P.S. from Paris(2)
“On my way home. Will you be back soon?”
“I’m in a taxi . . .” Find a cab! Quick, a cab!
“Oh, I thought you were at a party?”
“I was on my way out when you called.”
“All right, so you’ll probably make it home before I do. Don’t even bother waiting up, if you’re tired, ’cause I’m actually stuck in an enormous traffic jam. Can you believe that? At this time of night? In London? Just unbelievable!”
Ha! You’re the one who’s unbelievable! The nerve, telling me not to wait up, when you’ve already had me waiting for two whole days!
“I’ll leave a light on in the room.”
“Wonderful. See you in a bit. Love you . . .”
Shimmering pavement, couples sharing umbrellas . . .
. . . and me, stuck on my own like an idiot. Screw the film, I don’t care. Tomorrow, I’m doing it, I’m starting a new life, I swear! No, not tomorrow. Tonight!
2
Paris, two days later.
“Why is it always the last key you try that opens the door?” Mia fumed, picking through the keys.
“Because life is messed up by design, my dearest friend. Which is also why we’re stuck outside my apartment in the dark,” replied Daisy, using her phone to shine some light on the keyhole.
“I’m never going to fall in love with the idea of someone again. Next time, reality is all I’ll settle for. Give me the present and only the present.”
“And give me a less uncertain future while you’re at it,” sighed Daisy. “Until then, why don’t you just hand me my keys and take a turn shining the light, before my battery dies.”
The last key in the bunch was indeed the right one. Entering the apartment, Daisy flicked on the light switch. Nothing happened.
“Great. So no light in the entire building . . .”
“There’s no light in my entire life,” Mia said.
“That’s maybe overdoing it just a bit.”
“I needed to get away, Daisy, I don’t know how to live a lie. I can’t,” Mia continued, in a tone of voice that was just begging for compassion. But Daisy had known her too long to fall for that little trick.
“Enough of that crap. You’re a talented actress, which basically makes you a professional liar . . . I know I have candles somewhere, just have to find them before my iPhone battery—”
Right on cue, the screen of her phone flickered to black.
“Just smile through the tears, like all the other A-listers? Is that it? What if I just told them all to go fuck themselves?” Mia whispered.
“Mia. Has it crossed your mind to maybe . . . start helping me out a bit?”
“I would, but it’s pitch-black in here.”
“Hallelujah! She noticed.”
Daisy groped her way forward. Trying to negotiate the table, she bumped into a chair and let out a groan before finally reaching the worktop at the far end of the room. Still feeling her way around, she found the stove, picked up a box of matches from the shelf, and lit one of the gas rings.
A bluish halo illuminated the spot where she stood.
Mia plopped right down at the table.
Daisy rummaged through the drawers one by one. Scented candles were strictly prohibited in her apartment. Her passion for gastronomy was high maintenance, to say the least, and she was adamant that nothing should disturb the smell of a dish. Where some restaurant owners might put a sign on the door declaring “No Credit Cards Accepted,” she would have gladly posted: “Customers Wearing Too Much Perfume Will Be Promptly Escorted from the Premises.”
At last, she found the unscented candles and lit them. The bright flames chased the darkness from the room.
Daisy loved her kitchen, especially that it took up her whole apartment. It served as the living room, since it was bigger than the two small bedrooms and connecting bathroom put together. Her countertop held terra-cotta pots filled with thyme, bay leaves, rosemary, dill, oregano, bergamot, and Espelette peppers. This kitchen was Daisy’s laboratory, where she found exhilaration and release. It was here that she developed recipes for the clientele of her small restaurant perched on the slopes of Montmartre, just around the corner from her apartment.
Daisy hadn’t gone to any fancy culinary school; her profession was inspired by her family and her native Provence. As a child, she would spend hours watching her mother, learning to mimic her techniques, while Daisy’s friends played in the shade of the pine and olive trees.
“Are you hungry?” she asked Mia.
“Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Daisy opened the refrigerator and took out a plate of chanterelle mushrooms and a bunch of flat-leaf parsley, then tore a bulb of garlic from the string that hung to her right.
“Do you have to add garlic?” Mia asked.
“Why, are you planning on kissing somebody tonight?” Daisy retorted as she chopped the parsley. “How about you tell me what’s going on while I get dinner ready.”
Mia took a deep breath.
“Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”
“Just as I’m closing up my bistro, you pop up out of nowhere with an overnight bag and a look on your face like the world just broke into a million pieces. And since then, you haven’t stopped bellyaching once. I take it you didn’t show up just because you missed me.”