P.S. From Paris (US Edition)

by Marc Levy

  “You . . . do seem kind of alone here, Paul.”

  “Alone doesn’t have to mean lonely. Weren’t you the one who said that once?” he mumbled, before asserting, “Now enough about me! Show me some pictures of Joe. He must have gotten so big by now . . .”

  A beautiful woman sat down at the table next to theirs. Paul didn’t even give her a second glance, which clearly worried Arthur, judging by his expression.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Paul protested. “I’ve had more ‘action’ here than you could imagine. Plus, there’s Kyong. It’s different with her. I feel like I can be myself—no façades, no pretending. I don’t feel forced to be charming. She got to know me through my books, which is ironic, because I don’t really think she likes them much.”

  “Well, no one’s forcing her to translate them.”

  “Maybe it’s an act to get under my skin, or help me improve as a writer. I don’t know.”

  “But between visits, you’re on your own?”

  “At the risk of sounding like I spend my whole life paraphrasing you, didn’t you also say it was ‘possible to love someone, even when you’re alone’?”

  “My situation was kind of unique, though, don’t you think?”

  “So is mine.”

  “Listen, you’re a writer, why don’t you write a list of the things that make you happy?”

  “I am happy, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Right. You seem to be positively bursting with joy.”

  “Shit, Arthur, don’t start picking me apart. You don’t know a thing about my life.”

  “We’ve known each other since high school. I don’t need a study guide to figure out what’s going on with you. You remember what my mother used to say?”

  “She said a lot of things. Actually, speaking of which, I’d like to use the house in Carmel as the setting for my next novel. It’s been ages since I was there.”

  “Well, whose fault is that?”

  “Want to know what I really do miss?” Paul grinned. “Those walks we used to take. Out to Ghirardelli, or Fort Point, all those nights just hanging out, or fighting in the office, all the elaborate plans for the future without ever getting anywhere . . . just you and me.”

  “I bumped into Onega the other day.”

  “Did she ask about me?”

  “She did. I told her you were living in Paris.”

  “Is she still married?”

  “She wasn’t wearing a ring.”

  “She never should have dumped me. You know, believe it or not,” Paul added with a smile, “she was always jealous . . . of you and me.”

  Mia watched the caricaturists at work on Place du Tertre. There was one she particularly liked the look of, a handsome guy dressed in cotton slacks, a white shirt, and a tweed jacket. She sat on the folding chair in front of him and asked him to be as faithful as possible.

  “‘The only love that’s faithful is amour propre,’ according to Guitry,” said the caricaturist in a husky voice.

  “Guitry was right.”

  “Had some bad luck, eh?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you’re alone and you’ve just had your hair done. You know what they say: ‘New look, new life.’”

  Mia stared at him, taken aback.

  “Do you always speak in quotations?”

  “I’ve been drawing portraits for twenty-five years. I’ve learned to read quite a few things in people’s faces. Yours is very pretty, but it looks like it could do with some cheering up. My pencil can take care of that if you keep still.”

  Mia sat up straight.

  “Are you on holiday in Paris?” the caricaturist asked, sharpening his charcoal.

  “Yes and no. I’m spending a few days with a friend. She has a restaurant near here.”

  “I bet I know it. Montmartre is like a little village, you know.”

  “La Clamada.”

  “Ah, the lovely lady from Provence! She’s a brave one, your friend. Her food is creative but reasonably priced. And unlike some, she hasn’t sold out to the tourists. I eat lunch at her place now and then—it has real character.”

  Mia looked at the caricaturist’s hands and noticed his wedding ring. David, never far from her thoughts, returned to haunt her.

  “Have you ever been attracted to a woman? I mean, other than your wife.”

  “Maybe, but only briefly. Only for the time it takes to look at someone else—and to remember how much I loved her.”

  “You’re not together with your wife anymore?”

  “Oh, we’re still together.”

  “So why the past tense?”

  “Stop talking now. I’m drawing your mouth.”

  Mia let the artist concentrate. When the man was done, he invited her to come and view the final product on his easel. Mia smiled as she saw a face she didn’t recognize.

  “Do I really look like that?”

  “Today, yes,” said the caricaturist. “I hope you will soon be smiling like you are in the picture.”

  He took his phone from his pocket, snapped a picture of Mia, and compared it to the drawing.

  “It’s very good,” Mia said. “Could you draw a portrait from just a photo?”

  “I might be able to, as long as it’s a clear one.”

  “I’ll bring you one of Daisy. I’m sure she would love to see herself as a work of art, and I think you have the talent to do her justice.”

  The caricaturist bent over to rummage around in one of the portfolios propped up against his easel. He took out a stiff sheet of paper and handed it to Mia.

  “Your friend is positively ravishing,” he said. “She walks past here every morning. Go ahead, take it. It’s a gift.”

  On the finely textured paper was a gorgeous drawing of Daisy—not a caricature, but a real portrait, capturing her expression with skill and sensitivity.

  “In that case, let me leave you mine in exchange,” she said, before waving good-bye to the caricaturist.

  Paul had given them a whistle-stop tour of Paris, much to Lauren’s delight. With the kind of nerve that he alone was capable of, he had cut the line that stretched out at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, saving at least an hour. At the top, a spell of vertigo kept Paul a safe distance away from the edge, gripping the guardrails with shaking hands, while Lauren and Arthur admired the view. After taking the elevator back down again with his eyes clenched shut, he’d regained his dignity and led his friends to the Tuileries Garden.

  Seeing children riding on the merry-go-round, Lauren was seized by the need to hear her son’s voice, so she called Nathalia, Joe’s godmother. She invited Arthur to join her on the bench where she was sitting. Paul took the opportunity to go and buy candy from one of the fairground stalls. Lauren watched him in the distance as Arthur chatted with Joe.

  Without taking her eyes off Paul, Lauren took the phone from her husband, heaped words of love upon her little boy, promised to bring him a gift from Paris, and was almost disappointed to realize that he didn’t seem to miss her all that much. He was having a great time with his godmother.

  She blew kisses into the phone and kept it pressed to her ear as Paul came back toward them, struggling manfully to carry three sticks of cotton candy in one hand.

  “How do you think he’s doing, for real?” she whispered to Arthur.

  “Was that to me or to Joe?” Arthur asked.

  “Joe hung up already.”

  “Then why are you pretending to still be on the phone?”

  “So Paul keeps his distance.”

  “Well . . . I think he’s happy,” Arthur replied.

  “I think you’re a pretty terrible liar.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “No. Just an observation. Have you noticed that Paul mutters incessantly?”

  “He’s very lonely. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”

  “Isn’t he seeing anybody?”

  “Paul claims to have his own long-distance romance.
She lives in Korea. He’s even thinking of giving it a shot with her over there. Apparently, his books have a huge following in her neck of the woods.”

  “In Korea?”

  “Yup. To be honest, the whole thing sounds a bit far-fetched.”

  “Why? What if he really is in love with her?”

  “I get the impression she might not love him as much as he loves her. And the guy is terrified of flying! If he manages to get there, he may never come back. Can you imagine him living alone in Korea? Paris is far enough from San Francisco as it is.”

  “You can’t stop him. I mean, if that’s what he wants . . .”

  “I can try to talk him out of it, though.”

  “We are talking about the same Paul here, aren’t we?”

  Paul, who was tired of waiting by now, walked resolutely toward them.

  “Can I talk to my godson, by any chance?”

  “Ah, you just missed him,” replied Lauren, blushing slightly.

  She put her phone away and gave Paul a big smile.

  “What have you two been conspiring about?”

  “Nothing,” replied Arthur.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be hanging around all the time during your stay. As much as I want to enjoy your company, I promise to leave the two of you in peace very soon.”

  “But we want to enjoy your company too. Why else do you think we came to Paris?”

  Paul looked thoughtful. What Lauren had said made sense.

  “I still think you were plotting something. So what were you talking about?”

  “A place I’d like to take both of you tonight,” Arthur said. “A restaurant I used to go to all the time when I lived in Paris. But you have to let us go back and get some rest first. I think we’ve had enough playing tourist for one day.”

  Paul accepted the invitation, and the three friends walked along Rue de Castiglione until they reached Rue de Rivoli.

  “There’s a cabstand not far from here,” said Paul, stepping out onto the crosswalk.

  The lights turned green, and Arthur and Lauren didn’t have time to follow him. They stood separated by the flow of traffic. A bus went by and Lauren noticed the advertisement on its side:

  You might meet the woman of your dreams on this bus . . . unless she takes the métro . . . proclaimed an Internet dating site.

  Lauren elbowed Arthur and the two of them stared at the passing bus.

  “You can’t be serious,” whispered Arthur, turning to her.

  “I don’t think you need to whisper, he’s all the way over there.”

  “There’s no way he would ever go along with that kind of thing!”

  “Who says he has to know?” she replied with a wry smile. “Sometimes fate needs a little nudge . . . Doesn’t that sound a bit familiar?”

  And she crossed the road without waiting for Arthur.

  Mia put on the pair of tortoiseshell glasses she’d bought from an antique dealer that afternoon. The thick lenses blurred her vision. She pushed open the door of the restaurant.

  Even with her poorer eyesight, she could tell the place was packed. Through a slot window in the back wall, Mia could just make out Daisy hard at work in the kitchen, as could all of the patrons from their individual tables. Her sous-chef moved from one spot to the next like he didn’t know which way to turn. Daisy cleared some plates and disappeared. A door opened and she reappeared, walking briskly toward a table of four. She served them and went off again just as quickly, brushing past Mia without paying her any attention. Just before she went into the kitchen, she took three steps backward.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “we’re fully booked tonight.”

  Mia, whose glasses were making her cross-eyed, did not give up.

  “Can’t you fit me somewhere? I can wait,” she said, disguising her voice.

  Daisy scanned the room, looking put out.

  “The people over there have already asked for the bill, but they won’t stop chatting away . . . Are you alone? I could give you a spot at the bar,” she suggested.

  Mia agreed and went to sit down on a stool.

  In a few minutes, Daisy returned. She popped behind the bar, set a place for Mia, and then turned around to grab a wineglass from the rack. She produced a menu and announced that there were no more scallops. The restaurant used only ingredients bought that day, and they had sold out.

  “What a shame. I came all the way from London to taste your scallops.”

  Daisy peered at her doubtfully, then jumped.

  “Oh my God!” she shouted. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t carrying dishes—I would have dropped everything. You are absolutely insane!”

  “You didn’t recognize me?”

  “I didn’t really get a good look at you. But what the hell came over you?”

  “What, you don’t like it?”

  “I don’t have time to come to a verdict—my waitress left me in the lurch, tonight of all nights. Look, if you’re hungry, I’ll fix you something, but if not . . .”

  “What if I help out? You look like you could use all the help you can get.”

  “Melissa Barlow, waitress? Somehow, I just don’t see it.”

  “Keep your voice down! Melissa as waitress, maybe not. But how about Mia?”

  Daisy looked her up and down.

  “You think you’re capable of holding a plate without spilling it?”

  “I had to play a waitress once, and I’ll have you know I trained for the role.”

  Daisy hesitated. She heard her assistant ringing the bell. The customers were getting restless. They were going to need reinforcements.

  “Fine. Take off those ridiculous glasses and follow me.”

  Daisy led Mia into the kitchen, handed her an apron, and pointed to six plates waiting under heat lamps.

  “Take those to table eight.”

  “Table eight?”

  “To the right of the entrance. Table with the loud guy. Be nice to him, though—he’s a regular.”

  “A regular,” Mia repeated, picking up the plates. “Got it.”

  “Keep it to four at a time till you get the hang of it, please.”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” Mia replied, balancing the plates on her arms.

  Her mission accomplished, she came back straightaway, ready for the next round.

  Freed of waitressing duties, Daisy took control of her kitchen again. As soon as each meal was ready, the bell rang and Mia rushed over. When she wasn’t serving, she was clearing tables, picking up bills, and coming back for more instructions. Daisy watched her, amused.

  Around eleven p.m., the restaurant started to empty.

  “One euro and fifty cents. That’s the whopping tip your ‘regular’ left me.”

  “I didn’t say he was generous.” Daisy smiled.

  “Then he just sat there . . . like he was waiting for a ‘thank you’!”

  “You did thank him, didn’t you?”

  “You’ve got to be joking!”

  “Maybe it’s your brand-new look. What in the world possessed you to do something so strange?”

  “Are you saying you don’t like it? It’s quite handy for remaining incognito.”

  “It just doesn’t look like . . . you. Give me some time to get used to it.”

  “It must have been a long time since you watched any of my films. Believe me, I’ve looked worse.”

  “Don’t hold it against me. I’m too busy with the restaurant to go to the movies. Do you mind serving these desserts? I want to close ASAP so we can get home and crash.”

  Mia played her role to perfection until the end of the evening. Daisy was impressed: she would never have believed her friend capable of such a feat.

  At midnight, the last customers left the restaurant. Daisy and her chef cleaned up the kitchen while Mia tidied the dining room.

  When Daisy had finally locked up, they walked back to her apartment through the sloping streets of Montmartre.

  “Is it really like that every night?�
�� Mia asked.

  “Six days a week. It’s exhausting, but I wouldn’t change a thing. The restaurant is like home to me, even if it’s hard to make ends meet.”

  “Really? It was packed in there!”

  “We had a good night tonight.”

  “What do you do on Sundays?”

  “Sleep.”

  “And what about your love life?” Mia wondered again about the cigarettes left behind.

  “Let’s see, love life . . . I must’ve misplaced that somewhere between the kitchen and the meat locker.”

  “You mean you haven’t met anybody since you opened the restaurant?”

  “I’ve been out with a few men, but none that have been able to deal with my hours. You share your life with a man who has the same job as you. How many other men would put up with you being away shooting films, things like that?”

  “Share my life? Can’t say we share all that much these days.”

  Their footsteps echoed in the empty streets.

  “You think we’ll end up alone?” said Daisy.

  “Maybe you. Not me.”

  “Thanks a lot! Then what’s with all the moping? What’s stopping you from enjoying yourself a little?”

  “I’m still married, at least for now. What’s stopping you? These men you’ve been out with, did you meet them at your restaurant?”

  “Definitely not. I never mix work and play,” Daisy replied. “Except once. The guy used to come to the restaurant a lot—maybe too much. In the end, I realized that he wasn’t just there for the food.”

  “What was he like?” Mia asked, intrigued.

  “He was . . . not bad. Not bad at all, in fact.”

  They reached the door of Daisy’s building. Daisy punched in the code and flicked on the light before climbing the stairs.

  “How ‘not bad’?”

  “Charming.”

  “Go on . . .”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything! How he won you over, what it was like the first time, how long the romance lasted, how it ended . . . Everything.”

  “If you really want me to tell you all that, let’s wait till we’re inside.”

  Entering the apartment, Daisy collapsed onto the sofa.