P.S. from Paris(47)

“Oh, give me a break! Just have a Cognac before you go on camera and everything will be fine.”

“Even better—drunk on live television! Amazifying idea.”

“Smoke something, then. Isn’t it legal in your country now?”

“The only time in my life I ever ‘smoked something,’ I spent two days in bed staring at cows grazing on the ceiling.”

“Listen, my dear Paul, just pull yourself together and everything will go perfectly. I assure you.”

“I hope you’re right. So what’s your other bit of news?”

“Because your press schedule is getting fuller and fuller, we’ve had to advance the date of your departure.”

At those words Paul simply turned and left. Left without saying good-bye. On his way out, he picked up a copy of his latest novel from a coffee table in the lobby.

He walked down Rue Bonaparte, his mind spinning at the change of dates, and stopped in front of the antique-book shop. He went inside and emerged fifteen minutes later having negotiated the purchase of a little handwritten note by none other than Jane Austen, payable over three months.

Continuing on his way, he came to a halt at the patisserie, spotted the waitress, and approached her, asking her name.

“Isabelle,” she replied, looking a little bemused.

Paul opened the copy of his novel and wrote on the first page:

To Isabelle, my faithful reader. Please accept my thanks and my apologies for yesterday.

Best regards,

Paul Barton

He handed her the book, and she read his inscription with a blank look on her face, clearly missing the significance.

But, being a polite young woman, she thanked him, then left the book on the countertop and went back to work.

He felt like calling Arthur, but he didn’t know if his friend was still in Rome or if he and Lauren had already caught the flight back to California.

On Rue Jacob, he thought about how much he would like to find a shop where he could purchase a sibling or a caretaker, or at least rent one for a few hours. He could already imagine himself alone in his apartment, succumbing to a fierce panic attack. He picked up his car, which he had left in front of the Hotel Bel Ami, gave a hollow laugh as he noticed the name, and drove off toward Montmartre.

“Maybe my luck is finally turning around,” he muttered to himself as he found a parking space on Rue Norvins.

He got out of the car and walked up the street.

She told me I couldn’t eat at her restaurant, but she didn’t say I couldn’t stop by. Would that be thoughtful or thoughtless? Let’s say it does disturb her, it’s not like I’ll stay long. I’ll just give her this little gift, along with the first chapters of my novel, and then go. No, not the novel with the gift—she might think it’s a bribe to get her to read it. I’ll go in, give her the letter, and walk straight out. That’ll be fine. In fact, it’ll be perfect.

Paul retraced his steps, left the manuscript in the trunk of the Saab, and returned with just the pretty little envelope, tied with a ribbon, containing Jane Austen’s note.

A few moments later, he walked past La Clamada, glanced through the window, and stopped dead.

Mia, wearing a large violet apron, was setting tables.

The woman who had approached Mia’s apartment the night of their misadventure stood in the kitchen at the back of the dining room. She appeared to be giving Mia orders.

Paul watched for a second and then hurried away, hiding his face behind his hand. Once he was past the restaurant, he began walking even faster, not stopping until he reached Place du Tertre.

Why would she lie? Why should it even matter if she’s the owner of the restaurant, or just a waitress? And they talk about men having fragile egos! Did she think I wouldn’t want to be friends with a waitress? What kind of person does she think I am? “Irresistible cuisine,” my ass! Then again, it’s not that big a deal, when you think about it. I’ve pretended to be other people before, under different circumstances. The way I see it, I could walk in there and call her bluff right now—which would be satisfying, but mean. Or I could say nothing at all, I could just dangle the carrot until she admits it herself. Maybe that’s the best move.

He sat on a bench, took out his phone, and sent a text to Mia.

Everything OK?

Mia felt her phone vibrate in the pocket of her apron. Last night, David had sent her three messages, begging her to call him back. She had held firm this long; she wasn’t going to crack now. She straightened the napkins while squinting into the kangaroo pouch of her apron.

“Just making sure your belly button’s still there?” Daisy asked.

“No!”

“Was it David again?”

“Probably.”

“Look, either turn off your phone or read his message before you start dropping plates.”

Mia took out her phone to read the message, and smiled as she typed her reply.

I’m fine. How about you?

Do you have a minute?

I’m in the kitchen.

It won’t take long.

Fine. But if I call you, it doesn’t count!

Because you asked me to.

Don’t call. I’m on a bench at Place du Tertre.

No raincoat this time.

Are you OK?

Yeah. Can you come?

Give me five minutes.