by Marc Levy
PRAISE FOR P.S. FROM PARIS
“A charming and bubbly story . . . Touching, funny, original, and surprising.”—Le Parisien
“With P.S. from Paris chef Marc Levy offers us a delectable recipe . . . spiced with a dash of humor.”—RTL Radio Network (France)
“Extraordinary, hilarious . . . delightful!”—RCJ Radio Network (France)
“You’ll devour the latest Marc Levy in a single bite . . . Unpredictable . . . To all his fans and critics, beware: the most popular author in France is back. And with a brilliant novel. In fact, by far his best. On top of being lovely, the story is also very clever. There is even suspense. The characters from If Only It Were True are also back. They’ve kept us up all night and would agree that ‘that’s what counts.’”—Femme Actuelle
“Marc Levy marks his great return to comedy, with moving characters, humor, and finesse.”—TF1 TV (France)
“Levy introduces a delightful mix of secondary characters and describes the film and publishing worlds with a derisive and self-deprecating eye. No, Marc Levy isn’t Hemingway, and has never pretended to be, but he definitely knows how to tell a good story and bring a bit of happiness to his millions of readers.”—Le Figaro Littéraire
“A beautiful, uplifting love story with plenty of twists and turns . . . A passionate novel.”—France Inter Radio
“A delectable comedy you’ll read in one sitting.”—Version Femina
“Magnificent . . . a beautiful, feel-good story.”—Le Journal Inattendu, RTL
“Autobiographical and funny. Marc Levy’s best.”—VSD magazine
“Once you dive into this book, it’s difficult to put it down.”—La Dépêche
“It feels great to rediscover Marc Levy in P.S. from Paris . . . a beautiful novel.”—Wendy Bouchard, EUROPE 1
“Marc Levy . . . makes a remarkable return to romantic comedy with his new novel, P.S. from Paris . . . Paul, the charming architect from If Only It Were True, comes to the fore in a brilliant manner.”—Le Journal de Montréal
“P.S. from Paris is a pleasure to read: emotion, tenderness, a few tears, but mostly a lot of laughter, with sharp dialogue that hits home.”—Web TV Culture
“Marc Levy is back with a comedy in the spirit of If Only It Were True . . . and it is frankly uplifting. As lighthearted as it is moving, he takes us once more on a wonderful excursion.”—Au Boudoir Ecarlate
“Marc Levy successfully embraces the challenge of surprising and seducing us . . . by means of subtle, ironic, and witty dialogue . . . Paris is a sumptuous backdrop for this comedy of mistaken identities . . . Marc Levy returns to his roots with intelligence and humor. A wonderful comedy . . . A bubble of tenderness and delicacy in the dark times we have seen recently.”—Blue Moon
“In the vein of his finest novels that make us laugh and smile as well as cry. It brings back memories, reminds us of someone, and at times makes us long to hold our friends in our arms. It offers something rare and precious that we all treasure: a novel that makes you happy.”—PtitBlog
“Filled with love and tenderness that takes unexpected but irresistible turns . . . P.S. from Paris makes us laugh, smile, feel; it touches us and opens our eyes to what’s going on in the world . . . A lovely reunion with some beloved characters.”—Le Monde de NoA
“Thank you, Mr. Levy, for this wonderful and tender moment . . . How delightful to finish a book with butterflies in your stomach!”—Plaisir de Lire
“As soon as you pick up a new Marc Levy, you know you’re in for an all-nighter . . . but what a joy! A breath of fresh air . . . A true gem.”—Christele Daquin, buyer, Espace Culturel Leclerc
“A fresh, funny, and bubbly comedy.”—Cecibondelire
“Marc Levy takes us by the hand to lead us lovingly toward humor, without ever taking himself seriously.”—Idboox
“How pleasing to see this new Marc Levy going back to his roots. Thank you for this moment of joy.”—Les Aventures Livresques de Nane
“I had never read Marc Levy . . . I am truly delighted to have discovered this author and think I shall be equally tempted to read his future and previous works.”—Mille et Une Pages
“P.S. from Paris is an amusing, unpredictable, and irresistible love story.”—Le Blog de Moon
“385 pages of pure joy.”—Manon se Livre
ALSO BY MARC LEVY
If Only It Were True
Seven Days for an Eternity
Children of Freedom
All Those Things We Never Said
The Shadow Thief
The Strange Journey of Mr. Daldry
Replay
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © Marc Levy/Versilio, 2015
Translated from French by Sam Taylor.
Translation copyright © Susanna Lea Associates, 2017.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Amazon Crossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477820285
ISBN-10: 1477820280
Cover design by Kimberly Glyder
For my father
For my children
For my wife
CONTENTS
START READING
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
One day, I’m going to live in theory,
because in theory everything goes perfectly . . .
1
The rain washed down over the rooftops and façades, the cars and buses, the pavements and pedestrians. It seemed like rain had been falling on London ever since the start of spring. Mia had just come out of a meeting with her agent. She had been nervously awaiting his reaction to a preview of her latest film—in the industry of box-office hits, Creston’s honest, at times biting, opinion never failed. “It’s crap,” he’d admitted, “but it’ll be a hit, if only because you and your husband are the costars.”
When she’d first fallen for David, he had been the star and she the novice. Now she couldn’t get what Creston had said out of her mind: this time, the pupil had upstaged the master.
In real life, he’s the one who steals the show, she thought with a wan smile.
She took a taxi to Oxford Street to clear her mind. Whenever she felt down, which had happened on more than one occasion in recent weeks, she would go for a stroll along the busy shopping street. With her long blonde hair tucked under a hat, she normally managed to pass through the crowds unnoticed.
Browsing the aisles of a department store, she tried calling David, but it went straight to voicemail.
What could her husband be doing at this time of the afternoon? Where had he been for the last two days? Two days and two nights without hearing a peep from him except for a single message on her voicemail. A brief message explaining that he was going to the country to recharge his batteries, and
she shouldn’t worry. But that was exactly what she was doing. Shooting the movie together hadn’t exactly rekindled the sparks between them.
“I think he’s cheating on me.”
“Well, what couple isn’t cheating these days, when you think about it?” her agent had replied, checking his email.
“Creston. I’m serious.”
He looked up.
“Cheating. How so?” he asked. “That’s to say: just on occasion, or all the time?”
“What difference does it make?”
“And you’ve never cheated on him?”
“No. Well, once. Just a kiss. My costar was a good kisser, and I needed someone to kiss me. But that was to make the scene more lifelike, so that doesn’t really qualify as cheating, now, does it?”
“They say it’s the thought that counts. Which film was that?” Creston asked, raising an eyebrow.
Mia looked out through the window, and her agent sighed.
“All right, let’s suppose he is cheating on you. What difference does it make, if you don’t love each other anymore?”
“He doesn’t love me anymore. I still love him.”
Back home, Mia resolved to pull herself together. It was unthinkable for David to come home and find her upset. She had to remain dignified, in control. She mustn’t let him think for one second that she had been moping around in his absence.
Then a friend called and begged Mia to go with her to the opening of a new restaurant, and so Mia decided to get all dolled up. Two could play at the jealousy game. And besides, it was almost certainly better to be out on the town, surrounded by strangers, than to stay at home brooding.
The restaurant was huge, the music too loud, the room packed. Impossible to have a conversation or move a muscle without bumping into someone. Who could possibly enjoy this kind of party? she thought as she prepared to dive into the sea of people.
Dozens of camera flashes exploded as soon as she walked in. So that was why her friend had asked her to come. The hope of appearing in the society pages of a magazine. Fifteen minutes of fame. For God’s sake, David, how can you let me hang around on my own in a place like this? I’ll make you pay for this! You’ll see, Mr. I-Need-to-Recharge-My-Batteries!
Her phone rang: Unknown Caller. It had to be him, at this time of night. But how would she be able to hear him in the middle of all this noise? If I could suddenly disappear, now would be the time, she thought.
She scanned the horizon. She was halfway between the entrance and the kitchen. The crowd was sweeping her inward, but she decided to push back against the tide. Answering the phone, she yelled, “Don’t hang up!” Lovely, just lovely. So much for acting cool and casual . . .
She elbowed her way out, past a creature perched on high heels with a besuited ape chatting her up, treading on the toes of the tall skeleton of a woman wriggling like an eel, skirting the pretty boy eyeing her like prey. Only ten steps to the door . . .
“David! Stay on the line!” Oh, tone it down, you silly fool! You sound pathetic.
She shot a pleading look at the bouncer, in the hopes that he would help her escape.
And then, finally, fresh air bathed her skin in the relative calm of the street. She walked away from the mob of people waiting to enter that hellhole.
“David?”
“Where are you?”
Really? You have the nerve to ask me that? “Just out at a little party . . .”
“Enjoying yourself, baby?”
Hypocrite! “Yes, everyone’s having a merry old time here . . .” Oh my God, woman, where do you come up with this crap?
“What about you?” You dickhead! “Where are you?” And where the hell have you been for the last two days?
“On my way home. Will you be back soon?”
“I’m in a taxi . . .” Find a cab! Quick, a cab!
“Oh, I thought you were at a party?”
“I was on my way out when you called.”
“All right, so you’ll probably make it home before I do. Don’t even bother waiting up, if you’re tired, ’cause I’m actually stuck in an enormous traffic jam. Can you believe that? At this time of night? In London? Just unbelievable!”
Ha! You’re the one who’s unbelievable! The nerve, telling me not to wait up, when you’ve already had me waiting for two whole days!
“I’ll leave a light on in the room.”
“Wonderful. See you in a bit. Love you . . .”
Shimmering pavement, couples sharing umbrellas . . .
. . . and me, stuck on my own like an idiot. Screw the film, I don’t care. Tomorrow, I’m doing it, I’m starting a new life, I swear! No, not tomorrow. Tonight!
2
Paris, two days later.
“Why is it always the last key you try that opens the door?” Mia fumed, picking through the keys.
“Because life is messed up by design, my dearest friend. Which is also why we’re stuck outside my apartment in the dark,” replied Daisy, using her phone to shine some light on the keyhole.
“I’m never going to fall in love with the idea of someone again. Next time, reality is all I’ll settle for. Give me the present and only the present.”
“And give me a less uncertain future while you’re at it,” sighed Daisy. “Until then, why don’t you just hand me my keys and take a turn shining the light, before my battery dies.”
The last key in the bunch was indeed the right one. Entering the apartment, Daisy flicked on the light switch. Nothing happened.
“Great. So no light in the entire building . . .”
“There’s no light in my entire life,” Mia said.
“That’s maybe overdoing it just a bit.”
“I needed to get away, Daisy, I don’t know how to live a lie. I can’t,” Mia continued, in a tone of voice that was just begging for compassion. But Daisy had known her too long to fall for that little trick.
“Enough of that crap. You’re a talented actress, which basically makes you a professional liar . . . I know I have candles somewhere, just have to find them before my iPhone battery—”
Right on cue, the screen of her phone flickered to black.
“Just smile through the tears, like all the other A-listers? Is that it? What if I just told them all to go fuck themselves?” Mia whispered.
“Mia. Has it crossed your mind to maybe . . . start helping me out a bit?”
“I would, but it’s pitch-black in here.”
“Hallelujah! She noticed.”
Daisy groped her way forward. Trying to negotiate the table, she bumped into a chair and let out a groan before finally reaching the worktop at the far end of the room. Still feeling her way around, she found the stove, picked up a box of matches from the shelf, and lit one of the gas rings.
A bluish halo illuminated the spot where she stood.
Mia plopped right down at the table.
Daisy rummaged through the drawers one by one. Scented candles were strictly prohibited in her apartment. Her passion for gastronomy was high maintenance, to say the least, and she was adamant that nothing should disturb the smell of a dish. Where some restaurant owners might put a sign on the door declaring “No Credit Cards Accepted,” she would have gladly posted: “Customers Wearing Too Much Perfume Will Be Promptly Escorted from the Premises.”
At last, she found the unscented candles and lit them. The bright flames chased the darkness from the room.
Daisy loved her kitchen, especially that it took up her whole apartment. It served as the living room, since it was bigger than the two small bedrooms and connecting bathroom put together. Her countertop held terra-cotta pots filled with thyme, bay leaves, rosemary, dill, oregano, bergamot, and Espelette peppers. This kitchen was Daisy’s laboratory, where she found exhilaration and release. It was here that she developed recipes for the clientele of her small restaurant perched on the slopes of Montmartre, just around the corner from her apartment.
Daisy hadn’t gone to any fancy culinary school; her profes
sion was inspired by her family and her native Provence. As a child, she would spend hours watching her mother, learning to mimic her techniques, while Daisy’s friends played in the shade of the pine and olive trees.
“Are you hungry?” she asked Mia.
“Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Daisy opened the refrigerator and took out a plate of chanterelle mushrooms and a bunch of flat-leaf parsley, then tore a bulb of garlic from the string that hung to her right.
“Do you have to add garlic?” Mia asked.
“Why, are you planning on kissing somebody tonight?” Daisy retorted as she chopped the parsley. “How about you tell me what’s going on while I get dinner ready.”
Mia took a deep breath.
“Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”
“Just as I’m closing up my bistro, you pop up out of nowhere with an overnight bag and a look on your face like the world just broke into a million pieces. And since then, you haven’t stopped bellyaching once. I take it you didn’t show up just because you missed me.”
“My world really is broken in a million pieces . . .”
Daisy abruptly stopped what she was doing.
“Enough’s enough, Mia! I want to hear everything, but tone down the whining and moaning. Save it for the camera.”
“You’d make quite the director, you know,” Mia said.
“Quit stalling and talk to me.”
And as Daisy sliced the mushrooms, Mia spilled the beans.
They both jumped when the electricity came back on. Daisy dimmed the lights, then opened the electric shutters, revealing the view over Paris from her apartment.
Mia walked toward the window.
“Do you have any cigarettes?”
“On the coffee table. I don’t even know where they came from.”
“You must be seeing a lot of men if you can’t even keep track of who leaves what!”
“If you want to smoke, go out on the terrace.”
“Are you coming?”
“I have to know what happened next. So I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“So you left the light on in your room,” Daisy confirmed as she poured more wine.
“Right, but turned off the light in the walk-in closet. I planted a stool there so he’d bang into it.”