4
Mia opened her eyes and stretched. It took her a few moments to get her bearings, geographically and emotionally. She climbed out of bed, opened the bedroom door, and went to look for Daisy. Yet the apartment was empty.
Breakfast awaited her on the kitchen island, accompanied by a note in an old earthenware dish.
Seemed like you needed the sleep. Meet me at the restaurant when you’re ready.
Mia turned on the kettle and walked over to the window. By daylight, the view was even more stunning, as artists and locals filled the streets below on their way to the market, and she spotted the dome of Sacré-Cœur above the rooftops in the distance. She wondered what to do with her day, and the days to come. She looked at the oven clock and tried to imagine what David might be doing now; whether he was alone or making the most of her absence. Had she been right to leave, in hopes that he would miss her? Wouldn’t it have been better to stay and try to recapture what was lost?
Mia didn’t know what she wanted, but she knew what she didn’t want any more. The waiting, the silence, the suspicion. She wanted to rediscover her appetite for life and to stop waking up with her stomach in knots.
The sky was gray, but at least it wasn’t raining. That was a good start. She decided not to go and meet Daisy; instead, she would wander around Montmartre, poke about the shops, maybe even get her picture drawn by one of the many caricaturists. Totally kitschy, of course, but that was just what she felt like doing. In France, fewer people would recognize her. She was going to make the most of this freedom.
Mia rummaged through her travel bag, found an outfit, and then paused to give in to the temptation of exploring her best friend’s apartment. She ran her gaze over the white-painted bookcase, its shelves groaning under the weight of books. She pilfered a cigarette from the pack that someone had left on the coffee table, looking for any clue that might reveal the identity of its owner. Was it a man? A friend? A lover? Odd that Daisy hadn’t said anything. The mere thought that Daisy was sharing her life with someone rekindled Mia’s desire to call David, to go back in time to before that film with the supporting actress who had caught his eye. That affair probably wasn’t the first, but actually standing by helplessly as it unfolded in front of her had been a cruel experience, to say the least. Out on the terrace, she lit her cigarette and watched it burn between her fingers.
She went back into the apartment and sat at Daisy’s desk. The screen of her laptop was locked.
Mia texted her friend:
What’s your password? I need to check my email.
Can’t you do that on your phone?
Not when I’m abroad . . .
Ha! Cheapskate.
Is that the password?
You’re kidding, right?
Well, then what is it?
I’m working. Chives.
????
That’s my password.
Imworkingchives?
Just “chives,” dummy!
Not much of a password.
Nope. And don’t even think of snooping through my files.
I wouldn’t dream of it.
Mia put down her phone and typed in the password. She logged in to her account and found a message from Creston asking her where she was and why she wasn’t answering her phone. A fashion magazine had requested a photo shoot at her home, and her agent needed her consent as soon as possible.
She began to reply, pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts:
Dear Creston,
I’ve gone away for a while, and I’m relying on your discretion. Please don’t tell anyone—and I mean anyone. In order to keep up this façade with David, I need to be alone, without taking orders from a director, a photographer, you, or any of your assistants. So: I will not be posing for a fashion magazine, because I don’t feel like it. I made a list of resolutions last night on the Eurostar, and the first was to stop being a pushover. I need to prove to myself that I’m capable of that, at least for a few days. I’m going out for a walk now, though I’ll be in touch soon. And don’t worry, you can count on my absolute discretion.
All the best,
Mia
She read it through, then hit “Send.”
A tab at the top of the screen caught her eye, and she clicked on it. Her eyes widened as she found herself staring at a dating site.
She had agreed not to go through Daisy’s files, but this was different . . . Besides, Daisy would never know.
She checked out the profiles of the men selected by her friend, burst out laughing at some of the messages she read, and spotted two bios that struck her as quite interesting. When a ray of sunlight glinted off the screen, she decided it was time to leave this virtual world and go outside into the real one. She turned off the laptop and borrowed a light jacket from the coatrack in the hallway.
After leaving the building, she walked up the street toward Place du Tertre, stopped outside a gallery, then continued on her way. A tourist couple stared at her. She saw the woman point and heard her say to her husband: “I’m sure it’s her! Go and ask!”
Mia sped up and went into the first café she came across. The couple waited outside the window. Mia stood close to the counter and ordered a bottle of Vittel, eyes glued to the mirror above the bar that reflected the street. She waited for the rude couple to get bored, then paid and left.
She reached Place du Tertre and was watching the caricaturists at work when a young man approached her with a friendly smile. Mia found him attractive in his jacket and jeans . . .
“You’re Melissa Barlow, aren’t you?” he asked in perfect English. “I’ve seen all your films.” Melissa Barlow was Mia Grinberg’s stage name. “Are you here on a shoot or just visiting?”
Mia smiled at him.
“I’m not here at all. I’m in London. You thought you saw me, but turns out it wasn’t really me. Just a woman who looks like me.”
“Sorry?” he replied warily.
“No, if anyone should be apologizing, it’s me. I realize that what I just said couldn’t possibly make any sense to you. So I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t disappointed you.”
“How could Melissa Barlow disappoint me when she’s back in England?” The young man nodded respectfully, started to walk away, then turned around.
“If you’re ever lucky enough to bump into her in London—it is a small world, after all—would you tell her that I think she’s a wonderful actress?”
“I certainly will. I know that would make her very happy. Very happy indeed.”
Mia watched him disappear into the distance. “Good-bye,” she whispered.
She fished her sunglasses out of her purse and walked a bit farther until she spotted a hair salon. It struck her that Creston would give her a severe talking-to, and this idea alone made her even more determined to put her plan into action. She pushed open the door, sat down in one of the chairs, and emerged one hour later as a short-haired brunette.
To test out her scheme, she sat on the steps of Sacré-Cœur and waited. When a tour bus with a United Kingdom license plate stopped in the square, Mia walked up to it as the passengers were getting off and asked the tour guide for the time. Sixty people, and not one of them recognized her! She blessed the hairdresser who had given her a new identity. Now she was just a simple British tourist visiting Paris.
Paul circled the block twice before finally double-parking. He turned to his two passengers with a big smile.
“I hope you two aren’t feeling too out of whack . . .”
“What, from your driving?” Arthur replied.
“Have you ever told him about that night when I spent two hours curled up under an operating table because of him?” Paul asked Lauren.
“Yes, she has. Only twenty times or so,” Arthur answered. “Why?”
“No reason. Here are the keys. Top floor. Bring up your bags while I find a place to park.”
Lauren and Arthur were busy unpacking their bags in their room as Paul came in.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t bring Joe with you,” he said with a sigh.
“It’s a long trip for a kid his age,” Lauren explained. “He’s staying with his godmother, which I think he’s pretty happy about.”
“Right, but he would have been even happier if he were staying with his godfather.”
“The two of us were kind of hoping for a romantic getaway,” Arthur pointed out.
“Romantic getaways come and go. You have time for that. I, on the other hand, very rarely get to see my godson.”
“Move back to San Francisco—you’ll see him every day!”
“Do you two feel like having something to eat? Where did I put that cake?” Paul muttered, riffling through his kitchen cupboards.
Lauren and Arthur exchanged a glance, which he caught.
Smiling at their silent humor, he made coffee and then outlined the schedule he’d drawn up.
As it was sunny, the first day would be spent sightseeing: Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Île de la Cité, Sacré-Cœur. And if they ran out of time, they could continue their tour the next day.
“Right . . . and the ‘romantic’ part of the getaway?” Arthur reminded him.
“Oh . . . yeah,” said Paul, a little embarrassed.
Lauren needed a rest before such a marathon, suggesting the two friends eat lunch without her to catch up.
Paul offered to take Arthur to a nearby café with a sun-drenched terrace.
Arthur put on a clean shirt and followed him out the door.
Sitting at a table, the two men looked at each other for a moment without speaking. As if both were waiting to see who would speak first . . .
“So, you’re happy here?” Arthur finally asked.
“Yeah. Well, I think so.”
“You think so.”
“Who could ever be sure that they’re really happy?”
“Nice Zen koan, or whatever that was, but don’t dodge the question.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Arthur shrugged. “Just tell me the truth.”
“I love my job, even if I still sometimes feel like a fraud with only six novels. Apparently, lots of writers feel that way.”
“So you do see other writers.”
“There’s a writing club not far from here. I go one night a week. We chat, talk about writer’s block, and then end the evening in a bar. It’s funny—listening to myself describe it, it does sound kind of dull.”
“I won’t argue with that.” Arthur offered up a smile.
“So what about on your end? Is the company booming?”
“We’re talking about you, Paul.”
“I write. That’s all there is to say, really. I go to a few book fairs. Sometimes I do book signings in shops. Last year I went to Germany and Italy, where my books are doing okay. I work out at the gym twice a week, which I hate, but I really don’t have much of a choice, given what I eat. Apart from that, what else can I tell you? Ah, yes. I write. Which I’m pretty sure I already mentioned.”
“Sounds like a real barrel of laughs,” Arthur said.
“Well, I guess I’m happiest at night . . . being with my characters and all . . .”
“Are you seeing anybody?”
“Yes and no. She’s not here very often—hardly ever, I guess, but she’s on my mind constantly. You know what that’s like.”
“Who is she?”
“My Korean translator. Not too shabby, eh?” Paul said, trying a bit too hard to sound jovial. “Yep, I’m huge in Korea. It’s too hard to visit, though. I still haven’t recovered from the flight over here.”
“That was seven years ago,” Arthur exclaimed.
“Feels like yesterday. Eleven hours of turbulence. It was a nightmare.”
“Well, you will have to come back one day, you know.”
“Not necessarily. I’ve got my resident card now. Though I guess I could take a boat back . . .”
“And this translator?”
“Kyong is wonderful, even if I don’t really know her all that well. Long-distance relationships can be a bit tricky.”
“You . . . do seem kind of alone here, Paul.”
“Alone doesn’t have to mean lonely. Weren’t you the one who said that once?” he mumbled, before asserting, “Now enough about me! Show me some pictures of Joe. He must have gotten so big by now . . .”
A beautiful woman sat down at the table next to theirs. Paul didn’t even give her a second glance, which clearly worried Arthur, judging by his expression.
“Don’t give me that look,” Paul protested. “I’ve had more ‘action’ here than you could imagine. Plus, there’s Kyong. It’s different with her. I feel like I can be myself—no façades, no pretending. I don’t feel forced to be charming. She got to know me through my books, which is ironic, because I don’t really think she likes them much.”
“Well, no one’s forcing her to translate them.”
“Maybe it’s an act to get under my skin, or help me improve as a writer. I don’t know.”
“But between visits, you’re on your own?”
“At the risk of sounding like I spend my whole life paraphrasing you, didn’t you also say it was ‘possible to love someone, even when you’re alone’?”
“My situation was kind of unique, though, don’t you think?”
“So is mine.”
“Listen, you’re a writer, why don’t you write a list of the things that make you happy?”
“I am happy, for Christ’s sake!”
“Right. You seem to be positively bursting with joy.”
“Shit, Arthur, don’t start picking me apart. You don’t know a thing about my life.”
“We’ve known each other since high school. I don’t need a study guide to figure out what’s going on with you. You remember what my mother used to say?”
“She said a lot of things. Actually, speaking of which, I’d like to use the house in Carmel as the setting for my next novel. It’s been ages since I was there.”
“Well, whose fault is that?”
“Want to know what I really do miss?” Paul grinned. “Those walks we used to take. Out to Ghirardelli, or Fort Point, all those nights just hanging out, or fighting in the office, all the elaborate plans for the future without ever getting anywhere . . . just you and me.”
“I bumped into Onega the other day.”
“Did she ask about me?”
“She did. I told her you were living in Paris.”
“Is she still married?”
“She wasn’t wearing a ring.”
“She never should have dumped me. You know, believe it or not,” Paul added with a smile, “she was always jealous . . . of you and me.”
Mia watched the caricaturists at work on Place du Tertre. There was one she particularly liked the look of, a handsome guy dressed in cotton slacks, a white shirt, and a tweed jacket. She sat on the folding chair in front of him and asked him to be as faithful as possible.
“‘The only love that’s faithful is amour propre,’ according to Guitry,” said the caricaturist in a husky voice.
“Guitry was right.”
“Had some bad luck, eh?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you’re alone and you’ve just had your hair done. You know what they say: ‘New look, new life.’”
Mia stared at him, taken aback.
“Do you always speak in quotations?”
“I’ve been drawing portraits for twenty-five years. I’ve learned to read quite a few things in people’s faces. Yours is very pretty, but it looks like it could do with some cheering up. My pencil can take care of that if you keep still.”
Mia sat up straight.
“Are you on holiday in Paris?” the caricaturist asked, sharpening his charcoal.
“Yes and no. I’m spending a few days with a friend. She has a restaurant near here.”
“I bet I know it. Montmartre is like a little village, you know.”
“La Clamada.”
“Ah, the lovely lady from Provence! She’s a brave one, your friend. Her food is creative but reasonably priced. And unlike some, she hasn’t sold out to the tourists. I eat lunch at her place now and then—it has real character.”
Mia looked at the caricaturist’s hands and noticed his wedding ring. David, never far from her thoughts, returned to haunt her.
“Have you ever been attracted to a woman? I mean, other than your wife.”
“Maybe, but only briefly. Only for the time it takes to look at someone else—and to remember how much I loved her.”
“You’re not together with your wife anymore?”
“Oh, we’re still together.”
“So why the past tense?”
“Stop talking now. I’m drawing your mouth.”
Mia let the artist concentrate. When the man was done, he invited her to come and view the final product on his easel. Mia smiled as she saw a face she didn’t recognize.
“Do I really look like that?”
“Today, yes,” said the caricaturist. “I hope you will soon be smiling like you are in the picture.”
He took his phone from his pocket, snapped a picture of Mia, and compared it to the drawing.
“It’s very good,” Mia said. “Could you draw a portrait from just a photo?”
“I might be able to, as long as it’s a clear one.”
“I’ll bring you one of Daisy. I’m sure she would love to see herself as a work of art, and I think you have the talent to do her justice.”
The caricaturist bent over to rummage around in one of the portfolios propped up against his easel. He took out a stiff sheet of paper and handed it to Mia.
“Your friend is positively ravishing,” he said. “She walks past here every morning. Go ahead, take it. It’s a gift.”
On the finely textured paper was a gorgeous drawing of Daisy—not a caricature, but a real portrait, capturing her expression with skill and sensitivity.
“In that case, let me leave you mine in exchange,” she said, before waving good-bye to the caricaturist.
Paul had given them a whistle-stop tour of Paris, much to Lauren’s delight. With the kind of nerve that he alone was capable of, he had cut the line that stretched out at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, saving at least an hour. At the top, a spell of vertigo kept Paul a safe distance away from the edge, gripping the guardrails with shaking hands, while Lauren and Arthur admired the view. After taking the elevator back down again with his eyes clenched shut, he’d regained his dignity and led his friends to the Tuileries Garden.
Seeing children riding on the merry-go-round, Lauren was seized by the need to hear her son’s voice, so she called Nathalia, Joe’s godmother. She invited Arthur to join her on the bench where she was sitting. Paul took the opportunity to go and buy candy from one of the fairground stalls. Lauren watched him in the distance as Arthur chatted with Joe.
Without taking her eyes off Paul, Lauren took the phone from her husband, heaped words of love upon her little boy, promised to bring him a gift from Paris, and was almost disappointed to realize that he didn’t seem to miss her all that much. He was having a great time with his godmother.
She blew kisses into the phone and kept it pressed to her ear as Paul came back toward them, struggling manfully to carry three sticks of cotton candy in one hand.
“How do you think he’s doing, for real?” she whispered to Arthur.
“Was that to me or to Joe?” Arthur asked.
“Joe hung up already.”
“Then why are you pretending to still be on the phone?”
“So Paul keeps his distance.”
“Well . . . I think he’s happy,” Arthur replied.
“I think you’re a pretty terrible liar.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“No. Just an observation. Have you noticed that Paul mutters incessantly?”
“He’s very lonely. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”
“Isn’t he seeing anybody?”
“Paul claims to have his own long-distance romance. She lives in Korea. He’s even thinking of giving it a shot with her over there. Apparently, his books have a huge following in her neck of the woods.”
“In Korea?”
“Yup. To be honest, the whole thing sounds a bit far-fetched.”
“Why? What if he really is in love with her?”
“I get the impression she might not love him as much as he loves her. And the guy is terrified of flying! If he manages to get there, he may never come back. Can you imagine him living alone in Korea? Paris is far enough from San Francisco as it is.”
“You can’t stop him. I mean, if that’s what he wants . . .”
“I can try to talk him out of it, though.”
“We are talking about the same Paul here, aren’t we?”
Paul, who was tired of waiting by now, walked resolutely toward them.
“Can I talk to my godson, by any chance?”
“Ah, you just missed him,” replied Lauren, blushing slightly.
She put her phone away and gave Paul a big smile.
“What have you two been conspiring about?”
“Nothing,” replied Arthur.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be hanging around all the time during your stay. As much as I want to enjoy your company, I promise to leave the two of you in peace very soon.”
“But we want to enjoy your company too. Why else do you think we came to Paris?”
Paul looked thoughtful. What Lauren had said made sense.
“I still think you were plotting something. So what were you talking about?”
“A place I’d like to take both of you tonight,” Arthur said. “A restaurant I used to go to all the time when I lived in Paris. But you have to let us go back and get some rest first. I think we’ve had enough playing tourist for one day.”
Paul accepted the invitation, and the three friends walked along Rue de Castiglione until they reached Rue de Rivoli.
“There’s a cabstand not far from here,” said Paul, stepping out onto the crosswalk.
The lights turned green, and Arthur and Lauren didn’t have time to follow him. They stood separated by the flow of traffic. A bus went by and Lauren noticed the advertisement on its side:
You might meet the woman of your dreams on this bus . . . unless she takes the métro . . . proclaimed an Internet dating site.
Lauren elbowed Arthur and the two of them stared at the passing bus.
“You can’t be serious,” whispered Arthur, turning to her.
“I don’t think you need to whisper, he’s all the way over there.”
“There’s no way he would ever go along with that kind of thing!”
“Who says he has to know?” she replied with a wry smile. “Sometimes fate needs a little nudge . . . Doesn’t that sound a bit familiar?”
And she crossed the road without waiting for Arthur.
Mia put on the pair of tortoiseshell glasses she’d bought from an antique dealer that afternoon. The thick lenses blurred her vision. She pushed open the door of the restaurant.
Even with her poorer eyesight, she could tell the place was packed. Through a slot window in the back wall, Mia could just make out Daisy hard at work in the kitchen, as could all of the patrons from their individual tables. Her sous-chef moved from one spot to the next like he didn’t know which way to turn. Daisy cleared some plates and disappeared. A door opened and she reappeared, walking briskly toward a table of four. She served them and went off again just as quickly, brushing past Mia without paying her any attention. Just before she went into the kitchen, she took three steps backward.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “we’re fully booked tonight.”
Mia, whose glasses were making her cross-eyed, did not give up.
“Can’t you fit me somewhere? I can wait,” she said, disguising her voice.
Daisy scanned the room, looking put out.
“The people over there have already asked for the bill, but they won’t stop chatting away . . . Are you alone? I could give you a spot at the bar,” she suggested.
Mia agreed and went to sit down on a stool.
In a few minutes, Daisy returned. She popped behind the bar, set a place for Mia, and then turned around to grab a wineglass from the rack. She produced a menu and announced that there were no more scallops. The restaurant used only ingredients bought that day, and they had sold out.
“What a shame. I came all the way from London to taste your scallops.”
Daisy peered at her doubtfully, then jumped.
“Oh my God!” she shouted. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t carrying dishes—I would have dropped everything. You are absolutely insane!”
“You didn’t recognize me?”
“I didn’t really get a good look at you. But what the hell came over you?”
“What, you don’t like it?”
“I don’t have time to come to a verdict—my waitress left me in the lurch, tonight of all nights. Look, if you’re hungry, I’ll fix you something, but if not . . .”
“What if I help out? You look like you could use all the help you can get.”
“Melissa Barlow, waitress? Somehow, I just don’t see it.”
“Keep your voice down! Melissa as waitress, maybe not. But how about Mia?”
Daisy looked her up and down.
“You think you’re capable of holding a plate without spilling it?”
“I had to play a waitress once, and I’ll have you know I trained for the role.”
Daisy hesitated. She heard her assistant ringing the bell. The customers were getting restless. They were going to need reinforcements.
“Fine. Take off those ridiculous glasses and follow me.”
Daisy led Mia into the kitchen, handed her an apron, and pointed to six plates waiting under heat lamps.
“Take those to table eight.”
“Table eight?”
“To the right of the entrance. Table with the loud guy. Be nice to him, though—he’s a regular.”
“A regular,” Mia repeated, picking up the plates. “Got it.”
“Keep it to four at a time till you get the hang of it, please.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Mia replied, balancing the plates on her arms.
Her mission accomplished, she came back straightaway, ready for the next round.
Freed of waitressing duties, Daisy took control of her kitchen again. As soon as each meal was ready, the bell rang and Mia rushed over. When she wasn’t serving, she was clearing tables, picking up bills, and coming back for more instructions. Daisy watched her, amused.
Around eleven p.m., the restaurant started to empty.
“One euro and fifty cents. That’s the whopping tip your ‘regular’ left me.”
“I didn’t say he was generous.” Daisy smiled.
“Then he just sat there . . . like he was waiting for a ‘thank you’!”
“You did thank him, didn’t you?”
“You’ve got to be joking!”
“Maybe it’s your brand-new look. What in the world possessed you to do something so strange?”
“Are you saying you don’t like it? It’s quite handy for remaining incognito.”
“It just doesn’t look like . . . you. Give me some time to get used to it.”
“It must have been a long time since you watched any of my films. Believe me, I’ve looked worse.”
“Don’t hold it against me. I’m too busy with the restaurant to go to the movies. Do you mind serving these desserts? I want to close ASAP so we can get home and crash.”
Mia played her role to perfection until the end of the evening. Daisy was impressed: she would never have believed her friend capable of such a feat.
At midnight, the last customers left the restaurant. Daisy and her chef cleaned up the kitchen while Mia tidied the dining room.
When Daisy had finally locked up, they walked back to her apartment through the sloping streets of Montmartre.
“Is it really like that every night?” Mia asked.
“Six days a week. It’s exhausting, but I wouldn’t change a thing. The restaurant is like home to me, even if it’s hard to make ends meet.”
“Really? It was packed in there!”
“We had a good night tonight.”
“What do you do on Sundays?”
“Sleep.”
“And what about your love life?” Mia wondered again about the cigarettes left behind.
“Let’s see, love life . . . I must’ve misplaced that somewhere between the kitchen and the meat locker.”
“You mean you haven’t met anybody since you opened the restaurant?”
“I’ve been out with a few men, but none that have been able to deal with my hours. You share your life with a man who has the same job as you. How many other men would put up with you being away shooting films, things like that?”
“Share my life? Can’t say we share all that much these days.”
Their footsteps echoed in the empty streets.
“You think we’ll end up alone?” said Daisy.
“Maybe you. Not me.”
“Thanks a lot! Then what’s with all the moping? What’s stopping you from enjoying yourself a little?”
“I’m still married, at least for now. What’s stopping you? These men you’ve been out with, did you meet them at your restaurant?”
“Definitely not. I never mix work and play,” Daisy replied. “Except once. The guy used to come to the restaurant a lot—maybe too much. In the end, I realized that he wasn’t just there for the food.”
“What was he like?” Mia asked, intrigued.
“He was . . . not bad. Not bad at all, in fact.”
They reached the door of Daisy’s building. Daisy punched in the code and flicked on the light before climbing the stairs.
“How ‘not bad’?”
“Charming.”
“Go on . . .”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything! How he won you over, what it was like the first time, how long the romance lasted, how it ended . . . Everything.”
“If you really want me to tell you all that, let’s wait till we’re inside.”
Entering the apartment, Daisy collapsed onto the sofa.
“I’m beat. Could you make some tea? That’s the only thing you English people know how to do in a kitchen.”
Mia gave her the finger and slipped behind the kitchen island. She filled the kettle and waited for Daisy to keep her word and tell the story.
“We met one night in early July, last year. The restaurant was almost empty, and I was about to turn off the ovens. And that’s when he walked in. I hesitated at first, but what could I do? I let my chef and server go home. I could manage one last customer on my own. As I handed him the menu, he took my hand and asked me to choose for him. And, like a dummy, I fell for it and found the whole thing charming.”
“Why like a dummy?”
“I sat across from him while he ate. I even nibbled at a few things from his plate. He had a great sense of humor, was very upbeat. He wanted to help me clean up. I thought it was a funny idea, so I let him. After we’d closed the restaurant, he invited me to come for a drink. I said yes. We sat outside at a café. By the time we finished talking, we seemed to have solved all of humanity’s problems and the world was a beautiful place. He was passionate about food, and he wasn’t bluffing—he knew what he was talking about. I have to admit, it was like a miracle. He walked me home, didn’t even ask to come up . . . just a good-night kiss and that was all. The perfect man had just fallen out of the sky. After that, we saw each other constantly. He’d come to see me at the end of a shift and help me close up. We spent every Sunday together . . . until the end of summer. And then, just like that, he announced it was over.”
“But why?”
“Because his wife and kids had come back from their summer holidays. Please don’t say anything—I’m not going to discuss it. I’m just going to take a bath and then I’m going to bed.” And Daisy closed her bedroom door. Mia was taken aback—not only by her friend’s story, but also by Daisy’s dignity. If only she could see things that clearly herself . . .
Coming out of Chez L’Ami Louis, Lauren stopped to admire the old façades on Rue du Vertbois.
“Paris is working its charms on you, huh?” Paul asked.
“Sure. That, or the gargantuan feast we just ate,” she replied.
They took a taxi home, where Paul said good night to his friends and shut himself up in his office to write.
Lauren got into bed and began tapping away on her Mac. Arthur came out of the bathroom ten minutes later and climbed between the sheets.
“You’re checking your email at this time of night?” he asked, surprised.
She placed the laptop on his knees. When Arthur realized what she was up to, she laughed out loud at his dumbfounded look.
He had to reread the first lines of what Lauren had written:
Novelist, single, hedonist, often works nights, loves humor, life, and serendipity . . .
“I think you drank too much wine tonight.”
As he closed the screen, he accidentally clicked the “Confirm Registration” button.
“He’d never forgive you, even for just messing around with something like this.”
“Me? You’d better start thinking of your own apologies—and fast—’cause I think you just hit the wrong button, sweetheart . . .”
Arthur hurriedly reopened the laptop, mortified at his blunder.
“Relax! We’re the only ones who have access to his account, and even you admit his life needs a bit of a shake-up.”
“I’m telling you—this is a hell of a risk,” Arthur replied.
“And what about the risks he took for us? Remember that?” she said, turning off the light.
Arthur lay in the dark with his eyes open for a long while. Hundreds of memories came flooding back to him—mad escapades and dirty tricks. Paul had even risked jail for him. Arthur owed his present happiness to his friend’s courage.
Paris reminded him of sad times, years of great solitude. Now Paul was going through something similar, and Arthur knew how heavy it could be to bear that weight. But there had to be better ways of helping him than a dating site.
“Go to sleep,” Lauren whispered to him. “We’ll see if anything interesting happens.”
Arthur snuggled against his wife and shut his eyes.
Mia tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep, the joyless events of the last few weeks going around and around in her head. Today had been by far the happiest day she could think of in a long time, even if she still missed David.
She got dressed and crept out of the apartment.
Outside, the dark streets were wet with drizzle. She walked up the hill until she reached Place du Tertre. The caricaturist was putting away his easel. He looked up as she sat down on a bench.
“Tough night?” he asked, coming to sit next to her.
“Insomnia,” she said.
“I know the feeling. I can never fall asleep before two in the morning.”
“What about your wife? Does she wait up for you every night?”
“Whatever time of day, all I can do is hope she’s waiting,” he replied in his gravelly voice.
“What does that mean?”
“Did you give your friend the portrait?”
“I haven’t had a chance yet. I’ll give it to her tomorrow.”
“Can I ask you a favor? Don’t tell her it’s from me. I like eating lunch at her place, and I don’t know—somehow I’d feel embarrassed if she knew.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s a bit intrusive to draw someone’s portrait without asking.”
“And yet you did it anyway.”
“I enjoy watching her pass my easel . . . so I wanted to capture the woman who puts a smile on my face every morning without fail.”
“Could I put my head on your shoulder? Without complicating things?”
“Sure. My shoulder never complicates things.”
Together, they gazed in silence at the thinly veiled moon that shone in the sky over Paris.
At two a.m., the caricaturist cleared his throat.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” said Mia.
“Neither was I.”
Mia stood up.
“Perhaps it’s time to say good-bye,” she suggested.
“Good night, then,” the caricaturist said as he got to his feet.
They left Place du Tertre and went their separate ways.