19
As soon as the wheels of his plane touched ground, Paul switched on his phone and tried calling Mia. After getting her voicemail three times in a row, he hung up. The things he had to say to her could not be left in a message.
A taxi dropped him off at Rue de Bretagne. He picked up the keys to his apartment at the Café du Marché, went home, and dumped his suitcase in the hall, without bothering to read his mail or call Cristoneli to return his messages.
Showered and dressed in clean clothes, he drove to Montmartre, parked on Rue Norvins, and walked to La Clamada.
Catching sight of him from the kitchen, Daisy came out into the main room.
“Tell me where she is,” Paul said.
“Sit down. We need to talk,” Daisy replied, slipping behind the bar.
“Is she up at your place?”
“Can I get you a coffee? Or a glass of wine?”
“I need to see Mia. Right away.”
“She’s not at my place. I couldn’t really say where she is. Back in England would be my best guess. She left over a week ago, and I haven’t heard a word from her since.”
Paul peered past Daisy’s shoulder. She followed his gaze to the old spice box, on the counter beside the percolator.
“All right,” she conceded. “She was here yesterday morning, but only very briefly. Was that present really from you?”
Paul nodded.
“It’s beautiful. I’m very touched, thank you. Could I ask what’s going on between you two?”
“No, you can’t,” Paul replied.
Daisy didn’t insist. She poured him a coffee.
“Her life is more complicated than it seems, and she is a more complicated woman than she’d like to admit. But I love her just the way she is. She’s my best friend. She’s finally decided to make a rational choice, and she has to stick to it. Let her. If you’re truly her friend, let her do what’s best for herself.”
“You’re telling me she’s back in London? Or back with her ex?”
“Listen, I have lots of customers and lunch isn’t going to cook itself. Come see me tonight after ten. It’ll be quieter then. I’ll make you dinner, and we can talk. I read one of your novels, you know—I loved it.”
“Which one?”
“The first one, I think. I got it from Mia.”
Paul said good-bye to Daisy and left the restaurant, noticing a missed call from Cristoneli. He drove to Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
Cristoneli came out of his office and welcomed Paul with open arms.
“There’s my favorite superstar!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around him. “So? I bet you’re glad I twisted your arm and made you go to Korea, yes?”
“Easy . . . you’re smothering me, Gaetano!”
Cristoneli stepped back and adjusted Paul’s jacket.
“My Korean colleague sent me an email with all the press cuttings—and, my God, what a lot of them there are! They haven’t been translated yet, but apparently the reviews have been staggering. Seems you are a total smash in Korea!”
“We need to talk,” Paul muttered.
“Of course we need to talk . . . as long as you’re not looking for another advance. You sly fox!” Cristoneli said jovially, slapping him on the shoulder.
“You’ve got it all wrong. This whole thing is so complicated.”
“It’s never simple with women. And by women, I mean the normal ones, the type you meet every day. But you? You play for the keeping!”
“It’s ‘You play for keeps.’”
“Same thing. But you can have it your way today, my friend. Come on, let’s have a drink to celebrate . . .”
“From the sound of it, maybe you’ve had enough already. You’re even harder to decipher than usual.”
“Me? Maybe it’s you, all messed up in the head . . . but who could blame you! Oh, Paul! You sly fox, you!”
“This whole ‘sly fox’ thing is really starting to get on my nerves. What exactly did Eun-Jeong say to you?”
“Eun-Je-who?”
“My Korean editor. Who else are we talking about?”
“Listen, my dear Paul, my lips are moving, but I don’t think you’re hearing the words coming from my mouth. Maybe the airplane make your eardrums go pop? Pressure in the cabin, something like that. I cannot stand the airplanes; I refuse to fly unless I have no other choice. When I go to Milan, I take the train—a little long, admittedly, but at least I don’t have to go through an X-ray before getting on board. Anyway, how about that drink? You sly fox, you!”
They sat at an inside table at the Deux Magots. Paul gestured at a folder Cristoneli had placed on the seat beside him.
“If that’s the contract for my next novel, we seriously need to talk first.”
“I thought we already had you under contract? Hmmm, maybe you’re right. I sometimes wonder what my assistant is really up to. Anyway, I hope you are not going to take advantage of the situation, considering all the years I have supported you, through good and bad! But you can walk me through your next masterpiece another time. Right now, I want you to spill the details—all the details—just between you and me. I won’t tell a soul. These lips are peeled!” Cristoneli whispered, putting a finger to his lips.
“Gaetano! What are you on?” Paul asked, taken aback.
“What kind of a question is this?”
“Help me understand: What did Eun-Jeong tell you?”
“Nothing I haven’t already said: she sent me an email and I was so very happy to hear about this warm welcome for you in Seoul. What did I tell you, eh? The numbers are gorgeous. I’m going to call the Chinese publishers and inform your American editor, and we can follow my plan to the letter.”
“Um . . . So if we’re still following your plan to the letter, then what exactly has gotten into you today?”
Cristoneli stared deep into Paul’s eyes. “I thought I was your friend, someone you can trust. So I have to tell you, I was a little bit let down that I have to learn the truth like this, like everybody else.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. And I’m getting pretty sick of your cryptic double-talk,” grumbled Paul.
Cristoneli began humming a familiar aria, before sliding the folder up onto the table. He half opened it, still humming his tune, flipped it closed, then back open again, until Paul finally snapped and yanked the folder from him.
The tabloid magazine covers inside were enough to make him gasp, and his eyes grew wide as saucers.
“I told you I’d seen her somewhere before, when I came to pick you up from the police station,” Cristoneli muttered. “But her? Melissa Barlow? I thought my jaw was going to hit the pavement!”
Photos of Mia and Paul were plastered all over every cover and on the first few pages of each tabloid. Images of them walking side by side, entering the hotel, standing in the lobby, waiting for the elevator . . . Paul leaning over a gutter while Mia held him upright, him holding open the door of a limousine as Mia climbed inside. And under each picture, there were captions describing Melissa Barlow’s crazy whirlwind romance. In the second magazine that Paul flicked through, his hands trembling, a picture of Mia at the Book Fair was accompanied by the description:
Mere days before the release of a film in which she appears onscreen with her real-life husband, Melissa Barlow is seen playing in her own romantic comedy with American writer Paul Barton.
“It’s a little intrusive, I must admit. But for sales, this is more than marvelful! You sly fox, you! Hey, friend. You don’t look so good.”
Paul retched and ran outside.
A few moments later, doubled over a trash can, he became aware of a handkerchief being waved in front of his eyes. Cristoneli stood behind him, arm outstretched.
“This is not a pretty picture. And you accused me of drinking!”
Paul wiped his mouth and Cristoneli helped him over to a bench.
“Feeling a little sick?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Is it because of the photographs? You must have realized this would happen sooner or later. What do you expect, dating a movie star?”
“Have you ever had the feeling that the world was slipping away right beneath your feet?”
“Oh, yes,” replied his editor. “When my mother died, for starters. And then when my first wife left me. Come to think of it, when I separated from my second wife also. With the third, it was different—it was mutual.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about—when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, you have to be careful, because there’s another abyss just below it, even deeper. And I’m beginning to wonder where it will all end.”
Paul went home and slept until evening. Around eight o’clock, he sat at his desk. He checked his email, reading only the subject lines, and then turned off his computer. No word from her. A little later, he called a taxi and got out at Montmartre.
It was nearly eleven when he entered La Clamada. Daisy was clearing the last tables.
“I thought you weren’t going to show. Are you hungry?”
“You know what? I have no idea.”
“Let’s find out.”
She let him choose a table while she went back to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later, plate in hand. She sat across from Paul and ordered him to try her plat du jour. They would talk when he had a full stomach. She poured him a glass of wine and watched him eat.
“You knew, I assume?” he asked her.
“That she wasn’t a waitress? I told you her life was more complicated than it seemed.”
“And what about you? You’re about to tell me you’re not really a chef but a secret agent for the French government? Give me your best shot. Nothing could surprise me now.”
“You writers! You really are something,” Daisy laughed.
As the evening went on, she told him the story of her life, and once more Paul enjoyed listening to memories of Daisy and Mia growing up side by side, though he longed for Mia to be sharing them with him.
At midnight, he accompanied Daisy to the front door of her apartment building. Paul looked up at the windows.
“If you hear from her, promise you’ll tell her to call me.”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“I swear I’m not a bad guy.”
“That’s exactly why. Believe me, the two of you were not right for each other.”
“And what if I told you I miss her as a friend?”
“Then I’d tell you you’re as bad a liar as she is. The first days are the hardest; after that, it gets easier. There will always be a table for you at my restaurant, Paul, anytime. Good night.”
Daisy opened the door and disappeared.
Three weeks passed. Paul wrote constantly. He barely left his desk, except to eat lunch at Moustache’s café and Sunday brunch at Daisy’s flat. Though Daisy was pleasant company, she maintained her silence on all things Mia. The tabloids had quieted as well.
One evening, at eight p.m. exactly, he received a call from Cristoneli.
“Are you writing?”
“No.”
“Watching television?”
“No.”
“Perfect. Whatever you’re doing . . . you keep doing it.”
“You’re calling just to find out about my schedule?”
“No, I wanted to check how you are, and how your novel is going.”
“I threw out the one I was writing and I’ve started a whole new one.”
“Excellent.”
“Completely different.”
“Oh, really? You’ll have to tell me what it’s about.”
“I’m not so sure you’re going to like it.”
“Oh, nonsense! You’re just saying that to pique my curiosity.”
“No, I really don’t think so.”
“What is it, a thriller?”
“Check back in with me a few weeks from now . . .”
“A detective story? Procedural?”
“Right now I’m just going to focus on getting that first draft out.”
“Erotica, you little devil?”
“Gaetano, is there something in particular you wanted to talk about?”
“No . . . as long as you tell me you are okay.”
“I’m fine, thanks. Scratch that. I’m great. And since you’ve taken such an intense interest in my life, I should tell you I did some tidying up this morning, then I had lunch at the café down the road, after which I spent most of the afternoon reading, and tonight I’ve warmed up some lentils for dinner. Which are currently going from lukewarm to cold. After I’m off the phone with you, I’m going to write, and then go to bed. Does that satisfy your newfound curiosity?”
“Lentils? A little tough to digest at night, if you ask me.”
“Good night, Gaetano.”
Paul hung up, shaking his head, and turned back to his computer. As he began a new paragraph, he reran the bizarre conversation with his editor in his head.
Suddenly seized with doubt, he grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV. The news was on TF1 and France 2. He kept flicking through channels, frowned, then went back to France 2, which was showing the trailer for a new film.
In it, Paul saw a man kissing a woman in an evening dress. The man took the woman in his arms and laid her on a bed before undressing her. He kissed her breasts as she moaned with pleasure.
There was a close-up of the actors, which became a freeze-frame and then cut to a television studio where the same two actors were live on camera.
“Alice’s Strange Journey opens in cinemas tomorrow,” the host declared. “And while we have high hopes for the film, the greatest anticipation and liveliest buzz is all centered on watching you as a couple, as real-life sparks ignite between the two of you on the big screen. Melissa Barlow, David Babkins—welcome, and thank you for joining us tonight.”
The camera showed the two of them side by side.
“Thank you for having us, Monsieur Delahousse,” they chorused.
“First, I have to know—as do all of our viewers—does starring alongside your real-life spouse make the performance easier or more challenging?”
Mia let David speak. He explained that it depended on the scene in question.
“Of course, whenever Melissa performs a stunt, I’m terrified. And vice versa, naturally. People automatically think that the love scenes are easier, though that’s not necessarily the case. Obviously, we know each other better than anyone else, but it’s not like having a whole crew full of technicians there really helps set the mood. They’re not generally invited into our bedroom,” he added, chuckling at his own joke.
“Mr. Babkins, your comment on the subject of love brings me to my next question. Melissa Barlow, about the many photographs recently released . . . Should we interpret your appearance together here tonight as a sign that the stories are nothing but gossip? To put it another way, who exactly is this Paul Barton to you, Melissa?”
“He’s a friend,” Mia replied tersely. “A very dear friend. Who writes lovely books.”
“So you admire him? As a writer.”
“A writer and a friend. The rest doesn’t count.”
Paul switched off the television. His hands were trembling so much he could barely keep his grip on the remote control.
Over the next hour, he struggled to write a single word. Around midnight, he picked up the phone.
The limousine with tinted windows drove into the hotel parking lot. David put his hand on the door handle and turned to face Mia.
“You need to be absolutely sure this is what you want, Mia.”
“It is. Good-bye, David.”
“Why don’t we give it one more shot? You’ve had your revenge. Plastered it all over the tabloids, even.”
“I didn’t have anything to hide. But now that we can leave this pretense of conjugal bliss behind, hiding is exactly what I need. From everyone, from myself. I feel dirty, and that’s worse than feeling alone. One last thing: you’d best sign the papers that Creston sent you, otherwise I’ll ditch the phony cover story and let everyone know the truth about what you did.”
David stared at her with contempt, then got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.
The chauffeur asked Mia where she wanted to go. She told him to take the southbound expressway. Then she took out her phone to call Creston.
“I’m sorry, Mia, I wanted so much to be there for your last promotional appearance, but I can hardly walk with this damned sciatica. So, tell me. Do you feel free now?”
“Free of him, yes. And of you. But the rest is still there.”
“I did my best to protect you, you know. You made it impossible.”
“I know that. I don’t blame you, Creston. What’s done is done.”
“Any idea where you’re headed?”
“Sweden. Daisy keeps going on about it.”
“Pack lots of layers. It’s positively frigid there. Be sure to drop a line now and again.”
“I will. But not for a while.”
“In a few weeks, all of this will be behind you, with nothing but your glorious future lying ahead. So savor this time away, recharge your batteries.”
“Sounds beautiful. Like hitting the delete key, to wipe away all your mistakes and start over. Sadly, it only works that way in books. Good-bye, Creston. Get well soon.”
Mia hung up. Then she opened the window and threw her phone out of it.