P.S. From Paris (US Edition)

by Marc Levy

“I’m beat. Could you make some tea? That’s the only thing you English people know how to do in a kitchen.”

  Mia gave her the finger and slipped behind the kitchen island. She filled the kettle and waited for Daisy to keep her word and tell the story.

  “We met one night in early July, last year. The restaurant was almost empty, and I was about to turn off the ovens. And that’s when he walked in. I hesitated at first, but what could I do? I let my chef and server go home. I could manage one last customer on my own. As I handed him the menu, he took my hand and asked me to choose for him. And, like a dummy, I fell for it and found the whole thing charming.”

  “Why like a dummy?”

  “I sat across from him while he ate. I even nibbled at a few things from his plate. He had a great sense of humor, was very upbeat. He wanted to help me clean up. I thought it was a funny idea, so I let him. After we’d closed the restaurant, he invited me to come for a drink. I said yes. We sat outside at a café. By the time we finished talking, we seemed to have solved all of humanity’s problems and the world was a beautiful place. He was passionate about food, and he wasn’t bluffing—he knew what he was talking about. I have to admit, it was like a miracle. He walked me home, didn’t even ask to come up . . . just a good-night kiss and that was all. The perfect man had just fallen out of the sky. After that, we saw each other constantly. He’d come to see me at the end of a shift and help me close up. We spent every Sunday together . . . until the end of summer. And then, just like that, he announced it was over.”

  “But why?”

  “Because his wife and kids had come back from their summer holidays. Please don’t say anything—I’m not going to discuss it. I’m just going to take a bath and then I’m going to bed.” And Daisy closed her bedroom door. Mia was taken aback—not only by her friend’s story, but also by Daisy’s dignity. If only she could see things that clearly herself . . .

  Coming out of Chez L’Ami Louis, Lauren stopped to admire the old façades on Rue du Vertbois.

  “Paris is working its charms on you, huh?” Paul asked.

  “Sure. That, or the gargantuan feast we just ate,” she replied.

  They took a taxi home, where Paul said good night to his friends and shut himself up in his office to write.

  Lauren got into bed and began tapping away on her Mac. Arthur came out of the bathroom ten minutes later and climbed between the sheets.

  “You’re checking your email at this time of night?” he asked, surprised.

  She placed the laptop on his knees. When Arthur realized what she was up to, she laughed out loud at his dumbfounded look.

  He had to reread the first lines of what Lauren had written:

  Novelist, single, hedonist, often works nights, loves humor, life, and serendipity . . .

  “I think you drank too much wine tonight.”

  As he closed the screen, he accidentally clicked the “Confirm Registration” button.

  “He’d never forgive you, even for just messing around with something like this.”

  “Me? You’d better start thinking of your own apologies—and fast—’cause I think you just hit the wrong button, sweetheart . . .”

  Arthur hurriedly reopened the laptop, mortified at his blunder.

  “Relax! We’re the only ones who have access to his account, and even you admit his life needs a bit of a shake-up.”

  “I’m telling you—this is a hell of a risk,” Arthur replied.

  “And what about the risks he took for us? Remember that?” she said, turning off the light.

  Arthur lay in the dark with his eyes open for a long while. Hundreds of memories came flooding back to him—mad escapades and dirty tricks. Paul had even risked jail for him. Arthur owed his present happiness to his friend’s courage.

  Paris reminded him of sad times, years of great solitude. Now Paul was going through something similar, and Arthur knew how heavy it could be to bear that weight. But there had to be better ways of helping him than a dating site.

  “Go to sleep,” Lauren whispered to him. “We’ll see if anything interesting happens.”

  Arthur snuggled against his wife and shut his eyes.

  Mia tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep, the joyless events of the last few weeks going around and around in her head. Today had been by far the happiest day she could think of in a long time, even if she still missed David.

  She got dressed and crept out of the apartment.

  Outside, the dark streets were wet with drizzle. She walked up the hill until she reached Place du Tertre. The caricaturist was putting away his easel. He looked up as she sat down on a bench.

  “Tough night?” he asked, coming to sit next to her.

  “Insomnia,” she said.

  “I know the feeling. I can never fall asleep before two in the morning.”

  “What about your wife? Does she wait up for you every night?”

  “Whatever time of day, all I can do is hope she’s waiting,” he replied in his gravelly voice.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Did you give your friend the portrait?”

  “I haven’t had a chance yet. I’ll give it to her tomorrow.”

  “Can I ask you a favor? Don’t tell her it’s from me. I like eating lunch at her place, and I don’t know—somehow I’d feel embarrassed if she knew.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s a bit intrusive to draw someone’s portrait without asking.”

  “And yet you did it anyway.”

  “I enjoy watching her pass my easel . . . so I wanted to capture the woman who puts a smile on my face every morning without fail.”

  “Could I put my head on your shoulder? Without complicating things?”

  “Sure. My shoulder never complicates things.”

  Together, they gazed in silence at the thinly veiled moon that shone in the sky over Paris.

  At two a.m., the caricaturist cleared his throat.

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” said Mia.

  “Neither was I.”

  Mia stood up.

  “Perhaps it’s time to say good-bye,” she suggested.

  “Good night, then,” the caricaturist said as he got to his feet.

  They left Place du Tertre and went their separate ways.

  5

  Daisy liked to walk through the quiet streets just as the sun came bursting over the horizon. The concrete smelled of cool morning. She stopped at Place du Tertre, stared at an empty bench, and shook her head before continuing on her way.

  Mia woke up one hour later. She made herself a cup of tea and sat down opposite the bay window.

  She lifted the cup to her lips, then caught sight of her friend’s computer and crossed over to the desk.

  First sip. She checked her inbox, skimming through everything that reminded her of professional obligations.

  Second sip. Not finding what she’d hoped for, she closed the laptop.

  Third sip. She turned to look down at the street below and thought of her moonlit jaunt the night before.

  Fourth sip. She opened the laptop again and went straight to the dating website.

  Fifth sip. Mia carefully read the instructions for creating a profile.

  Sixth sip. She put down her cup and got to work.

  CREATING A PROFILE

  Are you looking for a relationship? Definitely, No Way, Let’s See What Happens.

  Let’s see.

  Your marital status: Never Married, Separated, Divorced, Widowed, Married.

  Separated.

  Do you have children?

  No.

  Your personality: Considerate, Adventurous, Calm, Easygoing, Funny, Demanding, Proud, Generous, Reserved, Sensitive, Outgoing, Spontaneous, Shy, Reliable, Other.

  All of the above.

  Please make a single selection.

  Easygoing.

  Your eye color.

  Right. I’d be perfect for you, if only my eyes were a different color.

  Does “blind
” count as a color?

  Your physique: Normal, Athletic, Skinny, A Few Pounds Overweight, Plus-Size, Stocky.

  It’s like the entry form for a cattle fair! Normal.

  Your height.

  In centimeters? No clue. Let’s say 175. Any more and I sound like a giraffe.

  Your nationality.

  British. Bad idea: we turned off the French with that whole Waterloo thing. American? Not much better, as far as the French are concerned. Danish? Makes me think of pastries. Mexican? I don’t speak Spanish. Irish? My mother would kill me if she found out. Icelandic? Nah, they’ll expect me to recite Björk all day long. Latvian? Sounds good, but I’d never have time to learn the language. Then again, it would be fun to invent an accent and speak a made-up language, given that the likelihood of meeting a real Latvian in Paris is pretty slim. Thai? Let’s not go there. New Zealander? I have always been good with accents!

  Your ethnic origin.

  Didn’t we learn anything from World War II? What is it with questions like this?

  Your vision and values: Religion.

  Right, because religion is the only way to define your vision and values? Agnostic—that’ll show them!

  Your views on marriage.

  Blurred.

  Do you want children?

  I would rather meet a man who wanted to have children with me than a man who just wanted to have children.

  Your level of education.

  Oh, crap! A lie for a lie, let’s say PhD . . . No, I’ll just end up with a bunch of boring nerds. Okay, a First seems like the ticket . . .

  Your profession.

  Actress, but that would be playing with fire. Insurance agent? No. Travel agent? Not that either. Nurse? Even worse. Soldier? Definitely not. Physical therapist? Nah, they’ll just want massages all the time. Musician? But I can’t sing. Restaurant owner? Hmm, like Daisy . . . Good idea.

  Describe your job.

  I cook . . .

  A bit over the top considering I can’t even make an omelet, but to hell with it!

  Your sports: Swimming, Hiking, Jogging, Pool and Darts . . .

  Hm. Is darts really a sport?

  . . . Yoga, Martial Arts, Golf, Sailing, Bowling, Football, Boxing . . .

  I wonder how many women put “boxing.”

  Do you smoke?

  Occasionally.

  Best to be honest or else I could end up with an antismoking fanatic.

  Your pets.

  My soon-to-be ex-husband.

  Your interests: Music, Sports, Cooking, Shopping . . .

  Shopping? Great choice, that just oozes intelligence! It would go perfectly with “boxing,” up there. Dancing? Nah, they’d expect me to squeeze myself into a tutu—let’s not risk disappointment. Writing? Sure, writing is good. Reading too. Cinema? No. No. No! Absolutely not. The last thing I need is a film buff. Museums and exhibitions? Depends. Animals? Negative, I don’t want to spend my weekends visiting zoos. Video games, fishing and hunting? Yuck. Creative leisure pursuits? Am I supposed to know what that means?

  Going out: Cinema.

  Yes. But we’ll have to just say no.

  Eating out.

  Yes.

  Evenings with friends.

  I’m all set with that for now.

  Family.

  Kept to an absolute minimum, thank you very much.

  Bars/Pubs.

  That’s a yes.

  Nightclubs.

  That’s a no.

  Sporting events.

  Double no.

  Your taste in music and films.

  I feel like I’m getting the third degree here! Enough with the interrogation.

  WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR IN A MAN

  Height and physique: Normal, Athletic, Skinny, A Few Pounds Overweight.

  I couldn’t care less!

  His marital status: Never Married, Widowed, Single.

  All three.

  He has children.

  That’s his business.

  He wants children.

  We have time.

  His personality.

  Finally! I thought you’d never ask . . .

  Considerate, Adventurous, Calm, Easygoing, Funny, Generous, Reserved, Sensitive, Outgoing, Spontaneous, Reliable.

  All of the above!

  DESCRIBE YOURSELF

  Mia’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, unable to type a single word. She went back to the homepage, entered Daisy’s email for the username and chives once again for the password, and read her profile.

  Young woman, loves life and laughter, but with challenging working hours. Restaurant chef, passionate about her job . . .

  She copied-and-pasted her friend’s profile, then clicked the button to confirm her registration.

  Daisy opened the door to the apartment. Mia slammed the laptop shut and jumped to her feet.

  “What exactly are you up to?”

  “Nothing. Just checking my email. Where were you? It’s early, isn’t it?”

  “It’s nine o’clock and I’m back from the market. Get dressed—I need a hand at the restaurant.”

  Mia understood from her tone of voice that the matter was not up for debate.

  After they finished unloading the crates from the van, Daisy got her friend to help her take inventory. She listed her purchases in a notebook while Mia, following orders, distributed the food.

  “You don’t think you’re exploiting me here just a teensy bit?” she said, rubbing her lower back.

  “Oh, you poor thing. I do this myself every day, so it’s nice to have a bit of help for once. Did you go out again last night?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Come wait tables here with me again tonight—that’ll tackle your insomnia, believe me.”

  Mia went into the cold room, carrying a box of eggplants. Daisy called her back.

  “Wait! We keep vegetables at room temperature, otherwise they lose their flavor.”

  “I’ve just about had enough of this!” Mia said, turning around.

  “But the fish does go in the refrigerator.”

  “Ugh.” Mia turned around again. “I wonder if Cate Blanchett ever has to pack fish into restaurant fridges,” she shouted from the walk-in.

  “Let’s talk about it after you’ve won an Oscar.”

  Mia emerged with a slab of butter, grabbed a baguette from the bread basket, and sat down at the bar. Daisy brought the rest of the food through and finished putting it away.

  “I accidentally stumbled upon something funny while I was checking my email,” said Mia, her mouth full.

  “And what was that?”

  “A dating site.”

  “Accidentally, you said?”

  “Cross my heart, hope to die!” said Mia.

  “I told you not to go through my stuff.”

  “Tell me this. Have you actually met men that way?”

  “What are you, my mother? Don’t look so shocked. It’s not like it’s a porn site, you know.”

  “I know, but still . . .”

  “Still what? On the bus or the métro, or even walking down the street, people spend more time staring at their phones than looking at what’s going on around them. The only way you can get anyone’s attention these days is online.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” said Mia. “Does it actually work?”

  “I’m not an actress, I don’t have an agent, I don’t have any fans, I don’t do red-carpet events, and there aren’t any pictures of me on magazine covers. Given that I spend most of my life inside a kitchen, I don’t fit the profile of a desirable woman. So yes, I joined a dating site, and yes, I have met men that way.”

  “Any nice ones?”

  “Nice ones are rare, but you can’t blame the Internet for that.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “The first date, for example. How does it work?”

  “Same as if you’d met in a café, except that you know a bit more about hi
m.”

  “Well, you know what he chooses to tell you, anyway.”

  “Once you learn to read between the lines of a profile, you can usually tell the difference.”

  “And how do you learn to read between the lines?”

  “And why do you care?”

  Mia thought about this.

  “For a role,” she said evasively.

  “For a role,” Daisy muttered. “Of course.”

  She sighed and sat down next to Mia.

  “The username often tells you quite a bit about a guy’s personality. ‘Mum, I’d like you to meet Teddybear21, who is much kinder and gentler than Maximus_the_Menace, your own personal favorite.’ How about Misterbig—subtle, eh? ElBello? Maybe just a bit vain . . . Or how about this: I once received a message from a guy who went by the name of Gazpacho2000. Can you imagine getting hot and heavy with a Gazpacho?”

  Mia burst out laughing.

  “Then there’s what they write about themselves. You wouldn’t believe some of the things they say, not to mention the spelling errors. Honestly, it’s pathetic at times.”

  “Wow. That bad?”

  “My chef won’t be here for another hour. Why don’t we head home and you can see for yourself?”

  Back at the apartment, Daisy logged on to the dating site and gave Mia a demonstration.

  “Here. Have a look at this.”

  Hi, are you beautiful and fun? If the answer’s yes, I’m the man for you. Not only am I loads of fun, but I’m also charming and passionate . . .

  “Sorry, no match, Hervé51, since I’m ugly and boring . . . Seriously, though, where do they come up with this crap? And look,” she went on, “here it shows the guys who have visited your profile.”

  A new window opened, and Daisy scrolled through the roster of potential suitors.

  “This one describes himself as calm, and I believe him—it looks like he smoked a bong before taking the picture! And it was taken in an Internet café, of all places . . . how reassuring. And look at this one: I’m looking for someone to pose for me . . . Please, say no more.”

  She moved on down the list.

  “That one looks okay,” said Mia. “Never married, adventurous, executive, likes music, going to restaurants.”

  “Not so fast, check this bit out,” said Daisy, pointing out another line: “I’ll bet you a bag of Kinders that you read my profile all the way to the bottom. You can take your chocolates and shove them, Dandy26.”