P.S. from Paris
Marc Levy
One day, I’m going to live in theory,
because in theory everything goes perfectly . . .
1
The rain washed down over the rooftops and fa?ades, the cars and buses, the pavements and pedestrians. It seemed like rain had been falling on London ever since the start of spring. Mia had just come out of a meeting with her agent. She had been nervously awaiting his reaction to a preview of her latest film—in the industry of box-office hits, Creston’s honest, at times biting, opinion never failed. “It’s crap,” he’d admitted, “but it’ll be a hit, if only because you and your husband are the costars.”
When she’d first fallen for David, he had been the star and she the novice. Now she couldn’t get what Creston had said out of her mind: this time, the pupil had upstaged the master.
In real life, he’s the one who steals the show, she thought with a wan smile.
She took a taxi to Oxford Street to clear her mind. Whenever she felt down, which had happened on more than one occasion in recent weeks, she would go for a stroll along the busy shopping street. With her long blonde hair tucked under a hat, she normally managed to pass through the crowds unnoticed.
Browsing the aisles of a department store, she tried calling David, but it went straight to voicemail.
What could her husband be doing at this time of the afternoon? Where had he been for the last two days? Two days and two nights without hearing a peep from him except for a single message on her voicemail. A brief message explaining that he was going to the country to recharge his batteries, and she shouldn’t worry. But that was exactly what she was doing. Shooting the movie together hadn’t exactly rekindled the sparks between them.
“I think he’s cheating on me.”
“Well, what couple isn’t cheating these days, when you think about it?” her agent had replied, checking his email.
“Creston. I’m serious.”
He looked up.
“Cheating. How so?” he asked. “That’s to say: just on occasion, or all the time?”
“What difference does it make?”
“And you’ve never cheated on him?”
“No. Well, once. Just a kiss. My costar was a good kisser, and I needed someone to kiss me. But that was to make the scene more lifelike, so that doesn’t really qualify as cheating, now, does it?”
“They say it’s the thought that counts. Which film was that?” Creston asked, raising an eyebrow.
Mia looked out through the window, and her agent sighed.
“All right, let’s suppose he is cheating on you. What difference does it make, if you don’t love each other anymore?”
“He doesn’t love me anymore. I still love him.”
Back home, Mia resolved to pull herself together. It was unthinkable for David to come home and find her upset. She had to remain dignified, in control. She mustn’t let him think for one second that she had been moping around in his absence.
Then a friend called and begged Mia to go with her to the opening of a new restaurant, and so Mia decided to get all dolled up. Two could play at the jealousy game. And besides, it was almost certainly better to be out on the town, surrounded by strangers, than to stay at home brooding.
The restaurant was huge, the music too loud, the room packed. Impossible to have a conversation or move a muscle without bumping into someone. Who could possibly enjoy this kind of party? she thought as she prepared to dive into the sea of people.
Dozens of camera flashes exploded as soon as she walked in. So that was why her friend had asked her to come. The hope of appearing in the society pages of a magazine. Fifteen minutes of fame. For God’s sake, David, how can you let me hang around on my own in a place like this? I’ll make you pay for this! You’ll see, Mr. I-Need-to-Recharge-My-Batteries!
Her phone rang: Unknown Caller. It had to be him, at this time of night. But how would she be able to hear him in the middle of all this noise? If I could suddenly disappear, now would be the time, she thought.
She scanned the horizon. She was halfway between the entrance and the kitchen. The crowd was sweeping her inward, but she decided to push back against the tide. Answering the phone, she yelled, “Don’t hang up!” Lovely, just lovely. So much for acting cool and casual . . .
She elbowed her way out, past a creature perched on high heels with a besuited ape chatting her up, treading on the toes of the tall skeleton of a woman wriggling like an eel, skirting the pretty boy eyeing her like prey. Only ten steps to the door . . .
“David! Stay on the line!” Oh, tone it down, you silly fool! You sound pathetic.
She shot a pleading look at the bouncer, in the hopes that he would help her escape.
And then, finally, fresh air bathed her skin in the relative calm of the street. She walked away from the mob of people waiting to enter that hellhole.
“David?”
“Where are you?”
Really? You have the nerve to ask me that? “Just out at a little party . . .”
“Enjoying yourself, baby?”
Hypocrite! “Yes, everyone’s having a merry old time here . . .” Oh my God, woman, where do you come up with this crap?
“What about you?” You dickhead! “Where are you?” And where the hell have you been for the last two days?