P.S. from Paris(15)

It’s like the entry form for a cattle fair! Normal.

Your height.

In centimeters? No clue. Let’s say 175. Any more and I sound like a giraffe.

Your nationality.

British. Bad idea: we turned off the French with that whole Waterloo thing. American? Not much better, as far as the French are concerned. Danish? Makes me think of pastries. Mexican? I don’t speak Spanish. Irish? My mother would kill me if she found out. Icelandic? Nah, they’ll expect me to recite Bj?rk all day long. Latvian? Sounds good, but I’d never have time to learn the language. Then again, it would be fun to invent an accent and speak a made-up language, given that the likelihood of meeting a real Latvian in Paris is pretty slim. Thai? Let’s not go there. New Zealander? I have always been good with accents!

Your ethnic origin.

Didn’t we learn anything from World War II? What is it with questions like this?

Your vision and values: Religion.

Right, because religion is the only way to define your vision and values? Agnostic—that’ll show them!

Your views on marriage.

Blurred.

Do you want children?

I would rather meet a man who wanted to have children with me than a man who just wanted to have children.

Your level of education.

Oh, crap! A lie for a lie, let’s say PhD . . . No, I’ll just end up with a bunch of boring nerds. Okay, a First seems like the ticket . . .

Your profession.

Actress, but that would be playing with fire. Insurance agent? No. Travel agent? Not that either. Nurse? Even worse. Soldier? Definitely not. Physical therapist? Nah, they’ll just want massages all the time. Musician? But I can’t sing. Restaurant owner? Hmm, like Daisy . . . Good idea.

Describe your job.

I cook . . .

A bit over the top considering I can’t even make an omelet, but to hell with it!

Your sports: Swimming, Hiking, Jogging, Pool and Darts . . .

Hm. Is darts really a sport?

. . . Yoga, Martial Arts, Golf, Sailing, Bowling, Football, Boxing . . .

I wonder how many women put “boxing.”

Do you smoke?

Occasionally.

Best to be honest or else I could end up with an antismoking fanatic.

Your pets.

My soon-to-be ex-husband.

Your interests: Music, Sports, Cooking, Shopping . . .

Shopping? Great choice, that just oozes intelligence! It would go perfectly with “boxing,” up there. Dancing? Nah, they’d expect me to squeeze myself into a tutu—let’s not risk disappointment. Writing? Sure, writing is good. Reading too. Cinema? No. No. No! Absolutely not. The last thing I need is a film buff. Museums and exhibitions? Depends. Animals? Negative, I don’t want to spend my weekends visiting zoos. Video games, fishing and hunting? Yuck. Creative leisure pursuits? Am I supposed to know what that means?

Going out: Cinema.

Yes. But we’ll have to just say no.

Eating out.

Yes.

Evenings with friends.

I’m all set with that for now.

Family.

Kept to an absolute minimum, thank you very much.

Bars/Pubs.

That’s a yes.

Nightclubs.

That’s a no.

Sporting events.

Double no.

Your taste in music and films.

I feel like I’m getting the third degree here! Enough with the interrogation.


WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR IN A MAN

Height and physique: Normal, Athletic, Skinny, A Few Pounds Overweight.

I couldn’t care less!

His marital status: Never Married, Widowed, Single.

All three.

He has children.

That’s his business.

He wants children.

We have time.

His personality.

Finally! I thought you’d never ask . . .

Considerate, Adventurous, Calm, Easygoing, Funny, Generous, Reserved, Sensitive, Outgoing, Spontaneous, Reliable.

All of the above!


DESCRIBE YOURSELF

Mia’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, unable to type a single word. She went back to the homepage, entered Daisy’s email for the username and chives once again for the password, and read her profile.

Young woman, loves life and laughter, but with challenging working hours. Restaurant chef, passionate about her job . . .

She copied-and-pasted her friend’s profile, then clicked the button to confirm her registration.

Daisy opened the door to the apartment. Mia slammed the laptop shut and jumped to her feet.

“What exactly are you up to?”

“Nothing. Just checking my email. Where were you? It’s early, isn’t it?”

“It’s nine o’clock and I’m back from the market. Get dressed—I need a hand at the restaurant.”

Mia understood from her tone of voice that the matter was not up for debate.

After they finished unloading the crates from the van, Daisy got her friend to help her take inventory. She listed her purchases in a notebook while Mia, following orders, distributed the food.

“You don’t think you’re exploiting me here just a teensy bit?” she said, rubbing her lower back.

“Oh, you poor thing. I do this myself every day, so it’s nice to have a bit of help for once. Did you go out again last night?”