P.S. from Paris(62)
Back at the hotel, Paul hopped straight into bed. He adjusted the bolster that separated him from Mia and turned off his bedside lamp before she had even come out of the bathroom.
Mia got under the sheets and waited a few moments.
“Are you asleep?”
“No. I was waiting for you to ask me that question before I could fall asleep.”
“She’ll call tomorrow, I’m sure she will.”
“How can you be so sure? She hasn’t even left a message for me at the hotel.”
“She did warn you in her email that she would be very busy. Sometimes work just takes over to the point where you can’t do anything else.”
Paul propped himself up and peered over the bolster.
“Just a short message—I mean, is that too much to ask? It’s like she’s been named minister of culture. Why are you making excuses for her?”
“Because . . . it bothers me to see you unhappy,” Mia replied, sitting up in turn. “I don’t know why, that’s just the way it is.”
“There you go again, stealing my lines.”
“You know what? Why don’t you just shut up.”
In the silence that followed, their faces drew closer and closer . . . until at last they came together, in what can only be described as a moment of infinite tenderness.
“Tell me that wasn’t just a pity kiss,” Paul said.
“Have you ever been slapped just after a kiss?”
“No. At least, not yet.”
Mia pressed her lips to his and wished him good night. Then she adjusted the bolster and turned off her bedside lamp.
“One question . . . did that count?” Paul asked in the darkness.
“Oh, go to sleep already!” Mia replied.
16
Mia had great fun playing the perfect assistant and grew positively giddy about calling Paul “Mr. Barton” every time she spoke to him. Paul was not so amused.
She stood back during the opening of the Book Fair as flashbulbs popped. It felt good not to be the one in the spotlight for once.
Three hundred people formed a line that stretched out of the bookshop and right down the street. The scale of the reception reminded Mia of her own career—and of Creston, just one more reminder that she should have called him a long time ago. He must be worried sick. She tried to invent a lie that would conceal her whereabouts, but it would have to wait. She hadn’t turned her phone back on since the flight—and she wasn’t ready to.
Sitting behind a desk, Paul smiled and greeted the seemingly endless stream of readers, all the while struggling to spell or even understand the names of those who introduced themselves. The bookseller bent down and whispered his apologies. It was regrettable that his translator was indisposed and could not come.
“Really. What’s the matter with Kyong?” Paul whispered.
“No, I said it’s your translator who is sick.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“No, no. Your translator’s name is Eun-Jeong.”
A sudden surge in the crowd put an end to their conversation. Paul remained frozen in shock while the security guards ushered a few fans out of the building and ordered the public into an orderly line once more.
The lunch break was extended on Mia’s orders. Mr. Barton needed a rest. Paul was escorted to the bookshop café, which had been closed just for him. His eyes darted back and forth in search of the bookseller, but with no success.
“You look worried,” Mia said.
“I’m not used to there being this many people at a signing. So yes, I’m nervous. And exhausted.”
“That’s hardly surprising. You haven’t even touched your food. Eat something—you’ll need all the energy you can get for the second round. Have you realized how wonderful all this is for your career? Your readers are positively beaming about meeting you. Even I’m touched. Do try to smile a little more—though I know it’s tiring. The greatest reward we can ever receive is the love of our fans. It gives meaning to our work . . . to everything we give others. What could be more satisfying than sharing that joy?”
“Have a lot of experience with this type of thing, do you?”
“Of course not, that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m just saying I’ve never experienced anything like this in my life.”
“Well, you may have to get used to it.”
“I don’t think so. I’m not really sure it’s my thing. I didn’t leave California just to go through the same thing abroad. I mean, it’s a pleasant experience, and I’m touched, but . . . I’m definitely not star material.”
“Anyone can be star material. Believe me, you’ll get a taste for it pretty quickly.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Paul replied in a sullen voice.
“Still nothing from her?” Mia asked casually.
“Not a word.”
“It’ll happen. And soon.”
Paul looked up at her.
“Mia, about last night—”
“Sorry, it’s time to see your devoted, adoring public once more,” Mia interrupted, rising to her feet.
The security guards accompanied Paul back to the signing desk, and Mia stayed at the café. Moments later, a young female fan rushed up and stole the glass that Paul had been drinking from.