P.S. from Paris(3)
“My world really is broken in a million pieces . . .”
Daisy abruptly stopped what she was doing.
“Enough’s enough, Mia! I want to hear everything, but tone down the whining and moaning. Save it for the camera.”
“You’d make quite the director, you know,” Mia said.
“Quit stalling and talk to me.”
And as Daisy sliced the mushrooms, Mia spilled the beans.
They both jumped when the electricity came back on. Daisy dimmed the lights, then opened the electric shutters, revealing the view over Paris from her apartment.
Mia walked toward the window.
“Do you have any cigarettes?”
“On the coffee table. I don’t even know where they came from.”
“You must be seeing a lot of men if you can’t even keep track of who leaves what!”
“If you want to smoke, go out on the terrace.”
“Are you coming?”
“I have to know what happened next. So I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“So you left the light on in your room,” Daisy confirmed as she poured more wine.
“Right, but turned off the light in the walk-in closet. I planted a stool there so he’d bang into it.”
“Wow. I forgot you have a walk-in closet.” Daisy snorted. “Anyway. What happened next?”
“I pretended to be asleep. He got undressed in the bathroom and took a nice, long shower, then hopped into bed and turned off the light. I was waiting for him to whisper something, to give me a kiss. But maybe his ‘batteries’ hadn’t fully recharged, ’cause all he did was fall fast asleep.”
“You want my opinion? Don’t answer, I’m going to give it to you anyway. You married a bastard. The real question, and a simple one, is to figure out whether the good outweighs the bad. No, forget that. The real question is why you’re in love with him in the first place if he makes you so miserable. Unless you’re in love with him because he makes you so miserable . . .”
“He made me very happy . . . at the beginning.”
“I sure hope so! If all relationships started badly, Prince Charming would disappear from every fairy tale ever written and romantic comedies would be filed under horror. Don’t look at me that way, Mia. If you want to find out if he’s cheating, you need to ask him, not me. And put that out—you won’t find love at the end of a cigarette.”
Tears streamed down Mia’s cheeks.
Daisy sat next to her friend and put her arms around her.
“Go ahead—let it out, if it makes you feel better. A broken heart hurts like hell, I know, but it’s better than being so empty you’ve got nothing to cry about.”
Mia had sworn to remain dignified under any circumstances, but with Daisy it was different. They had been friends for so long, they were like sisters.
“What are you talking about, empty?” she asked, wiping away her tears.
“Wow. Is that your way of finally asking me how I am?”
“Don’t tell me you’re alone too. Oh, Daisy, I’m afraid we’re never going to find happiness.”
“Seems to me you came pretty close, these past few years. You’re famous, a well-respected actress, you make more for one film than I could in a lifetime . . . and you’re married. I mean, take one look at the news, the terrible things happening in the world, you’ll see we can’t really complain.”
“Why, what happened?”
“I don’t have a clue, but if there’d been any good news, people would be out on the streets celebrating. What did you think of my chanterelles?”
“I think they work better than antidepressants.”
“Music to my ears. Anyway, bedtime now. Tomorrow, I’ll call your chump of a husband, tell him you know everything and that he betrayed the most wonderful woman I know, and now you’re leaving him—not for somebody else, but just to be rid of him. He’ll be the one in tears by the time I’m done with him.”
“You’re not really going to do that, are you?”
“No, I’m not. You are.”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
“Why, because you actually want to waste more time wallowing in a crappy melodrama?”
“No, because that big-budget film we’re costarring in opens in one month, remember? Not only do I have to do the press junket, I have to play a part offscreen too: the happiest woman in all of England. If people find out the truth about me and David, the sparks go out onscreen as well. The producers, my agent . . . they’d never forgive me. And while I’m not going to sit around in denial about his cheating, I don’t need to add public humiliation on top of it all.”
“You ask me, only a heartless bitch could pull off a role like that.”
“Why do you think I ran off to Paris?”
“I see. For how long?”
“As long as you can stand me.”
3
At Porte de la Chapelle, the Saab convertible cut diagonally across three lanes, ignoring the flashing headlights of other cars, and left the beltway to join the A1 highway toward Roissy–Charles de Gaulle.
“Why do I always have to go and get him at the airport? Friends for thirty years, but Arthur’s never picked me up at the airport. I’m too nice. That’s my problem. He and Lauren wouldn’t even be together if it weren’t for me. Is it too much to ask, just to show a tiny bit of gratitude? Apparently, it is!” Paul Barton muttered, stealing a peek at himself in the rearview mirror. “I mean, sure, they made me Joe’s godfather, but who else were they gonna ask? George Pilguez? Ha! Good luck with that.