P.S. from Paris(23)

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 Proven?al, 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 Proven?al?”

“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?”