P.S. from Paris(41)

“And what if we get there after your business partner does?”

“Good point. Keep going.”

The car accelerated, zipping up Rue Lepic. On Rue Norvins, Mia shrank back in her seat.

“Is the restaurant around here?”

“We just passed it,” she whispered.

At last, they turned onto Rue Poulbot. Mia pointed out her building. Paul slammed on the brakes.

“Hurry up!” he urged her. “We’ll say good-bye another time.”

They exchanged a look, and Mia rushed toward the front door. Paul waited to check that she’d got in, staring at the windows of the building, then smiled as the lights on the top floor came on briefly and went out again. He was about to drive away when he saw a woman walking up the street and entering the building. He honked his horn three times before setting off again.



Daisy came into the apartment, completely exhausted. The living room was dark. She turned on the lights and collapsed onto the sofa. Her gaze wandered to the coffee table, where she spotted a book. She picked it up and examined the author’s photo again.

After getting up, she knocked gently at Mia’s door and opened it a crack.

Mia pretended to wake up.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. I should be fine again tomorrow.”

“I’m so glad to hear that!”

“I hope it wasn’t too tough at the restaurant tonight.”

“It was pretty crowded, believe it or not, despite the rain.”

“Did it rain a lot?”

“Incessantly. What about here? Did it rain inside the apartment too?”

“Um, no . . . What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Daisy closed the door without another word.



Paul parked his car and went up to his apartment. He sat at his desk and was just about to start a new chapter, in which his mute opera singer ventures out onto the rooftop of the Opera, when the screen of his phone lit up.

My great-grandchildren would like

to join me in thanking you for giving

their future great-grandmother such

an unforgettable evening.

Did you make it back in time???

Two minutes later, and I’d have been

a goner!

I honked my horn to warn you.

I heard it.

Your roommate didn’t suspect anything?

I think she may have seen my raincoat

sticking out of the duvet!

You sleep in a raincoat?

Didn’t have time to take it off.

I’m really sorry about the police station . . .

We should split that fine.

Absolutely not—you were my guest.

Will you take me to see the Catacombs

next week?

Depends. Would that count or not?

Definitely wouldn’t count.

Why not?

Because!

Can’t argue with that.

So we’re on?

Wouldn’t you prefer an exhibition

at the Grand Palais? Not so many

dead people.

What exhibition?

Hang on, I’ll check.

Okay.

The Tudors.

Oh no, I’ve had my fill of the

Tudors.

Musée d’Orsay?

Jardin du Luxembourg?

Sold. You’re on.

Are you working?

Trying to.

In that case, I’ll let you go. Day after tomorrow, 3pm?

Done. Outside the entrance, on

Rue Guynemer.

The screen went black, and Paul returned to his novel. His singer was about to start her walk across the rooftop when his phone lit up again.

I’m starving.

Me too.

But I’m trapped in my bedroom.

Take off your raincoat and

tiptoe over to the fridge.

Good idea. Okay, I’ll really leave you

to work now.

Thanks.

Paul put the phone on his desk. He kept checking the black screen, hoping it would light up again. Disappointed, he put it in a drawer, but kept the drawer half-open . . . just in case.



Mia undressed silently, pulled on a bathrobe, and half opened her bedroom door. Daisy was lying on the sofa, reading Paul’s novel. Mia went back to bed and spent the next hour listening to her stomach growl.





11


He felt guilty at how little he had written in the last few days. And the previous night had only made matters worse. He wanted to revise the first few chapters so Kyong would like them. Even though she had yet to reply to his email, which worried him a lot.

He drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness, turned on his desk lamp, and sat in front of the computer.

It had been a prolific day: ten pages, five coffees, two liters of water, and three bags of chips in seven hours.

Now he was hungry—starving, in fact—and he decided to stop working and go to the local café. It wasn’t the best place to eat in the arrondissement, but at least he wouldn’t have to dine alone. Whenever he sat at the counter, the café owner always stopped to chat. He could be relied on for all the neighborhood gossip—who had died or got divorced, who’d moved away, which shop had opened or closed, what the weather was supposed to be like, and so on—as well as more serious news, like political scandals. All the murmurings of the city and the wider world reached Paul through the voice of Moustache, as he called him.