P.S. from Paris(37)

“Sure about what?”

“Sure I want to stay there.”

“Why would you go and live in Korea? You don’t even speak the language.”

“Good point. I hadn’t thought about that. I guess I’ll have to learn it.”

“You? You’re going to learn Korean?”

“Nan niga naie palkarakeul parajmdoultaiga nomou djoa.”

“What is that gibberish?”

“It’s Korean for ‘I like it when you suck my toes.’”

“That’s it. You’ve completely lost your mind!”

“I didn’t come here for your thoughts on my mental well-being. I came for an advance on my royalties.”

“So, you are serious?”

“You were the one who said that success over there would give my numbers a boost in the US and thus in Europe. My understanding is, if I catch that plane, we make a fortune. Right? So, according to your own logic, a small advance shouldn’t pose that much of a problem.”

“That was just in theory . . . Only time will tell whether or not I’m right.”

Cristoneli looked pensive, then finally added, “Then again, if you were to tell the Korean media that you’re moving to their country, the effect would be enormous. If your publisher over there had you on hand, they’d be more inclined to double their efforts at promoting your books.”

“Yadda yadda yadda,” muttered Paul. “So we have an agreement?”

“On one condition! No matter what happens over there, I remain your primary editor. I don’t want to hear anything about a new book contract signed between you and any Korean publisher—am I clear? I’ve driven your career forward single-handedly up to now!”

“Granted, you haven’t driven it very far.”

“What ingratitude! Do you want this advance or not?”

Paul stopped arguing. He scrawled the figure he hoped to extract from Cristoneli on a paper napkin. His editor rolled his eyes, crossed out the number, and cut it in half.

They shook hands on the deal—as good as a contract in the world of publishing.

“I’ll give you the check when we’re on our way to the airport. That way, I can make sure you actually catch your flight.”

Paul left Cristoneli to pay the bill.



Back at home after the lunch shift, Daisy found Mia lying on the sofa in a bathrobe, with a box of Kleenex at hand and a damp towel over her eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Retinal migraine,” said Mia. “Head feels like it’s about to explode.”

“Want me to call a doctor?”

“There’s no point. I’ve had them before. It usually lasts about ten hours and then goes away on its own.”

“And when did it start?”

“Midafternoon.”

Daisy looked at her watch, and then back at her friend.

“Well, there’s no way you’re working in this state. Let’s forget the restaurant for tonight—you can help me out tomorrow instead.”

“No, no,” Mia protested, “I’ll manage,” whereupon she put her hands to her forehead and let out a small groan.

“Looking like that? You’ll scare away the customers! Go and lie down in bed.”

“No, it’ll be okay,” said Mia, still lying on the sofa, one arm trailing on the floor. “I don’t want to let you down!”

“Robert will have to make do in the kitchen while I wait tables. We’ve done it before. Now go to bed—that’s an order.”

Picking up the box of Kleenex and holding the towel over her eyes, Mia got to her feet and groped her way toward her room.

She came out again just as soon as Daisy had left the apartment. She put her ear to the front door and listened to the sound of her friend’s footsteps fading to silence. Then she ran to the bay window and watched as Daisy disappeared around the corner and out of sight.

She hurried to the bathroom and washed her face with cold water to remove the talcum powder from her cheeks and the eyeliner from under her eyes. If she’d learned anything useful in her profession, it was the art of makeup. Looking for a raincoat in Daisy’s wardrobe, she was surprised that she didn’t feel guilty at all. In fact, she was in a very good mood, and it had been too long since she’d felt that way. She had to make the most of it.

She decided to wear sneakers, wondering, at the same time, why she would need to dress like that for a night at the opera. In England, people tended to overdress rather than underdress for such occasions.

Examining herself in the mirror, she thought she looked a little bit like Audrey Hepburn, which pleased her. She considered adding a pair of sunglasses to her outfit, but decided in the end to keep them in her purse.

She half opened the front door, checked that the coast was clear, and then hurried over toward the taxi that had been waiting for her on the opposite side of the street.

Paul was waiting on the fifth step of the Opera.

“You look like Inspector Clouseau,” he said to Mia as she approached him.

“What a gentleman you are! You told me to wear a raincoat and flat shoes.”

Paul looked her over.

“I take it back. You look lovely. Follow me.”

They joined the line of people entering the Opera. After passing through a series of lobbies, Mia stopped to admire the large ceremonial staircase. She insisted they go closer to the statue of Pythia.