P.S. from Paris(28)

“Don’t you ever visit her?”

“I have a fear of flying.”

“Don’t people say that love gives you wings?”

“Yes, cheesy as that may be. No offense. The wings don’t seem to be working.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a translator. In fact, she’s my translator, although I doubt that we’re exclusive in that sense. What about your other half—what does he do?”

“He’s a chef, like me. Well . . . more of a sous-chef, really.”

“Did you use to work together?”

“At times. Terrible idea.”

“How so?”

“He ended up sleeping with the dishwasher.”

“Ouch! That’s tactless, at best.”

“Have you always been faithful to your translator?”

The waitress brought them the bill. Paul reached for it automatically, preventing any of the usual awkwardness.

“Let’s split it,” Mia protested, “since we’re just friends.”

“You had enough to put up with during this meal. Don’t hold it against me—I’m clumsy and old-fashioned.”

Paul accompanied Mia to the taxi stand.

“I hope your night wasn’t too bad, all things considered.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Mia said.

“You just did.”

“Do you think a man and a woman really can be just friends without any gray zones? No ambiguity?”

“Yeah. Sure. Imagine one of them just came out of a relationship, and the other is in love with someone else, for example. It’s nice to be able to bare your soul to a stranger without any fear of being judged.”

She lowered her eyes and added: “I have to admit . . . I could really do with a friend at the moment.”

“Here’s an idea,” said Paul. “A few days from now, if we feel like seeing each other again, as friends, we’ll get in touch. But only if we feel like it. No obligation.”

“Okay,” agreed Mia as she got into a taxi. “Can’t I drop you off somewhere?”

“I have my car just around the corner. I’m sorry—I should have offered to drive you, but it’s too late now.”

“Well, see you soon, then. Maybe . . .” Mia smiled, closing the cab door. “Rue Poulbot, in Montmartre,” she told the driver.



Paul watched the taxi move away, before walking back up Rue du 29 Juillet. The night was clear, his spirits were high, and his car was impounded.



“All right, so the evening ended better than it began, but you’d better stick to your resolutions. As soon as you get back to Daisy’s apartment, delete your profile—no more dates with strangers. I hope you learned your lesson.”

“I’ve been driving a cab for twenty years, mademoiselle,” said the driver. “I don’t need directions, so you can stop mumbling.”

“Even if he wasn’t insane, he might very well have been. What would you have done in that case? And, my goodness, what if someone had recognized you in that restaurant? Okay, calm down, stay calm. No one could have recognized you . . . Better not tell anyone what happened tonight, ever, not even Daisy . . . in fact, especially not Daisy, because she’d kill you. Never tell anyone. It’ll be your little secret. Maybe tell your grandchildren when you’re old. But really old!”



“Why can I never find a taxi in this city?” grumbled Paul as he walked along Rue de Rivoli. “What a night! I really thought she was nuts. Arthur and Lauren must have laughed their asses off tonight. You think we’re even? Ha! You don’t know me half as well as you think you do. Think I need your help finding a date? I date who I want, when I want! Who do you think I am? And she was kind of crazy, wasn’t she? Maybe that’s a little unfair—I’m just annoyed, it’s not her fault. Anyway, she’ll never call me and I’ll never call her. It would be too embarrassing, after what happened tonight. And my car! The wheels were barely even touching the crosswalk. This sucks. The cops in this city are a total pain in the ass . . . Taxi!” Paul yelled, waving his arms.



The taxi dropped her at the corner on Rue Poulbot, and she entered the apartment building.

“I don’t even have his number, and he doesn’t have mine,” she muttered as she walked up the staircase, searching blindly through her purse for her keys. “I mean, talk about a recipe for disaster, if he were to have my—” Her hand grazed over an unfamiliar object in her bag. She took it out: “Oh shit, I’ve got his phone!”

Inside the apartment, she found Daisy sitting at the kitchen table, a pen in her hand.

“You’re home already?” Mia asked.

“It’s half past midnight,” Daisy replied, staring at a notebook. “That was quite a long film you went to see.”

“Yes . . . well, not exactly. I actually missed the eight-o’clock showing, so I went to the later one.”

“Was it any good, at least?”

“It got off to a very strange start, but got better as it went.”

“What was it about?”

“A dinner party where the guests didn’t know each other.”

“Sounds very Swedish.”