P.S. from Paris(29)

“What are you doing?”

“Accounting. You look weird,” Daisy said, glancing up at her friend.

Avoiding eye contact, Mia yawned and disappeared into her bedroom.



When he got home, Paul sat down at his desk and turned on his computer, ready to start work. Stuck to the screen was a Post-it note in Arthur’s handwriting with the username and password for Paul’s profile on the dating site.





8


After breakfast, Paul realized that he’d lost his cell phone. He went through his jacket pockets, lifted up the various piles of paper covering his desk, scanned the shelves of his bookcase, checked that it wasn’t in the bathroom, and tried to recall the last time he’d used it. He remembered giving it to Mia so she could read Arthur’s message. Now he was sure that he must have left it behind on the table. Furious with himself, he called the restaurant, but it went straight to voicemail. The place wasn’t open yet.

If the waitress had found it, she might have taken it with her. After all, he had left a generous tip. So he dialed his own number. You never know . . . could get lucky . . .



Mia was eating breakfast with Daisy when suddenly they heard Gloria Gaynor belting out “I Will Survive” from somewhere near the window.

Both women looked up in surprise.

“Sounds like it’s coming from the sofa,” said Daisy indifferently.

“You have a musical sofa?”

“Actually, I think it might be your purse doing its morning exercises.”

Mia’s eyes widened and she rushed over to the source of the music. She was rummaging around inside the bag when the tune suddenly cut out.

“Did Gloria get tired?” Daisy asked sarcastically from the kitchen.

The song erupted again, even louder this time.

“Nope,” she went on, “she was just saving herself for the encore. That Gloria sure knows how to work an audience!”

This time, Mia got to the phone in time and answered.

“Yes,” she whispered. “No, it’s not the waitress . . . Yes, it is, live and in person. I didn’t expect you to call so soon . . . I know, of course, I’m just kidding . . . Sure, I can do that . . . Where? I have no idea where that . . . In front of the Opera, one p.m. . . . Right, got it, see you later . . . Yup, bye . . . You’re welcome . . . Bye.”

Mia put the phone back in her purse and returned to the table. Daisy poured her some more tea and eyed her knowingly.

“Sounds like the usher was Swedish too.”

“Sorry?”

“Tell me about this Gloria Gaynor.”

“It was just someone who forgot his phone at the cinema. I found it and he was calling so I could give it back to him.”

“You English are so civilized! You’re going all the way to the Opera to give a stranger his phone back?”

“Why not? If it were my phone, I’d be relieved it was in the hands of someone decent.”

“What about this waitress?”

“What waitress?”

“Never mind. I’d rather be kept in the dark than treated like an idiot.”

“All right, all right . . .” Mia sighed, wondering how to get out of this tight spot. “The film was a total bore, so I left, and so did the guy who’d been sitting next to me. We bumped into each other outside and ended up having a drink at a café. He left his phone by accident, I picked it up, and now I’m going to give it back to him. Now you know the whole story. Happy?”

“And what was he like, this guy from the cinema?”

“Not much to tell. I mean, he was okay. Pretty nice.”

“Okay and pretty nice!”

“Stop it, Daisy. We had a drink, that’s all.”

“Just a little weird you neglected to mention any of this when you came home last night. You sure were a lot chattier the night before.”

“I was bored to death and felt like having a drink. You can imagine whatever you want. I’m going to give him his phone back and that’ll be the end of it.”

“If you say so. Are you coming round to help out at the restaurant tonight?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you might want to go to the cinema again . . .”

Mia stood up, put her plate in the dishwasher, and went off to take a shower without saying another word.



Paul was waiting on the pavement outside the opera house, which teemed with people. He recognized her face as she climbed the stairs out of the métro. She was wearing sunglasses and a head scarf, and carrying her purse on her arm.

He waved to her. She smiled back shyly and moved toward him.

“Don’t ask me how it happened, I have no idea,” she said by way of greeting.

“How what happened?” Paul replied.

“I don’t have a clue. I suppose it must have slipped in.”

“Tell me you haven’t started drinking this early in the day . . .”

“Hold on a second,” she went on, plunging her hand inside the bag.

She searched in vain, lifting one leg so she could rest the bag on her knee and continue her search, balanced somewhat precariously.

“Are you a flamingo?”

With a look of reproach, she produced the telephone with a flourish.