P.S. from Paris(31)
“Okay, then,” Paul replied tentatively. A little taken aback by the emotion on her face and in her tone, he had absolutely no desire to upset her any further.
“So she’ll get her voice back, won’t she?”
“We’ll see.”
“She’d better. Otherwise, I’m not buying it.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll give you a copy.”
“I won’t read it.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m counting on you. Now, let’s have a coffee and you can tell me what this critic does after he recognizes her. Is he a nice guy or a bastard?” Without giving Paul time to answer, she went on with the same impassioned tone, “I know what would be great: if he was a bastard to begin with and then he became a nice guy because of her—and she got her voice back because of him. Isn’t that a nice idea?”
Paul took a pen from his pocket and handed it to Mia.
“Here’s an idea. You write my novel while we stroll to the café, and then I can cook a bouillabaisse.”
“Are you going to be grumpy?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I have no desire to go for coffee with someone who’s grumpy.”
“Then I won’t be.”
“All right. But it still doesn’t count.”
“I bet they have a great time, the people who work for you in your kitchen.”
“May I take that as a compliment or are you being sarcastic?”
“Watch out!” he yelled, yanking her back by the arm as she took a step out into the road. “You’re going to get run over! This is Paris, not London, you know—they drive on the other side here.”
They sat down at an outside table at Café de la Paix.
“I’m actually feeling a bit peckish,” Mia said.
Paul handed her the menu.
“Is your restaurant closed for lunch?”
“No.”
“Who’s minding the store?”
“My business partner,” said Mia, averting her gaze.
“It must come in handy, having a business partner. That would be a bit tricky in my line of work.”
“Your translator’s a sort of partner, isn’t she?”
“She can’t really write my novels for me while I go out to lunch, though. So what made you leave England for a new life in France?”
“I only had to hop across the Channel, not cross an ocean. Why did you come, with your fear of flying?”
“I asked you first.”
“Let’s call it . . . a desire to be elsewhere. To change my life.”
“Because of your ex-boyfriend? Although I assume you didn’t just get here the day before yesterday.”
“I’d rather not go into it. How about telling me why you left San Francisco?”
“After we order. I’m pretty hungry myself.”
When the waiter had left them, Paul recounted the episode that had followed the publication of his first novel, and how difficult he had found his first brush with fame.
“So becoming a celebrity sort of did you in?” Mia asked, amused.
“Well, let’s not overdo it. A writer will never be as famous as a rock star or movie star. But I wasn’t playing a role—I really did pour my guts into that book, metaphorically speaking. And I’m almost pathologically shy. When I was in high school, I used to shower with my underwear on. How’s that for shy?”
“Fame doesn’t last, though,” Mia pointed out. “Your picture is on the front page of the newspaper one day, and the next they use that same paper to wrap fish and chips.”
“Do you serve fish and chips at your restaurant?”
“It’s back in fashion, believe it or not,” she replied with a smile. “Thanks, by the way—now I’m craving some!”
“You homesick?”
“More like . . . lovesick.”
“Wow. He hurt you that badly, huh?”
“I think the worst part was that I didn’t see it coming—and everyone else did.”
“You know what they say: love is blind.”
“In my case, the cliché turned out to be true. But tell me—what’s really holding you back from going to live with your translator? Writers can work anywhere, right?”
“I’m not sure she wants me to. If she did, I’d imagine she’d have told me.”
“Not necessarily. Are you in touch very often?”
“We Skype every weekend, and exchange emails occasionally. I’ve only ever seen one tiny little corner of her apartment—the part that’s visible in the background on the computer. The rest of it I can only imagine.”
“When I was twenty years old, I fell in love with this guy in New York. I think the distance intensified my feelings for him. The impossibility of seeing him, of touching him . . . everything played out in my imagination. One day, I scraped together all the money I could and flew over there. I had one of the best weeks of my life. I came back exhilarated and full of hope, and decided to find a way of going back there permanently.”
“And did you?”
“No. As soon as I told him my plans, everything changed. He started sounding distant whenever we spoke, and our relationship tapered off in the run-up to winter. It took me a long time to get over him, but I never regretted the experience.”