed around midnight. At nine the next morning, he left his apartment, stopped for some coffee, waved good-bye to Moustache, and went off to do his shopping. His first stop was the greengrocer, with its radiant display of colors. Next, he made stops at the butcher, the fishmonger, the cheesemonger, and finally the patisserie. Back outside his apartment building, he did a U-turn in the direction of the wine merchant. He chose two bottles of a grand cru Bordeaux, checked his shopping list, and finally went home again.
He spent the rest of the day in the kitchen, set the table at four p.m., took a bath at five, got dressed at six, and sat on his sofa, skimming his latest chapters with one eye while checking his watch with the other.
Mia had allowed herself a lie-in. The night before, she had celebrated her last shift at Daisy’s restaurant with a few drinks too many. Feeling very tipsy, the two friends had ventured outside to Place du Tertre, hoping the fresh air would sober them up. They had sat on a bench talking about life, and getting nowhere. Except Mia did manage to make Daisy promise she would close La Clamada at the end of September, so the two of them could spend a week together in Greece.
At noon, Mia went for a walk up to Place du Tertre and said hello to the caricaturist. She ate breakfast outside at a café, and then went to the hairdresser. Then she stopped at a boutique and emerged with a pretty spring dress. She went back to the apartment around five o’clock and ran herself a deep bath.
At seven thirty, Paul checked the temperature of the oven, browned the crawfish, chopped the fresh herbs and mixed them into the salad, coated the lamb chops with a Parmesan-cheese crust, then went back to check that there was nothing missing on the table. Next, he opened one of the bottles of wine to let it breathe, went back to the living room to read, returned fifteen minutes later to the kitchen to put the rack of lamb in the oven, went back to the living room, looked out the window, examined his reflection in the mirror, tucked his shirt in and then immediately untucked it again, lowered the temperature of the oven, looked out the window again (leaning out this time for a better view of the street), decided to air the room, took the rack of lamb out of the oven, sat down on the sofa again, checked his watch, sent a text, started reading again, sent a second text at nine p.m., blew out the candles in the candelabra at nine thirty, and sent one last text at ten o’clock.
“Why do you keep looking at your phone?”
“No reason. Just a habit.”
“Mia, look me in the eyes. I came all the way across the Channel to win you back.”
“I am looking you in the eyes, David.”
“So just where were you headed when I rang the doorbell at Daisy’s?”
“Nowhere.”
“Right. Headed nowhere, all made-up with a new hairstyle. Why on earth would you cut your hair like that?”
“I just wanted a change.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Did you have a date with somebody?”
“Yes, I was off to go screw my lover. Is that what you want me to say? At least then we’d be even.”
“God’s sake, Mia! I came here to make up with you.”
“Have you seen her again?”
“No, I already told you: I’ve been on my own in London since you left, and I haven’t been thinking about anyone but you. I sent you so many messages, but you never replied to any of them. So here I am . . . to tell you I love you. That I made a stupid mistake. And I can’t forgive myself.”
“Yet you want me to forgive you.”
“I want you to give our marriage another chance. What can I say to make you understand? It was nothing more than a lapse of judgment. It didn’t mean anything.”
“To you, maybe.”
“I was in a bad place. That shoot was hard on both of us. You seemed inaccessible. I was weak. Mia, I would do anything for you to forgive me. I’ll never hurt you again. I swear it. If you could agree to draw a line through this mistake, move past it, and forget the whole thing.”
“Hit the delete key and make the past disappear like the pages of a manuscript . . .” Mia muttered under her breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
David grabbed Mia’s hand and kissed it. She watched him, feeling a lump rise in her throat.
Why do you have this effect on me? Why do I completely lose myself when I’m with you?
“A penny for your thoughts.”
“I was thinking about us.”
“Will you give us another chance? Do you remember this hotel? We stayed here during our first trip to Paris, after we’d just started dating.”
Mia looked at the suite that David had reserved—the Louis XVI writing desk, lyre-back chair and wing armchair in the sitting room, and the king-size bed with pointed crown canopy in the bedroom.
“We had a smaller room back in those days.”
“Yes, well, we’ve come a long way,” David said, taking her in his arms. “Let’s be young lovers on holiday again tomorrow. We can take a riverboat up the Seine. We can even go and have ice cream on Île de la Cité . . . I can’t remember the name of that place, but you loved it.”
“It was on Île Saint-Louis.”
“Then let’s go to Île Saint-Louis. Please, Mia, stay with me tonight.”
“I didn’t bring anything with me.”
David led Mia to the wardrobe. Inside hung three dresses, two skirts, two blouses, two pairs of cotton pants, and two V-neck sweaters. He pulled open the drawers to reveal four sets of lingerie. Then he took her into the gleaming marble bathroom. Next to the washbasin lay a makeup bag and a toothbrush.
“I took the first plane here this morning and spent my day shopping for you.”
“I’m tired,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”
“You didn’t touch your food in the restaurant. Can’t I order you something from room service?”
“No, I’m not hungry. I just want to sleep. And think.”
“What is there to think about?” David said, wrapping his arms around her. “Let’s stay together tonight, and tomorrow we’ll start again from scratch.”
Mia gently pushed him out of the bathroom and locked the door.
She turned on the faucet, picked up her phone, and scrolled through the texts she had received that evening.
It’s all ready. Hurry up!
Where are you? It’ll get cold.
Don’t worry, I understand if you have to
work late at the restaurant. Just let me know
that everything’s OK.
She was rereading the last message from Paul for the third time when the phone vibrated in her hand.
I’m going to write now. Switching my phone off.
We can talk tomorrow. Or not.
It was nearly midnight. Mia turned off her phone, undressed, and got into the shower.
Paul ran down the stairs, pushed open the front door, and took a deep breath of night air. Moustache was lowering the metal shutter outside his café. Hearing footsteps, he turned around.
“Monsieur Paul, what are you doing there, hanging around on the sidewalk like a lost soul?”
“Walking my dog.”
“You have a dog now? Where is he, then, out on the prowl?”
“Are you hungry, Moustache?”
“I always have room for a little something. But my kitchen is closed, I’m afraid.”
“Mine isn’t. Come on up.”
Entering Paul’s apartment, Moustache was amazed to see a table covered with a white tablecloth, elegantly set with a candelabra at the center.
“Spring salad with crawfish, roast rack of lamb with a Parmesan crust, and a gâteau Saint-Honoré for dessert . . . oh, and I almost forgot, a very nice assortment of cheese and a bottle of Sarget de Gruaud Larose 2009. Will that do?” Paul asked.
“Just one thing first. This candlelit meal . . . you didn’t prepare it for me, did you, Monsieur Paul? Because, you know . . .”
“No, Moustache, don’t worry. It wasn’t for you. And the rack of lamb will undoubtedly be overcooked.”
“Understood,” Moustache replied, unfolding his napkin.
The two men sat there eating until late. Moustache talked about his native Auvergne, which he had left twenty years ago to become a butcher. He told the story of his marriage, his divorce, how he bought his first café in the Bastille area, before it became hip—he never should have sold it—and then how he bought his next café in Belleville, again before it became all the rage, and finally his move to a new up-and-coming neighborhood.
Paul didn’t say anything. He half listened to his guest, lost in his thoughts.
At two a.m., Moustache rose to leave, congratulating Paul on such an amazing meal.
On the doorstep, he patted him on the shoulder and sighed.
“You’re a good guy, Monsieur Paul. I’ve never read your books—reading’s not really my thing—but I’ve heard good things about them. When you come back from over there, I’ll take you to a joint where the night workers hang out—it’s way off the beaten path, but the boss is one hell of a cook—and you can give me the lowdown on your trip.”
Paul gave Moustache a copy of his keys, admitting to him that he didn’t know when he’d be back. The café owner nodded, put the keys in his pocket, and left.