13
Mia had just thrown her third omelet in the trash. The first had burned, the second was too bland, and the third resembled a sorry attempt at scrambled eggs. How did the French do it?
At least the table looked good. It was set for three—Mia preferred pretending Daisy had stood them up at the last minute rather than having to explain her absence—with a bouquet of flowers in the center, along with a basket of pastries. So at least there would be something edible. Her phone buzzed. She washed the egg yolk from her hands and forearms, opened the refrigerator for the tenth time, and prayed that it was Paul telling her he couldn’t make it.
I’m downstairs.
Come on up!
She cast a last look around the room and ran over to crack open a window. The Bakelite handle of a saucepan she was using to warm some premade apple compote had burned slightly and was giving off an acrid stench.
The doorbell rang.
Paul came in, holding a small parcel.
“You shouldn’t have. What is it?” Mia asked.
“A scented candle.”
“Lovely. I’ll get a lighter,” she said, thinking venomously of Daisy.
“Sounds good. Wish I’d brought six more—smells like she’s cooking tires in here!”
“Did you say something?”
“No, I was just thinking how nice your place is. And what a wonderful view.” She seems nervous. I shouldn’t have invited myself. I should ask if she wants to head to a restaurant instead. Maybe we could sit outside, with the weather so nice and all. What am I saying? She’s probably been slaving away cooking all morning—that would make it even worse.
“Let’s start with some croissants.” Yes, excellent idea—I’ll stuff him full of croissants and pains au chocolat until he explodes, and then I’ll go round with the Hoover.
“You know what, I’m sorry. It’s your only day off all week, and I force you to cook and wait on me hand and foot. It was a selfish move, and I feel terrible about imposing. What would you say to a relaxed meal outside on a sunny terrace?”
“If that’s what you’d prefer . . .” Turns out there is a God! I’m sorry, Lord, for all the times I’ve doubted you. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll go to church and light a candle.
“I know you’ve probably already gone to a lot of trouble, though, and I don’t want to offend you. In fact, the only reason I suggested going out to eat was to avoid being impolite.”
Ten candles! Twenty, if that’s what it takes!
“It’s your call, whatever you prefer,” Paul continued.
“The weather certainly is lovely today. I should have put the table on the balcony . . .” What is wrong with you? Why would you say something like that?
“You want me to set up the table outside?”
“Just, um, which café did you have in mind?” Mia asked feverishly.
“Any. I’m starving.”
Grab your purse before he changes his mind. Tell him it’s a brilliant idea and run down the stairs now!
Just then, the apartment door opened. Mia and Paul turned to see Daisy enter, carrying two large shopping bags.
“You could have at least helped me carry them,” she said, placing the bags on the island.
She took out three large plates covered in tinfoil.
“I’m Daisy, Mia’s business partner. You must be the Swedish writer?”
“Sort of. I’m actually American.”
“Of course. That’s what I meant.”
“What’s all that?” Paul asked, eyeing the food on the island.
“Brunch! Mia is a wonderful cook, but I’m the one who always gets stuck doing the serving. Even on Sundays. Disgraceful.”
“Oh, give me a break!” Mia protested. “It hadn’t finished cooking. And someone had to come up here and set the table.”
Daisy stepped on Mia’s foot as she walked past.
“Let’s see what you prepared for us, shall we?” Daisy said, removing the foil. “Caramelized onion tart, chard pie, and baked stuffed vegetables. If anyone’s still hungry after all this, you should think of a new line of work!”
“Smells amazing,” Paul said to Mia.
Daisy started sniffing the air—once, twice. After the third sniff, she advanced toward the table, spotted the scented candle, made a face, blew it out, and threw it straight in the trash, smiling as she noticed what else was in there.
“Um . . . all right, then,” Paul stammered, somewhat taken aback.
Mia gave him a knowing look, suggesting that her business partner was sometimes a little odd. Daisy must have noted the exchange because she ordered them to eat immediately.
Paul wanted to know how the two had met and become friends. Mia started talking about Daisy’s first trip to England. Daisy interrupted to tell him about Mia’s first trip to Provence, and how she’d been terrified of cicadas. She recounted their nocturnal escapades and all the tricks they’d played on each other. Paul was only half listening, thinking constantly about his own adolescence with Arthur, the boarding school where they’d met, the house in Carmel . . .
As they sipped at coffee after the meal, it became Paul’s turn to answer all of Daisy’s questions. Why he had moved to Paris, what had made him want to write, which writers he admired most, what his working habits were. Paul played along, replying with good grace. Mia stayed nearly silent, simply watching the other two.
She stood up to clear the table and went behind the island. A little later, Paul tried to get her attention, but she stared fixedly at the sudsy dishes.
Shortly after midday, he thanked them both for a lovely time and said good-bye, congratulating Mia on her amazing cooking—by far the best meal he’d had in ages. On his way out, he promised Daisy that he would devote one of his chapters to Provence. It was Daisy who saw him to the door. Mia just waved and carried on tidying up. He rolled his eyes and left.
Daisy closed the door and waited for a moment.
“He’s much better looking in real life than in the photo on his book,” she said with a yawn. “I’m going to take a nap. I’m exhausted. It was fun, though, wasn’t it? He certainly did seem to enjoy my cooking . . . I mean, your cooking.”
With these words, Daisy went into her bedroom, Mia into hers, and the two friends did not speak another word to each other all day.
Lying on her bed, Mia picked up her phone and reread all of David’s messages.
In the early evening, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a light sweater and went out, slamming the door behind her.
The taxi dropped her off at Place de l’Alma. She sat outside at a café and ordered a glass of pink champagne, which she downed in one gulp while keeping an eye on her phone. She had just ordered a second glass when the screen lit up. This time it was a call, not a text. She hesitated before answering.
“What’s going on? Why were you acting like that today?”
“Why were you acting like that?”
He sighed. “Where are you?”
“Place de l’Alma.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Looking at the bridge.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it. Is that okay with you?”
“And where are you looking at it from?”
“From an outside table at Chez Francis.”
“I’m on my way.”
Paul turned up four glasses of champagne later. He double-parked his car and sat down next to Mia.
“Has your meal gone down yet?” she asked him.
“Listen, I couldn’t care less if the truth is that you don’t know how to cook, and I couldn’t care less if you’re actually a waitress and not the owner. But I will not accept you trying to set me up with your friend.”
Mia looked upset. “So do you like her, or not?”
“Daisy is beautiful, lively, and interesting, and she’s a superb cook,” Paul admitted. Then, raising his voice: “But it is up to me, and me alone, to decide who I meet and who I don’t meet. I don’t let my oldest friends meddle with my private life, and I’m sure as hell not going to let you do it.”
“Do you want to see her again?” Mia asked, speaking over Paul.
And, as they argued, their faces drew gradually closer together until their lips touched.
For a moment, the two of them were dumbstruck.
Then, in a calm voice, Paul told Mia: “I hated that, back at your place today.”
“So did I.”
“There was this . . . distance between us.”
“Yes.”
“Tonight, I’m going to write a scene where my characters have a huge argument and then make up. I have enough material to fill a couple dozen pages.”
“So lunch wasn’t a complete waste of time, then. If you want my opinion, he should apologize and admit he was wrong.”
Paul picked up Mia’s glass and drained it.
“You’ve already had enough to drink, and I’m thirsty. Don’t give me that butter-wouldn’t-melt look. I can see it in your eyes. Let me give you a ride home.”
“No, I’ll take a cab.”
Paul picked up the bill from the table.
“Six glasses? Well, there you go . . .”
“I’m not even drunk!”
“Stop disagreeing with everything I say. I’m taking you home, and that’s all there is to it.”
He led Mia to his car. She staggered a little on the pavement. He put her in the Saab’s passenger seat before climbing in behind the wheel.
They drove in silence to Rue Poulbot. Paul parked in front of the apartment building and got out.
“Are you going to be all right?” he asked, opening the door for her.
“The atmosphere’s a bit tense, but we’ve had arguments before. It’ll pass.”
“I meant, are you okay to climb the stairs?”
“I’ve had a few glasses of champagne. That doesn’t make me drunk!”
“I’m leaving Paris at the end of the week,” he said, looking at the ground.
“So soon?”
“I told you already: the trip was moved up. Next time, try listening to men when they talk to you.”
Mia elbowed him in the ribs.
“We can’t let that lunch be the last time we see each other.”
“When exactly are you leaving?”
“Friday morning.”
“What time?”
“The flight is at eleven thirty a.m. We could have dinner the night before, but I’m sure you’re working . . .”
“It would be a little sad, right before you leave. How about Wednesday?”
“Wednesday works for me. Any particular place you’d like to try?”
“Your place. Eight o’clock.”
Mia kissed Paul on the cheek, opened the front door, turned around, smiled, and disappeared inside the building.
The apartment lay in darkness. Mia swore as she bumped into a chair, narrowly avoided the coffee table, walked into and then straight back out of a cupboard, and finally made it to her room. She slid between the sheets and fell asleep.
Paul opened a cupboard when he got home too. He hesitated between two suitcases, chose the smaller, and put it at the foot of his bed. For most of the night, he sat in front of his computer, trying to find the right words. At about three in the morning, he sent an email to Kyong, reminding her of his flight number and his arrival time. Then he went to bed.
Daisy was sitting at the breakfast table. When Mia came out of her room, Daisy poured her a cup of tea and told her to sit down.
“What was the story with you yesterday?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.”
“You mean, why did I come to your rescue? Why did I spend all Sunday morning cooking so you could, once again, be the wonderful, extraordinary Mia, who is just perfect at everything?”
“Oh, spare me! You were going all out to lure him in. I’ve hardly ever seen you act like that.”
“Coming from an actress as talented as you, I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyway, didn’t you want the two of us to meet?”
“Yes, but not so you could flirt with him. I felt like the third wheel!”
“Oh, how tragic! The poor movie star realizes the world doesn’t always revolve around her.”
“Go on, be like that. You always have to be right.”
“Well, I was right about one thing, anyway. You are far from being as innocent as you claim to be in this little game of yours. And maybe you’ve started to like it.”
“You know, you’re starting to be a real pain in my ass, Daisy.”
“You’re already a real pain in my ass, Mia.”
“Fine, I can tell where I’m not wanted. I’ll pack my bags and go to a hotel.”
“Jesus, when are you going to grow up?”
“When I get to be as old as you are?”
“David called me.”
“What?”
“I may be three months older than you, but apparently you’re the one who’s going deaf.”
“When did he call you?”
“Yesterday, while I was making chard pie for your Swede.”
“Stop calling him that! What did David want?”
“He wanted to use me to convince you to reply to his messages and give him another chance.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I wasn’t your secretary. I told him that what he did wounded you deeply, and that he’d have to be extremely creative if he hopes to win you back.”
“Why should I give him another chance?”
“Because he’s your husband. ‘I’m not over David yet.’ Your words, as you may recall, when you were pouring your heart out to me the other night. So. David had an affair, he had a fling, but you’re the one he loves. Mia, you need to get your head straight. The day you turned up at my apartment, you said you wanted to live in the present and have some time alone. Now you’ve done that. But your new American friend will be leaving for Korea to join his girlfriend in just a few days, and what will you do then? Keep waitressing at a bistro in Montmartre? Is that how you plan to escape your life? For how long?”
“I don’t want to go back to London. I can’t, not now. I don’t feel ready.”
“All right, but think about it. If you want to save your marriage, you’d better not wait until David finds a new girlfriend. And don’t forget, you’ve never had a very high tolerance for solitude. Don’t try to claim otherwise—I’ve known you too long for that. I can’t help it if someone else makes you suffer, but I’m not going to sit by and watch while you suffer for your own mistakes. I’m your friend, and if I don’t say anything, I’ll feel responsible.”
“So let’s go in on the restaurant together. You can deal with the cooking and I’ll take care of the dining room. We can plan our holidays. We could go to Greece for a few days, just the two of us, in September . . .”
“September is a long way off. In the meantime, let’s just enjoy these last two days without fighting.”
“What do you mean, last two days?”
“I’ve hired a new waitress. She starts on Wednesday.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I did it for you.”