P.S. from Paris(73)

“Nothing I haven’t already said: she sent me an email and I was so very happy to hear about this warm welcome for you in Seoul. What did I tell you, eh? The numbers are gorgeous. I’m going to call the Chinese publishers and inform your American editor, and we can follow my plan to the letter.”

“Um . . . So if we’re still following your plan to the letter, then what exactly has gotten into you today?”

Cristoneli stared deep into Paul’s eyes. “I thought I was your friend, someone you can trust. So I have to tell you, I was a little bit let down that I have to learn the truth like this, like everybody else.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. And I’m getting pretty sick of your cryptic double-talk,” grumbled Paul.

Cristoneli began humming a familiar aria, before sliding the folder up onto the table. He half opened it, still humming his tune, flipped it closed, then back open again, until Paul finally snapped and yanked the folder from him.

The tabloid magazine covers inside were enough to make him gasp, and his eyes grew wide as saucers.

“I told you I’d seen her somewhere before, when I came to pick you up from the police station,” Cristoneli muttered. “But her? Melissa Barlow? I thought my jaw was going to hit the pavement!”

Photos of Mia and Paul were plastered all over every cover and on the first few pages of each tabloid. Images of them walking side by side, entering the hotel, standing in the lobby, waiting for the elevator . . . Paul leaning over a gutter while Mia held him upright, him holding open the door of a limousine as Mia climbed inside. And under each picture, there were captions describing Melissa Barlow’s crazy whirlwind romance. In the second magazine that Paul flicked through, his hands trembling, a picture of Mia at the Book Fair was accompanied by the description: Mere days before the release of a film in which she appears onscreen with her real-life husband, Melissa Barlow is seen playing in her own romantic comedy with American writer Paul Barton.

“It’s a little intrusive, I must admit. But for sales, this is more than marvelful! You sly fox, you! Hey, friend. You don’t look so good.”

Paul retched and ran outside.

A few moments later, doubled over a trash can, he became aware of a handkerchief being waved in front of his eyes. Cristoneli stood behind him, arm outstretched.

“This is not a pretty picture. And you accused me of drinking!”

Paul wiped his mouth and Cristoneli helped him over to a bench.

“Feeling a little sick?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Is it because of the photographs? You must have realized this would happen sooner or later. What do you expect, dating a movie star?”

“Have you ever had the feeling that the world was slipping away right beneath your feet?”

“Oh, yes,” replied his editor. “When my mother died, for starters. And then when my first wife left me. Come to think of it, when I separated from my second wife also. With the third, it was different—it was mutual.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about—when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, you have to be careful, because there’s another abyss just below it, even deeper. And I’m beginning to wonder where it will all end.”



Paul went home and slept until evening. Around eight o’clock, he sat at his desk. He checked his email, reading only the subject lines, and then turned off his computer. No word from her. A little later, he called a taxi and got out at Montmartre.

It was nearly eleven when he entered La Clamada. Daisy was clearing the last tables.

“I thought you weren’t going to show. Are you hungry?”

“You know what? I have no idea.”

“Let’s find out.”

She let him choose a table while she went back to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later, plate in hand. She sat across from Paul and ordered him to try her plat du jour. They would talk when he had a full stomach. She poured him a glass of wine and watched him eat.

“You knew, I assume?” he asked her.

“That she wasn’t a waitress? I told you her life was more complicated than it seemed.”

“And what about you? You’re about to tell me you’re not really a chef but a secret agent for the French government? Give me your best shot. Nothing could surprise me now.”

“You writers! You really are something,” Daisy laughed.

As the evening went on, she told him the story of her life, and once more Paul enjoyed listening to memories of Daisy and Mia growing up side by side, though he longed for Mia to be sharing them with him.

At midnight, he accompanied Daisy to the front door of her apartment building. Paul looked up at the windows.

“If you hear from her, promise you’ll tell her to call me.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

“I swear I’m not a bad guy.”

“That’s exactly why. Believe me, the two of you were not right for each other.”

“And what if I told you I miss her as a friend?”

“Then I’d tell you you’re as bad a liar as she is. The first days are the hardest; after that, it gets easier. There will always be a table for you at my restaurant, Paul, anytime. Good night.”

Daisy opened the door and disappeared.