P.S. from Paris(59)

“But Mr. Barton, the hotel is completely full. I could try to find accommodation at a different hotel, but with the Book Fair, I am afraid they will all be full as well.”

Mia stared into space.

“Fine, not to worry,” said Paul jovially. “Ms. Grinberg and I have been working together for years. We can easily share a room. With twin beds.”

“But there aren’t any left. We upgraded you to a suite, but it has only one bed. It is a very big bed, though—king size!”

Ms. Bak looked as if she were about to faint. Paul took her to one side.

“Have you ever flown on an airplane, Ms. Bak?”

“Never, Mr. Barton, never. Why?”

“Because I just did, and let me tell you: after eleven excruciating hours thirty thousand feet off the ground, with only a flimsy sheet of metal and a tiny little window between me and oblivion, it would take a hell of a lot more than this to faze me. The two of us can share the suite, just please don’t say a word about this to your boss—in fact, don’t tell anybody. All you have to do is make sure this young man forgets that Ms. Grinberg was ever here today, and it can be our little secret.”

Ms. Bak swallowed and her face seemed to recover its normal complexion.

“Two keys, please,” said Paul to the receptionist. Then, turning to Mia, he asked ironically: “Shall we head up then, Ms. Grinberg?”

Not a word was exchanged in the elevator, or in the long hallway that led to the room, and still not a peep until the porter had deposited Paul’s suitcase and taken his leave.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mia. “It never even crossed my mind . . .”

Paul lay down on the sofa, his legs dangling over the armrest.

“Okay, that’s not an option,” he sighed, standing up again.

He took a cushion, placed it on the carpet, and lay down.

“And that idea’s out too,” he said, rubbing his lower back.

He opened the wardrobe door, stood on his tiptoes, grabbed two bolster pillows, and put them down the middle of the bed.

“Right side or left?” he asked.

“There must be a B&B with a vacant room somewhere. The entire city of Seoul can’t really be booked, can it?” Mia exclaimed.

“Sure. We can just flip through the ads in Korean, should be a cinch. Look, this can work if we set a few ground rules. You can have the bathroom first in the morning, and I’ll take it first at night. Remote control is all yours, carte blanche with the TV, as long as it’s not sports. You should sleep with earplugs. I don’t think I’m a snorer, but just in case, I’d like to maintain a shred of dignity. If I happen to talk in my sleep, anything I say may not be used against me in a court of law. We stick to that, and I think we should be able to make this work. I already have enough to worry about without piling on one more complication. And by the way, what in the world possessed you to say you were my assistant? Do I look like the kind of person who has an assistant?”

“I don’t know. And just how is a person with an assistant supposed to look?”

“Let’s take a poll. I’ve never had a personal assistant. Have you? Didn’t think so. I hope you at least brought a toothbrush, because there’s no way I’m sharing mine. I’ve got toothpaste,” Paul grumbled as he paced the room, “but my toothbrush is where I draw the line.”

“Please calm down, Paul . . . I know you’re nervous. You’ll see Kyong at dinner.”

“Along with a dozen other people! This trip is off to one hell of a start. I have to call my friend ‘Ms. Grinberg’ and the woman I love ‘Ms. Kyong.’ Just . . . marvelful, as my editor would say.”

“Thank you for that,” Mia said, lying on the bed.

“For what?”

“For calling me your friend . . . It’s quite touching.”

She lay with her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. Paul watched her.

“So I take it that means you want the left side?”

Mia climbed over the bolsters, jumped up and down several times on the right-hand side, and then went back to the other side.

“Yes. Left it is,” she concluded.

“Did you have to break the bed to decide?”

“No, but it was fun. So, do we draw straws for the bathroom? Afternoon toilet privileges were left undefined.”

Paul shrugged to indicate that she could use it now. While she was gone, he unpacked his suitcase and hung his clothes in the wardrobe, hiding his underwear and socks under a pile of shirts.

Mia reappeared half an hour later wearing a bathrobe, with a towel wrapped around her head.

“What were you doing, counting shower tiles?” Paul asked sarcastically.

As he climbed into his bath, Mia spoke to him from the bedroom.

“Departure from hotel at eleven a.m.; Book Fair opening ceremony at noon; signing session at one p.m.; lunch break from two fifteen to two thirty; signing session from two thirty to five; return to hotel; departure for television studios at six thirty p.m.; makeup at seven; on air at seven thirty; show ends at nine p.m.; dinner, and that’s a wrap . . . Wow. And I complain about my promotion schedules!”

“What was that?” Paul shouted.

“Like a good assistant, I was reading you tomorrow’s schedule.”

Paul came bounding out of the bathroom, swaddled in towels.