P.S. from Paris(43)

“Well . . . I guess I should say nearly single.”

“No way! Forget it. I’ve had it up to here with guys who are ‘nearly single.’ Why don’t you start setting these tables instead of setting me up?”

Mia didn’t wait to be asked twice. She grabbed a pile of plates and began placing them on tables. Daisy went into the kitchen and started peeling vegetables.

“You should at least meet him,” said Mia.

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because first of all, it never works like that. Second, because he’s only ‘nearly single.’ And most importantly, because you like him more than you’re willing to admit.”

Mia turned toward Daisy, hands on her hips. “I think I’d know how I feel about someone.”

“Is that so? Since when? You cross the city to give him his phone back, you lie like a teenager, you go with him to the Opera and—”

“No, not to the Opera—on the Opera!”

“What?”

“We didn’t go to see a performance, he took me up on the roof—to see Paris at night.”

“Either you really are completely naive or you’re lying to yourself. Either way, leave me out of it.”

Mia frowned.

“Get to work!” Daisy yelled. “The customers will be here any minute.”



At two a.m., Paul was still struggling with the last line of a paragraph when he decided to call it a night. He checked his email again and, his pulse quickening, finally found a reply from Kyong, which he printed out. He liked to read her words on paper, as it somehow made her seem less virtual. He picked up the hard copy from his printer tray and waited until he was in bed before starting to read.

Soon afterward, he turned off the light and hugged his pillow to him.



At three a.m., Mia was awoken by the vibrations of her phone. She grabbed it from the bedside table. The name David appeared on the screen.

Her heart began pounding wildly. She put the phone back on the table, lay down again, and hugged her pillow.





12


Mia turned up late at the gates of the Jardin du Luxembourg. She looked around for Paul, then sent him a text.

Where are you?

On a bench.

Which bench?

I’m wearing a yellow raincoat,

so you can spot me easily.

Seriously?

No!

Seeing her approach, Paul stood up and waved.

“Oh, so you’re the one wearing a slicker today,” she said, “even though it’s not raining.”

“That remains to be seen,” he replied, setting off along the path, his hands behind his back.

Mia followed.

“Did you have another bout of writer’s block last night?”

“Nope. I even managed to finish a chapter. I’ll start another one tonight.”

“Look at that. Do you fancy a game?” Mia asked, pointing to a group of men playing boules.

“Do you know how to play?”

“It doesn’t seem all that complicated.”

“Well, it is. Like everything in life, I suppose . . .”

“Easy, now. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“How about . . . if I win, you have to make me dinner!”

“And if I win?”

“It would be dishonest of me to let you think you have a chance of winning. I’ve become seriously good at this stupid little game.”

“I’ll try my luck anyway,” Mia replied, heading for the boules pitch.

She asked two players who were chatting if she could borrow their set of boules. They looked wary, so she leaned close to the older of the two and whispered something in his ear. The man smiled and gestured at the pitch, where the boules and the jack lay unused.

“Shall we?” she said to Paul.

Paul began the first round by throwing the jack. He waited for the little wooden ball to stop rolling, then bent forward, arm pulled back, and threw his boule. It arced through the air before rolling along the ground and coming to rest next to the jack.

“Difficult to get any closer than that.” He whistled. “Your turn.”

Mia got into position, watched by the two old men, who looked amused. Her boule did not go as high as Paul’s and came to a halt an inch or two behind his.

“Not bad. Promising, but not a game changer,” said Paul.

For his second throw, he twisted his wrist slightly. The boule slowly circled around the others before kissing the jack.

“Perfect!” Paul laughed triumphantly.

Mia got back into position, narrowed her eyes, and took aim.

Paul’s two boules were knocked away from the jack, while Mia’s appeared glued to its sides.

“Putain!” one of the old men shouted, while the other burst out laughing.

“Now that was perfect,” Mia declared.

Paul stared at her, speechless, then walked away.

Mia waved at the two men, who applauded. Then she ran after Paul.

“Come on. Don’t be a sore loser!” she said, catching up with him.

“And you let me think that was the first time you’ve played . . .”

“I spent every summer of my childhood in Provence, as you might recall. Next time, try listening to women when they talk to you.”