P.S. from Paris(21)
She waited ten minutes. Then, with a sigh, she slipped her phone into her raincoat pocket.
The restaurant was only a few streets away. As she made her way there, despite her heavy heart, her footsteps became lighter.
“You again? If I can ever actually afford a trip to London, don’t expect me to waste my time hanging around on one of your film sets,” Daisy said as Mia entered the restaurant. “What are you doing here? You should be out exploring the city!”
“Don’t you need a waitress at lunchtime?”
Without waiting for a reply, Mia went into the kitchen. Daisy followed her, removing the apron that Mia was attempting to tie around her waist.
“Something you want to talk about?”
“Not now.”
Daisy went back to her ovens and passed plates to Mia. There was no point giving her instructions: only one table was occupied.
After lunch, Paul left Arthur and Lauren to wander around Paris. He was doing a reading in a bookshop in the ninth arrondissement that evening and had refused to tell them which one, for fear they would turn up and surprise him. He gave them a copy of his apartment keys and said he’d see them the next day.
Arthur showed Lauren around the neighborhood where he had lived, pointing out the window of his former studio flat along the way. They stopped for coffee in the bistro where he’d spent many an hour thinking about her before life had brought them back together again. Then they strolled along the banks of the river before heading back to Paul’s apartment.
Lauren was so exhausted, she fell asleep without eating. Arthur watched her for a moment, then borrowed her laptop. After checking his email, he thought for a long time about the conversation between Paul and Lauren in the little square at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
The happiness of his childhood friend was more important than anything else. Arthur would make any kind of sacrifice for his sake, including seeing him go to the other side of the world. But surely this Kyong wasn’t the only person capable of making Paul happy. Maybe it was worth giving fate “a little nudge.” He remembered the story of an old man who went into a church one day to reprimand God for never having helped him win the lottery—not once, not even a single little prize, and he was about to celebrate his ninety-seventh birthday. And then, from within a celestial ray of light, God’s voice boomed down to him: “Try buying a ticket first.”
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.