P.S. from Paris(26)

“Not particularly, but I imagine I’m about to find out . . .”

“I admit, I actually thought you were the nutcase. Now I have proof that you’re not.”

“What a relief. Unfortunately, I can’t really say the same about you . . .”

Paul handed his phone to Mia.

Paul,

We wanted to give fate a little nudge and, as you’ll have guessed by now, we played a hell of a trick on you. I hope you managed to have a nice evening, all the same. I must admit that we’ve spent our night in a dizzying mix of guilt and hysterical laughter. Your revenge will have to wait, because we left for Honfleur this afternoon. In fact, I’m writing from the restaurant where we’re having dinner. The fish is excellent, the town is picture-postcard gorgeous, and Lauren totally fell in love with it. Plus, the inn we’re staying at tonight seems absolutely perfect. We’ll be back in a couple of days, maybe more, depending on how long it takes for you to forgive us. I’m sure you’re furious for the time being, but in a few years we’ll be laughing over this together, and who knows? If this Mia becomes the love of your life, you’ll be eternally grateful to us!

In light of all the pranks you’ve played on me . . . we’re even now. Well, almost . . .

Love,

Arthur and Lauren

Mia put the phone down on the table and drained her glass of wine in one go. Paul found this quite surprising, but he was getting used to the feeling.

“Well,” she said, “good news is: at least I’m not eating dinner with a lunatic.”

“What’s the bad news?” Paul asked.

“Your friends have a very twisted sense of humor, particularly for the victims of their jokes. This whole thing has been downright humiliating for me.”

“I beg to differ. If anyone looks like an ass right now, it’s me!”

“At least you didn’t actually join a dating site, though. I feel pathetic.”

“I have thought about it occasionally,” Paul admitted. “I promise that’s the truth—I’m not just saying that to be polite. I could have totally joined one.”

“But you didn’t.”

“It’s the thought that counts, right?”

Paul filled Mia’s glass and suggested a toast.

“And what exactly are we drinking to?”

“To a dinner that neither of us can ever tell a living soul about. That in itself makes it completely unique. I have a proposal for you—no strings attached.”

“If it’s dessert, count me in. This fish is not exactly filling.”

“Dessert. Absolutely!”

“But what did you have in mind?”

“Could you show me the message I was supposed to have written? I just want to reread part of it.”

Mia gave it to him.

“There, that’s the line. Let’s prove we’re braver than fictional characters. At least let’s have enough courage not to leave this table both feeling completely humiliated. Let’s erase everything that’s happened up until now, every word we’ve said. It’s easy—think of it like hitting a key on the computer and we go back and delete the text. Let’s rewrite the scene together, starting from the moment when you walked in.”

Mia smiled at these words.

“Well, I know one thing for sure—you certainly are a writer.”

“See? That’s a great opening sentence for a chapter. We could follow with your Truman Capote quote.”

“I thought writers were quite old,” she repeated.

“As long as they don’t die young, they all inevitably end up that way. So did you like the message I wrote?”

“There were things that appealed to me—enough to make me show up tonight.”

“It took me hours to write.”

“I’m sure it took me just as long to reply.”

“I would love the chance to ‘reread’ that reply. So, you have a restaurant serving Proven?al cuisine? Pretty original for a Brit.”

“All my summers growing up were spent in Provence. Funny how childhood memories can be so formative in terms of taste, figuring out what you want. What about you? Where did you grow up?”

“San Francisco.”

“So how does an American writer end up Parisian?”

“It’s a long story. But I don’t like going on and on about myself—boring subject.”

“I suppose I’m not really crazy about myself as the subject either.”

“Careful. We run the risk of getting writer’s block.”

“What about a description of this place? That could certainly fill a few pages.”

“You only need two or three details to set the scene. More than that and you can lose the reader’s interest.”

“I thought there was no formula for good writing.”

“I was speaking as a reader, not a writer. Do you like long descriptions?”

“No, you’re right, they can be rather tedious. So what do we write now? What do the two protagonists do next?”

“Order a dessert?”

“Just one?”

“Good point. Two. It’s their first date, remember. We need to maintain a certain distance between them.”

“As cowriter, I might point out the fact that Madame’s glass is empty, and she’d love it if her date would pour her another.”