P.S. from Paris(25)

“She’s completely nuts! I’m stuck at a restaurant with a crazy person. There’s no way this project even exists.”

“You’re muttering again.”

“‘They’ refers to my former business partner, Arthur, and his wife, Lauren. You were in contact with them to help design your new restaurant . . . ?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied warily.

“Well, obviously not anymore. But before this disastrous meeting of ours, that was what you were planning, right?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Now I’m confused. Then why are you here?”

“You know, for a while there I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. But I am now. You’re completely mad. Daisy warned me—I should have listened.”

“Well, that’s charming! I don’t see how Daisy could have told you I’m mad, because I don’t even know a Daisy. Well, one Daisy, to be fair, but that was an ambulance, not a person. Scratch that—long story. Who is your Daisy?”

Mia looked around for the waitress so she could leave. This nutcase wouldn’t dare follow her out onto the street with the restaurant staff looking on. Once she got rid of him, she would go back to Montmartre and delete her profile from that damn website, and everything would go back to normal. After that, she would eat dinner at La Clamada, because she was starving to death.

“Why do you think I’m mad?” Paul asked.

“Listen, this is not working out. I was messing around, playing games, and I regret it.”

Paul gave a long sigh of relief.

“Of course! I should have known. You’ve been pulling my leg this whole time. The three of you probably planned it out together. Great, you got me. Bravo!” He applauded her. “All right, where are they hiding? You can tell them to come out. I admit defeat. And I gotta admit, it was a good one!”

Grinning, Paul scanned the restaurant for Arthur and Lauren. Mia kept looking toward the kitchen.

“Are you . . . really a writer?” she asked, her face tight with dismay.

“Of course I am,” he said, turning to face her again.

“Well, that must be it. Characters take hold of the author and end up becoming an actual part of his life. That’s not necessarily a bad thing—I suppose there’s even a kind of poetry to a gentle madness like that. And your message was charming. But now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave you with ‘them’ and go home.”

Message? “Remind me again what I said in this ‘message.’”

Mia took the sheet of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Paul.

“These are your words, correct?”

Paul read the text attentively and looked up at Mia, confused.

“It’s true I have a lot in common with this guy—I could have even written the same thing, more or less, to be honest—but the jig is up; quit messing around.”

“I am not messing around. A picture of you was on the profile!”

“What profile?”

“The profile you posted on the dating site, with your picture.”

“I’ve never been on a dating site in my life, and I have no idea what you’re talking about. The only plausible explanation is that we’re both supposed to be meeting someone else.”

“Look around. I don’t see your doppelganger anywhere.”

“Maybe we both got the wrong address?” Paul said, then instantly realized the absurdity of what he was suggesting.

“Unless . . . the man I had arranged a date with started this charade of mistaken identity . . . after a sudden change of heart when he saw what I looked like in person.”

“Impossible. He’d have to be blind.”

“Thank you for that, at least. I read so much honesty in your note. It’s a shame you’re not the same way in person.”

Mia stood up. Paul did the same, and took her hand.

“Hold on, wait. Please sit down. There’s got to be a logical explanation for all this, unless . . . No, there’s no way. They wouldn’t dream of pulling such a dirty trick.”

“Your invisible friends, you mean?”

“You don’t know the half of it. This is not the first time I’ve been left holding the bag for Lauren, and had to face the consequences.”

“Whatever you say. Now, I’m leaving. Promise you won’t . . . follow me?”

“Why on earth would I follow you?”

Mia shrugged. She was about to leave the table when the waitress appeared. The sea bream looked and smelled divine and Mia’s stomach began growling so loudly that the waitress smiled as she placed the dish in the middle of the table.

“Sounds like I arrived just in time!” she said. “Bon appétit.”

Paul sliced fillets from the fish and put two on Mia’s plate. He had received a message on his phone, and he paused to read it.

“Okay. This time, I really am apologizing to you—wholeheartedly and in all seriousness,” he said, placing his phone on the table.

“Apology accepted. But as soon as we’re done eating, I’m off.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’m apologizing for?”