P.S. from Paris(50)
I’m downstairs.
Come on up!
She cast a last look around the room and ran over to crack open a window. The Bakelite handle of a saucepan she was using to warm some premade apple compote had burned slightly and was giving off an acrid stench.
The doorbell rang.
Paul came in, holding a small parcel.
“You shouldn’t have. What is it?” Mia asked.
“A scented candle.”
“Lovely. I’ll get a lighter,” she said, thinking venomously of Daisy.
“Sounds good. Wish I’d brought six more—smells like she’s cooking tires in here!”
“Did you say something?”
“No, I was just thinking how nice your place is. And what a wonderful view.” She seems nervous. I shouldn’t have invited myself. I should ask if she wants to head to a restaurant instead. Maybe we could sit outside, with the weather so nice and all. What am I saying? She’s probably been slaving away cooking all morning—that would make it even worse.
“Let’s start with some croissants.” Yes, excellent idea—I’ll stuff him full of croissants and pains au chocolat until he explodes, and then I’ll go round with the Hoover.
“You know what, I’m sorry. It’s your only day off all week, and I force you to cook and wait on me hand and foot. It was a selfish move, and I feel terrible about imposing. What would you say to a relaxed meal outside on a sunny terrace?”
“If that’s what you’d prefer . . .” Turns out there is a God! I’m sorry, Lord, for all the times I’ve doubted you. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll go to church and light a candle.
“I know you’ve probably already gone to a lot of trouble, though, and I don’t want to offend you. In fact, the only reason I suggested going out to eat was to avoid being impolite.”
Ten candles! Twenty, if that’s what it takes!
“It’s your call, whatever you prefer,” Paul continued.
“The weather certainly is lovely today. I should have put the table on the balcony . . .” What is wrong with you? Why would you say something like that?
“You want me to set up the table outside?”
“Just, um, which café did you have in mind?” Mia asked feverishly.
“Any. I’m starving.”
Grab your purse before he changes his mind. Tell him it’s a brilliant idea and run down the stairs now!
Just then, the apartment door opened. Mia and Paul turned to see Daisy enter, carrying two large shopping bags.
“You could have at least helped me carry them,” she said, placing the bags on the island.
She took out three large plates covered in tinfoil.
“I’m Daisy, Mia’s business partner. You must be the Swedish writer?”
“Sort of. I’m actually American.”
“Of course. That’s what I meant.”
“What’s all that?” Paul asked, eyeing the food on the island.
“Brunch! Mia is a wonderful cook, but I’m the one who always gets stuck doing the serving. Even on Sundays. Disgraceful.”
“Oh, give me a break!” Mia protested. “It hadn’t finished cooking. And someone had to come up here and set the table.”
Daisy stepped on Mia’s foot as she walked past.
“Let’s see what you prepared for us, shall we?” Daisy said, removing the foil. “Caramelized onion tart, chard pie, and baked stuffed vegetables. If anyone’s still hungry after all this, you should think of a new line of work!”
“Smells amazing,” Paul said to Mia.
Daisy started sniffing the air—once, twice. After the third sniff, she advanced toward the table, spotted the scented candle, made a face, blew it out, and threw it straight in the trash, smiling as she noticed what else was in there.
“Um . . . all right, then,” Paul stammered, somewhat taken aback.
Mia gave him a knowing look, suggesting that her business partner was sometimes a little odd. Daisy must have noted the exchange because she ordered them to eat immediately.
Paul wanted to know how the two had met and become friends. Mia started talking about Daisy’s first trip to England. Daisy interrupted to tell him about Mia’s first trip to Provence, and how she’d been terrified of cicadas. She recounted their nocturnal escapades and all the tricks they’d played on each other. Paul was only half listening, thinking constantly about his own adolescence with Arthur, the boarding school where they’d met, the house in Carmel . . .
As they sipped at coffee after the meal, it became Paul’s turn to answer all of Daisy’s questions. Why he had moved to Paris, what had made him want to write, which writers he admired most, what his working habits were. Paul played along, replying with good grace. Mia stayed nearly silent, simply watching the other two.
She stood up to clear the table and went behind the island. A little later, Paul tried to get her attention, but she stared fixedly at the sudsy dishes.
Shortly after midday, he thanked them both for a lovely time and said good-bye, congratulating Mia on her amazing cooking—by far the best meal he’d had in ages. On his way out, he promised Daisy that he would devote one of his chapters to Provence. It was Daisy who saw him to the door. Mia just waved and carried on tidying up. He rolled his eyes and left.