7
Daisy had no idea what time she had fallen asleep, but she knew it would be a long day. She tried to remember what was left in the walk-in at the restaurant so she could work out whether or not she needed to go to the market, and decided that, given the way she was feeling, she absolutely had to get a little more sleep. At ten a.m., she opened one eye, swore out loud as she leapt out of bed, swore again as she washed her face, and again as she got dressed. She was still swearing as she left her apartment, and as she hopped up the street while pulling on her shoes. The night before, Mia had talked nonstop. She had gone over her entire relationship with David, from the day they’d first met to the phone call she had made ending it definitively.
Mia awoke to this flood of obscenities and did not dare show her face until the storm had passed.
She hung around the apartment, switched on the computer, decided not to check her email, but checked it anyway and found another message from Creston—a very short, simple message, begging her to get in touch.
For fun—and purely for fun—she logged on to the dating site. She didn’t see anything interesting and was about to log off when she decided to check out that strange little folder of profiles chosen by mathematics rather than chance. Only one candidate appeared, and Mia couldn’t help finding him attractive; she felt almost certain she knew his face. Had she seen him around the neighborhood? He wasn’t going by any vulgar or supposedly funny username. She was surprised to see that the small envelope beneath his picture was flashing. The message he had sent her was nothing like any of those she’d looked at with Daisy. It was actually simple and polite. It even made her smile.
I was an architect living in San Francisco when I got the crazy idea to write a novel, which went on to be published. I’m American—but hey, nobody’s perfect—and I now live in Paris. I still write. I’ve never joined one of these dating sites before, so I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or not say. You’re a chef, which is an interesting job, and means we have something in common: we both spend our days and nights working to bring a bit of happiness to others. What drives anyone to do this kind of work, I can’t really say, but I admit I love the challenge.
I have no idea how I mustered the courage to write you, or if I’ll ever receive a reply. Why do my characters have so much more courage than I do? Why do they dare to do so much and we so little? So here goes nothing: Tonight, I will be eating dinner at 8pm at Uma, a restaurant on Rue du 29 Juillet. The chef there has a dish I’ve heard wonderful things about, a baked sea bream infused with exotic herbs. And anyway, I love that street—every time I go, it seems to be warm and sunny. If this culinary experience sounds tempting, please come as my guest—no strings attached, of course.
Best wishes,
Paul
Mia quickly closed the message as if it had burned her eyes. And yet she continued to stare at the screen. She tried to stop herself from reading it again, but soon gave in to the temptation. She wound up printing it out and folding it in four. If her mother ever found out she’d even thought about going on a blind date—worse, with someone off the Internet—she would crucify her, and Creston would help sharpen the nails.
Why do my characters have so much more courage than I do?
How many roles had she played, dreaming of the freedom they offered her? How many times had David reminded her that her fans were not in love with her but with her character? Why not take a brave step like Paul had?
Her fingers rested on the keyboard.
Dear Paul,
I really enjoyed your message. I’m new to this kind of website too. In fact, I think I would have made fun of my friends if any of them had told me they’d agreed to dine with a stranger because of a message on a dating site! But what you said is so true. Is it the freedom of characters in fiction that we find so inspiring, or the way that freedom transforms them? Why do they dare to do so much and we so little? (Apologies for the repetition—I’m not much of a writer!)
Since I’m unlikely to bump into these characters in reality, I would be happy to talk to someone who breathed life into them. It must be wonderful to have your characters accomplish anything you want them to. Is it really that simple? You must be very busy, so I suppose we can save this detail for when we’re face to face.
See you tonight—no strings attached!
Mia
PS: I’m British, and far from perfect myself.
“Unbelievable. Just unbelievable!” Lauren exclaimed.
She waited for the waiter to leave their table, drank her lemonade in a single gulp, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“My message wasn’t all that bad, huh?”
“It was good enough to get her to write back. Arthur, I know you’d do anything to stop Paul from going to Korea, but you’ve really got to stay out of it.”
“I seem to recall this whole thing was your idea, remember?”
“But that was before he met with his editor . . .”
“I don’t mind if he goes to the book fair, I just want to make sure he comes back.”
“And what about the other reason for the trip?”
“All the more reason for a little nudge!” Arthur smiled.
“And how do you plan to convince him to turn up at this restaurant?”
“That’s where I need you.”
“You always need me.”
“I’m going to invent a dinner date with an important client and invite Paul along as backup.”
“You two haven’t worked together as architects for seven years. How much help could he be?”
“As a translator, maybe?”
“You speak French as well as he does, if not better.”
“He knows Paris better than I do.”
“And what’s the project all about?”
“Good question. I need to come up with something convincing.”
“Tell him it’s for a restaurant,” Lauren said.
“That wouldn’t be big enough for the agency, not so far from home.”
“A very big restaurant?”
“Ah. What about a beloved American restaurant considering a location in Paris?”
“Is that credible?”
“It’s perfect! I’ll say Alioto’s has decided to open a restaurant here. That’s his favorite place back in San Francisco.”
“So what role do I play in this little yarn?”
“If I ask him myself, he might think something’s up, or just flat-out refuse, but if you’re the one who insists, he’ll say yes. He’d do it for you.”
“This is a really dirty trick, Arthur.”
“Maybe, but it’s for his own good. He’ll be grateful.”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that, once he realizes you’ve taken him for a ride. And from that moment on, the evening will be a disaster. What are we supposed to talk about during the meal?”
“What are ‘we’ supposed to talk about? Nothing. We won’t be there!”
“So you’re planning to send him to dine alone with a stranger who accepted an invitation on a dating website, when he thinks he’s there to be talking architecture with a client?” Lauren burst out laughing. “I would love to be a fly on the wall for that meal.”
“Same here, but let’s not push our luck.”
“It’ll never work. They’ll figure out what’s happened before the first course.”
“Maybe. But imagine: What if there’s a chance it does work, even just a tiny one? How many times have you attempted something impossible in the operating room, when everyone else was telling you to throw in the towel?”
“Don’t try to win me over by stroking my ego. Honestly, I can’t figure out if this plan of yours is totally evil or totally hilarious.”
“Probably a little bit of both. Unless it works . . .”
Lauren asked the waiter for the bill.
“Where are we headed?” Arthur asked.
“To pack our bags and find a hotel. I’m afraid Paul’s going to kick us out tomorrow morning.”
“Good idea. Let’s bust out of Paris tonight. I’ll take you to Normandy.”
Paul thought it rather high-handed of Arthur to book the table under Paul’s own name, and he was further irritated at being the first to arrive. The waitress showed him to a table for four, with only two places set. He pointed this out to her, but she slipped away without replying.
Mia arrived almost on time. She greeted Paul and sat down across from him.
“I thought writers were quite old,” she said with a smile.
“As long as they don’t die young, they all inevitably end up that way.”
“That was a Holly Golightly line.”
“Ah. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“One of my favorite films.”
“Truman Capote,” said Paul. “A great man, one I hate with a passion.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“That much talent in one person? It’s enough to drive you nuts with jealousy. Couldn’t he have shared a little bit with the rest of us?”
“I guess so.”
“I apologize. It’s unusual, showing up this late . . .”
“Five minutes isn’t late for a woman,” Mia replied.
“No, I wasn’t talking about you; I would never say something like that. I mean them. I don’t know what they’re up to. They really should be here by now.”
“Um . . . Okay . . . If you say so . . .”
“Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Paul, and you must be . . .”
“Mia, of course.”
“I’d rather wait for them to get here before we really get started, but that doesn’t mean we have to sit in silence. You have an accent—are you British?”
“Well, yes. I did mention that in my PS, didn’t I?”
“No, he didn’t say a word about that! I’m American, but let’s continue speaking in the language of Molière. The French hate it when people speak English in their country.”
“All right, French it is.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you off by what I said. The French love foreign restaurants. And it’s an excellent idea to open one here in Paris.”
“What I cook is more Provençal, actually,” said Mia, putting herself in Daisy’s shoes.
“Okay. So you’re not planning on staying faithful to the original?”
“You have no idea how fond I am of staying faithful. But what if it’s possible to be faithful and original at the same time?”
“Right. Sure. Why not?” replied Paul, puzzled.
“So what do you write about?”
“Novels, but that doesn’t stop me from continuing with the day job.”
“Architecture, is that right?”
“Bingo. If not, why else would I be here?” Paul asked, prompting a confused look on Mia’s face. “What did he tell you exactly?”
Mia found herself muttering under her breath. “Referring to himself in the third person! My God, I sure know how to pick them . . .”
“Did you say something? I didn’t quite catch that,” Paul said.
“Oh, nothing, sorry. Bad habit—talking to myself.”
Paul gave her a big grin.
“Can I let you in on a secret?”
“Fire away.”
“I do that too. I mean, at least that’s what they tell me. You know, this is really too much. I’ll be sure to give them a hard time about being so late. I’m just—totally dumbfounded.”
“I know the feeling,” Mia said.
“It’s completely unprofessional. Let me just reiterate that this is not like them at all.”
Mia muttered once more, “And now he’s completely gone off the deep end . . . God, what am I doing here?”
“She’s rambling under her breath. This is awful. I’m going to kill Arthur and chop him up into tiny pieces. Give people an inch, they take a mile. Where the hell are they, damn it?”
“You were just muttering there, yourself,” said Mia.
“I . . . don’t think I was. You were, for sure.”
“Maybe this isn’t such a great idea. Like I said, it’s my first time, and it’s . . . well, it’s even more awkward than I expected.”
“You’re telling me this is your first time in Paris? Your French is impressive—where did you learn it?”
“What? No, that’s not what I meant. This is not my first time in Paris at all. My best friend is French—we’ve known each other since we were kids. She came to stay with my family to learn English, and then I went to Provence to spend my holidays with her family.”
“Ah, so that’s why the food at your restaurant is Provençal?”
“Exactly.”
A silence descended. It only lasted a few minutes, but to them it seemed an eternity. The waitress came back with the menus.
“If they don’t show up soon, we should just order without them,” Paul exclaimed. “It would serve them right.”
“I think I may have lost my appetite,” Mia said, putting the menu back on the table.
“That’s a shame, they make some amazing food here. I’ve read some really great reviews about this place.”
“Right. ‘Baked sea bream infused with exotic herbs,’ like you told me in your message.”
“Message? What message?” Paul asked, wide-eyed. “When did I send you a message?”
“Are you on some sort of medication?”
“No. Why, are you?”
“Oh my God. Okay. I get it,” Mia sighed. “You’re trying to make me laugh, to get me to unwind. But you can stop, because it’s really not working. In fact, your whole—thing—kind of has me a little frightened. I mean, fair play, fine. Now I get it, and you can just stop.”
“I wasn’t pulling any kind of prank . . . And what did I do to freak you out?”
“All right, confirmed, the guy is completely, stark-raving mad. Just don’t upset him. Worse comes to worst, I order just a starter, and I’m out in under fifteen minutes. You’re right, let’s not wait any longer for them—it’s their fault for not being on time.”
“Exactly! Let’s order, and then you can tell me about your project.”
“What project?”
“Your restaurant!”
“Not much more to tell you—Southern French cuisine. Niçois, to be precise.”
“I love Nice! I was invited there for the book fair last June. The heat was kind of unbearable, but the people were really friendly. Well, the few who lined up to get their books signed.”
“How many novels have you written?”
“Six. The first one included, of course.”
“Why wouldn’t it be included?”
“No reason . . . Well, actually, it’s because I didn’t really know I was writing it while I was writing it.”
“This guy is really driving me up the wall. What on earth is wrong with him?” Her muttering was beginning to get louder. “Um, what is it you thought you were doing—building a sandcastle?”
“Either she is a complete and utter moron or she’s sitting there thinking that’s what I am. No, what I mean is that I couldn’t conceive of it being published at the time. I hadn’t even thought of sending it to a publisher.”
“But it was published?”
“Yes. Lauren sent it on my behalf—without asking my permission, actually—but hey, I guess I can’t hold that against her. It wasn’t easy at first, but it’s thanks to what she did that I ended up moving out here.”
“Can I ask you a weird question?”
“You can. I mean, I can’t guarantee I’ll answer.”
“Do you live far from here?”
“In the third arrondissement.”
“Which is more than five hundred yards from where we are.”
“We’re actually in the first, so yeah, it’s pretty far. Why?”
“No reason.”
“And what about you?”
“I live in Montmartre.”
“That’s a beautiful area. Let’s order, shall we?”
Paul called over the waitress.
“So. Sea bream?” Paul suggested, looking at Mia.
“Does that take long to cook?” she asked the waitress, who shook her head and departed.
Paul leaned toward Mia, his lips quirked in a grin.
“I don’t want to stick my nose in where it’s not wanted, but if you’re going to open a seafood restaurant, it might be helpful to know how long it takes to cook sea bream. Just a thought,” he said, chuckling.
This time, the silence stretched on and on. Paul looked at Mia and Mia looked at Paul.
“So, you like San Francisco?” Paul asked. “Did you use to live there?”
“No, but I’ve been there several times for work. And it is a beautiful city—I love the quality of the light out there.”
“Now I get it! You trained as a chef at Alioto’s and that’s why you’ve decided to bring their concept over here.”
“Who in the world is Alioto?”
“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill them both,” Paul muttered—this time, unfortunately, loud enough for Mia to hear him. “This is on him, a hundred percent. I mean, the least he could do is provide accurate intel.”
“So, this double murder—you meant that figuratively, I hope?”
My God, how thick is this woman? What the hell am I doing here? Seriously, why am I here when I could be at home? “Yes, I can assure you beyond the shadow of a doubt that I have no intention of murdering anyone, but you have to admit the situation is a little off! I must come across as an incompetent chump who doesn’t even know the ins and outs of the project he’s working on . . .”
“Okay. So I’m a ‘project,’ then?”
“Are you doing this deliberately? I don’t mean you personally, but whatever it is that’s brought us both here.”
“Well,” said Mia in a firm tone, hands flat on the table, “I think we’ve covered the essentials, and as I’m not really so hungry anymore . . .” Nope, not hungry. Absolutely starving. “I’ll let you enjoy the sea bream without me.”
“I completely understand how that sounded,” said Paul, blushing. “That was a clumsy thing to say. Please accept my apology. In my defense, it’s been a long time since I’ve done this kind of thing. I think I must have lost my touch. I told him I wouldn’t be any good at it—I should have just flat-out turned him down. And, of course, he never should have left me on my own like this. That was really unfair of him. Both of them.”
“Are you being haunted by ghosts or do the people you keep mentioning actually exist?”
“She’s completely nuts! I’m stuck at a restaurant with a crazy person. There’s no way this project even exists.”
“You’re muttering again.”
“‘They’ refers to my former business partner, Arthur, and his wife, Lauren. You were in contact with them to help design your new restaurant . . . ?”
“I don’t think so,” she replied warily.
“Well, obviously not anymore. But before this disastrous meeting of ours, that was what you were planning, right?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Now I’m confused. Then why are you here?”
“You know, for a while there I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. But I am now. You’re completely mad. Daisy warned me—I should have listened.”
“Well, that’s charming! I don’t see how Daisy could have told you I’m mad, because I don’t even know a Daisy. Well, one Daisy, to be fair, but that was an ambulance, not a person. Scratch that—long story. Who is your Daisy?”
Mia looked around for the waitress so she could leave. This nutcase wouldn’t dare follow her out onto the street with the restaurant staff looking on. Once she got rid of him, she would go back to Montmartre and delete her profile from that damn website, and everything would go back to normal. After that, she would eat dinner at La Clamada, because she was starving to death.
“Why do you think I’m mad?” Paul asked.
“Listen, this is not working out. I was messing around, playing games, and I regret it.”
Paul gave a long sigh of relief.
“Of course! I should have known. You’ve been pulling my leg this whole time. The three of you probably planned it out together. Great, you got me. Bravo!” He applauded her. “All right, where are they hiding? You can tell them to come out. I admit defeat. And I gotta admit, it was a good one!”
Grinning, Paul scanned the restaurant for Arthur and Lauren. Mia kept looking toward the kitchen.
“Are you . . . really a writer?” she asked, her face tight with dismay.
“Of course I am,” he said, turning to face her again.
“Well, that must be it. Characters take hold of the author and end up becoming an actual part of his life. That’s not necessarily a bad thing—I suppose there’s even a kind of poetry to a gentle madness like that. And your message was charming. But now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave you with ‘them’ and go home.”
Message? “Remind me again what I said in this ‘message.’”
Mia took the sheet of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Paul.
“These are your words, correct?”
Paul read the text attentively and looked up at Mia, confused.
“It’s true I have a lot in common with this guy—I could have even written the same thing, more or less, to be honest—but the jig is up; quit messing around.”
“I am not messing around. A picture of you was on the profile!”
“What profile?”
“The profile you posted on the dating site, with your picture.”
“I’ve never been on a dating site in my life, and I have no idea what you’re talking about. The only plausible explanation is that we’re both supposed to be meeting someone else.”
“Look around. I don’t see your doppelganger anywhere.”
“Maybe we both got the wrong address?” Paul said, then instantly realized the absurdity of what he was suggesting.
“Unless . . . the man I had arranged a date with started this charade of mistaken identity . . . after a sudden change of heart when he saw what I looked like in person.”
“Impossible. He’d have to be blind.”
“Thank you for that, at least. I read so much honesty in your note. It’s a shame you’re not the same way in person.”
Mia stood up. Paul did the same, and took her hand.
“Hold on, wait. Please sit down. There’s got to be a logical explanation for all this, unless . . . No, there’s no way. They wouldn’t dream of pulling such a dirty trick.”
“Your invisible friends, you mean?”
“You don’t know the half of it. This is not the first time I’ve been left holding the bag for Lauren, and had to face the consequences.”
“Whatever you say. Now, I’m leaving. Promise you won’t . . . follow me?”
“Why on earth would I follow you?”
Mia shrugged. She was about to leave the table when the waitress appeared. The sea bream looked and smelled divine and Mia’s stomach began growling so loudly that the waitress smiled as she placed the dish in the middle of the table.
“Sounds like I arrived just in time!” she said. “Bon appétit.”
Paul sliced fillets from the fish and put two on Mia’s plate. He had received a message on his phone, and he paused to read it.
“Okay. This time, I really am apologizing to you—wholeheartedly and in all seriousness,” he said, placing his phone on the table.
“Apology accepted. But as soon as we’re done eating, I’m off.”
“Don’t you want to know what I’m apologizing for?”
“Not particularly, but I imagine I’m about to find out . . .”
“I admit, I actually thought you were the nutcase. Now I have proof that you’re not.”
“What a relief. Unfortunately, I can’t really say the same about you . . .”
Paul handed his phone to Mia.
Paul,
We wanted to give fate a little nudge and, as you’ll have guessed by now, we played a hell of a trick on you. I hope you managed to have a nice evening, all the same. I must admit that we’ve spent our night in a dizzying mix of guilt and hysterical laughter. Your revenge will have to wait, because we left for Honfleur this afternoon. In fact, I’m writing from the restaurant where we’re having dinner. The fish is excellent, the town is picture-postcard gorgeous, and Lauren totally fell in love with it. Plus, the inn we’re staying at tonight seems absolutely perfect. We’ll be back in a couple of days, maybe more, depending on how long it takes for you to forgive us. I’m sure you’re furious for the time being, but in a few years we’ll be laughing over this together, and who knows? If this Mia becomes the love of your life, you’ll be eternally grateful to us!
In light of all the pranks you’ve played on me . . . we’re even now. Well, almost . . .
Love,
Arthur and Lauren
Mia put the phone down on the table and drained her glass of wine in one go. Paul found this quite surprising, but he was getting used to the feeling.
“Well,” she said, “good news is: at least I’m not eating dinner with a lunatic.”
“What’s the bad news?” Paul asked.
“Your friends have a very twisted sense of humor, particularly for the victims of their jokes. This whole thing has been downright humiliating for me.”
“I beg to differ. If anyone looks like an ass right now, it’s me!”
“At least you didn’t actually join a dating site, though. I feel pathetic.”
“I have thought about it occasionally,” Paul admitted. “I promise that’s the truth—I’m not just saying that to be polite. I could have totally joined one.”
“But you didn’t.”
“It’s the thought that counts, right?”
Paul filled Mia’s glass and suggested a toast.
“And what exactly are we drinking to?”
“To a dinner that neither of us can ever tell a living soul about. That in itself makes it completely unique. I have a proposal for you—no strings attached.”
“If it’s dessert, count me in. This fish is not exactly filling.”
“Dessert. Absolutely!”
“But what did you have in mind?”
“Could you show me the message I was supposed to have written? I just want to reread part of it.”
Mia gave it to him.
“There, that’s the line. Let’s prove we’re braver than fictional characters. At least let’s have enough courage not to leave this table both feeling completely humiliated. Let’s erase everything that’s happened up until now, every word we’ve said. It’s easy—think of it like hitting a key on the computer and we go back and delete the text. Let’s rewrite the scene together, starting from the moment when you walked in.”
Mia smiled at these words.
“Well, I know one thing for sure—you certainly are a writer.”
“See? That’s a great opening sentence for a chapter. We could follow with your Truman Capote quote.”
“I thought writers were quite old,” she repeated.
“As long as they don’t die young, they all inevitably end up that way. So did you like the message I wrote?”
“There were things that appealed to me—enough to make me show up tonight.”
“It took me hours to write.”
“I’m sure it took me just as long to reply.”
“I would love the chance to ‘reread’ that reply. So, you have a restaurant serving Provençal cuisine? Pretty original for a Brit.”
“All my summers growing up were spent in Provence. Funny how childhood memories can be so formative in terms of taste, figuring out what you want. What about you? Where did you grow up?”
“San Francisco.”
“So how does an American writer end up Parisian?”
“It’s a long story. But I don’t like going on and on about myself—boring subject.”
“I suppose I’m not really crazy about myself as the subject either.”
“Careful. We run the risk of getting writer’s block.”
“What about a description of this place? That could certainly fill a few pages.”
“You only need two or three details to set the scene. More than that and you can lose the reader’s interest.”
“I thought there was no formula for good writing.”
“I was speaking as a reader, not a writer. Do you like long descriptions?”
“No, you’re right, they can be rather tedious. So what do we write now? What do the two protagonists do next?”
“Order a dessert?”
“Just one?”
“Good point. Two. It’s their first date, remember. We need to maintain a certain distance between them.”
“As cowriter, I might point out the fact that Madame’s glass is empty, and she’d love it if her date would pour her another.”
“Excellent idea! Although he really should have taken care of that before she had to ask.”
“Except she might have thought he was trying to get her drunk.”
“Ah. I forgot she’s British.”
“Aside from that, what are your biggest turnoffs with women?”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, what if she rephrased the question in a positive light? For example: What do you like most in a woman?”
“Oh, no, not so fast—that’s not the same thing at all. And if the question had been put that way, it could seem like she’s trying to hit on him.”
“That’s debatable, but fine. Anyway, biggest turnoff is lying. But to put it in a positive light, my answer would have been ‘honesty.’”
Mia looked at him for a long time, then said: “I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just a bit of honesty.”
“Thanks, I think. That might have been more brutal than honest. And what do you look for in a man?”
“Sincerity.”
“I sincerely had no intention of trying to sleep with you.”
“You don’t find me attractive?”
“I think you’re beautiful. So should I infer that you don’t find me attractive?”
“I didn’t say that. You’re definitely awkward, which you’ve admitted—and that’s quite a rare thing, and maybe even a little touching. I didn’t come on this date hoping for a new start, I just wanted to close a door on the past.”
“What brought me here is my fear of flying.”
“Sorry, I don’t see the connection.”
“Consider it an ellipsis—a sort of mystery that will come to light in a later chapter.”
“Oh, so we’re going to have another chapter, are we?”
“Why not? If we both already know we’re not going to sleep with each other, there’s nothing to keep us from trying to become friends.”
“That’s original. Don’t people normally make that kind of declaration—‘Let’s be friends’—when they’re breaking up?”
“Exactly. Which makes this an incredibly unique idea.” Paul laughed.
“Cut ‘incredibly.’”
“Why?”
“Adverbs lack a certain elegance. I’m more keen on adjectives—though never more than one in a sentence.”
“All right, so let me start again . . . Since I’m not your type of guy, do you think I could be your type in terms of a friend?”
“As long as your real name isn’t Gazpacho2000.”
“Don’t tell me that’s the screen name they gave me!”
“No, not to worry,” said Mia, laughing. “I’m just winding you up. That’s something friends do, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Paul replied.
“If I were going to read one of your books, which one would you recommend?”
“I’d recommend one by another author.”
“Oh, come on, answer my question.”
“Choose one where the flap copy makes you want to meet the characters.”
“I would think to start with the first one.”
“No way, definitely not that one.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s the first. Would you want the people who come to your restaurant to judge you based on the first dish you ever cooked?”
“Friends don’t judge friends. They just gradually learn to understand them better.”
The waitress brought them two desserts.
“One lucuma-and-kalamansi éclair, and one fig tart with fromage blanc ice cream,” she announced. “Compliments of the chef.”
And she slipped away as quickly as she had arrived.
“What do you reckon lucuma and kalamansi are?”
“Clearly not part of your Provençal repertoire. One is a Peruvian fruit,” Paul explained. “The other is a citrus fruit, like a cross between a tangerine and a kumquat.”
“Impressive!”
“Truth is, I read it earlier, before you showed up. They explain it in the menu.”
Mia rolled her eyes.
“You should have been an actress,” said Paul.
“What makes you say that?”
“Your face is just . . . so expressive when you speak.”
“Do you like cinema?”
“I do. But I never go. It’s awful—I haven’t seen one movie since I moved to Paris. But I write at night, and going to the movies alone just isn’t much fun.”
“I like going to the cinema on my own, blending in with the audience, looking around the theatre . . .”
“Have you been single for a long time?”
“Since yesterday.”
“Wow. That is recent. So you weren’t even single when you joined the dating site?”
“I thought that part of our reworked scene had been cut out. Yesterday made it official. In reality, I’ve been single for a few months. What about you?”
“Well . . . strictly speaking, I’m not. The woman I’m involved with lives on the other side of the world. But to be honest, I don’t really know what we have anymore. So, to be fair, I guess I’ve been single since the last time she visited, six months ago.”
“Don’t you ever visit her?”
“I have a fear of flying.”
“Don’t people say that love gives you wings?”
“Yes, cheesy as that may be. No offense. The wings don’t seem to be working.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a translator. In fact, she’s my translator, although I doubt that we’re exclusive in that sense. What about your other half—what does he do?”
“He’s a chef, like me. Well . . . more of a sous-chef, really.”
“Did you use to work together?”
“At times. Terrible idea.”
“How so?”
“He ended up sleeping with the dishwasher.”
“Ouch! That’s tactless, at best.”
“Have you always been faithful to your translator?”
The waitress brought them the bill. Paul reached for it automatically, preventing any of the usual awkwardness.
“Let’s split it,” Mia protested, “since we’re just friends.”
“You had enough to put up with during this meal. Don’t hold it against me—I’m clumsy and old-fashioned.”
Paul accompanied Mia to the taxi stand.
“I hope your night wasn’t too bad, all things considered.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Mia said.
“You just did.”
“Do you think a man and a woman really can be just friends without any gray zones? No ambiguity?”
“Yeah. Sure. Imagine one of them just came out of a relationship, and the other is in love with someone else, for example. It’s nice to be able to bare your soul to a stranger without any fear of being judged.”
She lowered her eyes and added: “I have to admit . . . I could really do with a friend at the moment.”
“Here’s an idea,” said Paul. “A few days from now, if we feel like seeing each other again, as friends, we’ll get in touch. But only if we feel like it. No obligation.”
“Okay,” agreed Mia as she got into a taxi. “Can’t I drop you off somewhere?”
“I have my car just around the corner. I’m sorry—I should have offered to drive you, but it’s too late now.”
“Well, see you soon, then. Maybe . . .” Mia smiled, closing the cab door. “Rue Poulbot, in Montmartre,” she told the driver.
Paul watched the taxi move away, before walking back up Rue du 29 Juillet. The night was clear, his spirits were high, and his car was impounded.
“All right, so the evening ended better than it began, but you’d better stick to your resolutions. As soon as you get back to Daisy’s apartment, delete your profile—no more dates with strangers. I hope you learned your lesson.”
“I’ve been driving a cab for twenty years, mademoiselle,” said the driver. “I don’t need directions, so you can stop mumbling.”
“Even if he wasn’t insane, he might very well have been. What would you have done in that case? And, my goodness, what if someone had recognized you in that restaurant? Okay, calm down, stay calm. No one could have recognized you . . . Better not tell anyone what happened tonight, ever, not even Daisy . . . in fact, especially not Daisy, because she’d kill you. Never tell anyone. It’ll be your little secret. Maybe tell your grandchildren when you’re old. But really old!”
“Why can I never find a taxi in this city?” grumbled Paul as he walked along Rue de Rivoli. “What a night! I really thought she was nuts. Arthur and Lauren must have laughed their asses off tonight. You think we’re even? Ha! You don’t know me half as well as you think you do. Think I need your help finding a date? I date who I want, when I want! Who do you think I am? And she was kind of crazy, wasn’t she? Maybe that’s a little unfair—I’m just annoyed, it’s not her fault. Anyway, she’ll never call me and I’ll never call her. It would be too embarrassing, after what happened tonight. And my car! The wheels were barely even touching the crosswalk. This sucks. The cops in this city are a total pain in the ass . . . Taxi!” Paul yelled, waving his arms.
The taxi dropped her at the corner on Rue Poulbot, and she entered the apartment building.
“I don’t even have his number, and he doesn’t have mine,” she muttered as she walked up the staircase, searching blindly through her purse for her keys. “I mean, talk about a recipe for disaster, if he were to have my—” Her hand grazed over an unfamiliar object in her bag. She took it out: “Oh shit, I’ve got his phone!”
Inside the apartment, she found Daisy sitting at the kitchen table, a pen in her hand.
“You’re home already?” Mia asked.
“It’s half past midnight,” Daisy replied, staring at a notebook. “That was quite a long film you went to see.”
“Yes . . . well, not exactly. I actually missed the eight-o’clock showing, so I went to the later one.”
“Was it any good, at least?”
“It got off to a very strange start, but got better as it went.”
“What was it about?”
“A dinner party where the guests didn’t know each other.”
“Sounds very Swedish.”
“What are you doing?”
“Accounting. You look weird,” Daisy said, glancing up at her friend.
Avoiding eye contact, Mia yawned and disappeared into her bedroom.
When he got home, Paul sat down at his desk and turned on his computer, ready to start work. Stuck to the screen was a Post-it note in Arthur’s handwriting with the username and password for Paul’s profile on the dating site.