P.S. from Paris(51)

Daisy closed the door and waited for a moment.

“He’s much better looking in real life than in the photo on his book,” she said with a yawn. “I’m going to take a nap. I’m exhausted. It was fun, though, wasn’t it? He certainly did seem to enjoy my cooking . . . I mean, your cooking.”

With these words, Daisy went into her bedroom, Mia into hers, and the two friends did not speak another word to each other all day.



Lying on her bed, Mia picked up her phone and reread all of David’s messages.

In the early evening, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a light sweater and went out, slamming the door behind her.

The taxi dropped her off at Place de l’Alma. She sat outside at a café and ordered a glass of pink champagne, which she downed in one gulp while keeping an eye on her phone. She had just ordered a second glass when the screen lit up. This time it was a call, not a text. She hesitated before answering.

“What’s going on? Why were you acting like that today?”

“Why were you acting like that?”

He sighed. “Where are you?”

“Place de l’Alma.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Looking at the bridge.”

“Why?”

“Because I like it. Is that okay with you?”

“And where are you looking at it from?”

“From an outside table at Chez Francis.”

“I’m on my way.”

Paul turned up four glasses of champagne later. He double-parked his car and sat down next to Mia.

“Has your meal gone down yet?” she asked him.

“Listen, I couldn’t care less if the truth is that you don’t know how to cook, and I couldn’t care less if you’re actually a waitress and not the owner. But I will not accept you trying to set me up with your friend.”

Mia looked upset. “So do you like her, or not?”

“Daisy is beautiful, lively, and interesting, and she’s a superb cook,” Paul admitted. Then, raising his voice: “But it is up to me, and me alone, to decide who I meet and who I don’t meet. I don’t let my oldest friends meddle with my private life, and I’m sure as hell not going to let you do it.”

“Do you want to see her again?” Mia asked, speaking over Paul.

And, as they argued, their faces drew gradually closer together until their lips touched.

For a moment, the two of them were dumbstruck.

Then, in a calm voice, Paul told Mia: “I hated that, back at your place today.”

“So did I.”

“There was this . . . distance between us.”

“Yes.”

“Tonight, I’m going to write a scene where my characters have a huge argument and then make up. I have enough material to fill a couple dozen pages.”

“So lunch wasn’t a complete waste of time, then. If you want my opinion, he should apologize and admit he was wrong.”

Paul picked up Mia’s glass and drained it.

“You’ve already had enough to drink, and I’m thirsty. Don’t give me that butter-wouldn’t-melt look. I can see it in your eyes. Let me give you a ride home.”

“No, I’ll take a cab.”

Paul picked up the bill from the table.

“Six glasses? Well, there you go . . .”

“I’m not even drunk!”

“Stop disagreeing with everything I say. I’m taking you home, and that’s all there is to it.”

He led Mia to his car. She staggered a little on the pavement. He put her in the Saab’s passenger seat before climbing in behind the wheel.

They drove in silence to Rue Poulbot. Paul parked in front of the apartment building and got out.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked, opening the door for her.

“The atmosphere’s a bit tense, but we’ve had arguments before. It’ll pass.”

“I meant, are you okay to climb the stairs?”

“I’ve had a few glasses of champagne. That doesn’t make me drunk!”

“I’m leaving Paris at the end of the week,” he said, looking at the ground.

“So soon?”

“I told you already: the trip was moved up. Next time, try listening to men when they talk to you.”

Mia elbowed him in the ribs.

“We can’t let that lunch be the last time we see each other.”

“When exactly are you leaving?”

“Friday morning.”

“What time?”

“The flight is at eleven thirty a.m. We could have dinner the night before, but I’m sure you’re working . . .”

“It would be a little sad, right before you leave. How about Wednesday?”

“Wednesday works for me. Any particular place you’d like to try?”

“Your place. Eight o’clock.”

Mia kissed Paul on the cheek, opened the front door, turned around, smiled, and disappeared inside the building.



The apartment lay in darkness. Mia swore as she bumped into a chair, narrowly avoided the coffee table, walked into and then straight back out of a cupboard, and finally made it to her room. She slid between the sheets and fell asleep.