P.S. From Paris (US Edition)

by Marc Levy

  Mia took out her phone to read the message, and smiled as she typed her reply.

  I’m fine. How about you?

  Do you have a minute?

  I’m in the kitchen.

  It won’t take long.

  Fine. But if I call you, it doesn’t count!

  Because you asked me to.

  Don’t call. I’m on a bench at Place du Tertre.

  No raincoat this time.

  Are you OK?

  Yeah. Can you come?

  Give me five minutes.

  Daisy, ladle in hand, was watching Mia.

  “I’ll be right back,” Mia said suddenly. “I need to run out to the store. Do you need anything?”

  “Apart from a waitress, you mean?”

  “The tables are all set and there are no customers,” Mia replied, taking off her apron. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  She looked at herself in the mirror above the bar, patted her hair into place, and grabbed her purse and sunglasses.

  “Pick up some Krisprolls,” said Daisy.

  Mia winced. “Um, I wasn’t going to go to the supermarket. Sorry!”

  She walked quickly, passing the caricaturist without saying hello, and finally located the bench where Paul sat waiting.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, sitting down next to him.

  “I came to bring you the first chapters of my novel, but, like an idiot, I left them at home. It seemed a waste to leave without at least seeing you, though.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “You look tired. Do you have a lot on your plate? No pun intended.”

  “I didn’t sleep much last night. I had a nightmare.”

  “A nightmare is merely a dream that has outstayed its welcome . . .”

  Mia stared at him in silence.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” Paul asked.

  Because I want to kiss you right now, the way you just said that . . .

  “No reason.”

  “‘An angel passed.’ That’s what the French say about a comfortable silence.”

  “Since you forgot to bring me the chapters to read, maybe you could at least tell me what’s going on with your opera singer.”

  “She’s fine.” Paul rubbed his chin. “Well, actually she’s not. She has a problem.”

  “A serious problem?”

  “She wants to become friends with the critic. And he has proven to be very attentive toward her.”

  “So what’s stopping her?”

  “Maybe the fact that she hasn’t told him the truth about herself yet. Maybe she doesn’t want to admit that she’s just an usher.”

  “Why would that matter?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m wondering.”

  “That kind of prejudiced attitude is outdated.”

  “One would think . . . But not for everybody . . .”

  “Well, if anyone still thinks like that, they shouldn’t. It’s unfair.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  “You’ll have to give her a different problem.”

  “Meanwhile, the critic no longer has any doubt as to her real identity.”

  “But she doesn’t know that.”

  “True, but how can she ever really be sincere with him, when everything she says is a lie?”

  Mia looked into Paul’s eyes and slid her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose.

  “Where were you coming from when you called me?”

  “Saint-Germain. Why?”

  “So you took my advice and gave a copy of your book to that waitress.”

  “Funny you should mention that. I did, yeah.”

  Mia felt her heart start to race. “And . . . what did she say?”

  “I barely even got a thank-you. She must still be bitter about it.”

  “And that was it?”

  “Yeah, she had lots of customers. She went back to work and I went on my way.”

  Relieved, Mia pushed her glasses back up.

  “I can’t stay long,” she said. “Is there anything special you wanted to talk about? You look a little run-down.”

  “I went to Saint-Germain to meet with my editor. They’ve changed my departure for Korea to an earlier date.”

  “That’s great news! You’ll see your girlfriend even sooner.”

  “The bad news is the reason for the earlier timing. I have to appear on live television.”

  “But that’s wonderful!”

  “Wonderful for someone else, maybe. But I feel like I’ve been having a heart attack ever since he told me. What the hell am I going to say? Live TV is terrifying!”

  “When you’re in front of a camera, it’s not the words that count but the way they sound. It hardly matters what you say, as long as you say it with a smile. And if you’re nervous, viewers might just find that charming.”

  “What do you know about being in front of a camera? Like you’ve ever been on TV!”

  “Right, of course I haven’t,” Mia replied with a little cough. “And if it ever happened to me, I’m sure I’d be just as scared as you. But I was speaking as a viewer.”

  “Here,” Paul said, taking the ribbon-tied envelope from his pocket. “This is for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Open it up, you’ll see. Careful, though—it’s fragile.”

  Mia drew out the little note from the envelope and read it.

  “‘Three pounds of carrots, one pound of flour, a packet of sugar, a dozen eggs, a pint of milk . . .’” Mia read out loud. “It’s very lovely . . . I guess . . . Does this mean I’m supposed to get your groceries for you?”

  “Check out the signature at the bottom,” Paul said with a sigh.

  “Jane Austen!” Mia exclaimed.

  “Jane herself. I know it’s not her most elegant prose, but you wanted something personal. Even illustrious writers have to eat, you know.”

  Without thinking, Mia kissed Paul on the cheek.

  “This is so sweet of you. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  Mia held the little note in her hands, caressing the ink with her fingertips.

  “Who knows,” Paul said, “maybe this note will inspire you to come up with a new recipe. I thought you might want to frame it and hang it in your kitchen. That way, Jane Austen would be with you while you cook.”

  “No one has ever given me anything like this before.”

  “Come on. It’s only a little shopping list.”

  “Written and signed by one of the greatest English writers of all time, thank you very much.”

  “So you really like it?”

  “Like doesn’t cover it. I’ll never let it go!”

  “I’m glad. You’d better go—I wouldn’t want the plat du jour to be overcooked because of me.”

  “Thank you for a wonderful surprise.”

  “But we’re in agreement this visit of ours was totally impromptu? So it doesn’t count.”

  “Exactly, it doesn’t count.”

  Mia stood up and kissed Paul’s cheek again before leaving.

  The caricaturist had watched the whole scene unfold.

  He and Paul both watched her walk down the street.

  When she arrived outside La Clamada, her phone buzzed again.

  Is your restaurant closed on Sundays?

  Yes.

  You know what I’d love?

  What?

  To taste your cooking.

  Mia bit her lip.

  Why don’t we eat at your place?

  No strings attached, of course.

  Mia looked at Daisy through the window.

  My roommate will be there.

  Even better. The three of us!

  She opened the door of the restaurant.

  All right, see you Sunday. You know

  the address. We’re on the top floor.

  See you Sunday!

  Thank you. Signed, Mia Austen ☺

 
; “Did you find what you were looking for?” Daisy asked, coming out of the kitchen.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Yes! Finally.”

  Daisy categorically refused to take part in Mia’s little scheme.

  “Don’t you dare leave me in the lurch. I can’t possibly have him over here, just the two of us!”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because it might push us straight into one of those gray areas—into the danger zone!”

  “You ask me, you’re already in the danger zone.”

  “No, we’re not. He hasn’t said or done anything ambiguous.”

  “I wasn’t talking about him. I meant you.”

  “This is the beginning of a friendship, and that’s all. I’m not over David yet.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that. I can see the look on your face whenever your phone starts vibrating. Still, you have to realize you’re playing a dangerous game.”

  “I’m not playing any games at all, I’m living my life. He’s funny, and he’s not trying to get me into bed. He has a long-distance girlfriend. We’re just fighting off the loneliness.”

  “Well, tomorrow, you continue your fight without me.”

  “I don’t even know how to make a proper omelet!”

  “Just break some eggs and beat them with a bit of cream.”

  “There’s no need to be mean. I’m asking you for a favor, that’s all.”

  “I’m not being mean. I just refuse to take part in this charade.”

  “Why do you always assume the worst?”

  “I can’t believe what you’re saying! You are planning on telling your friend the truth at some point, aren’t you? Have you immersed yourself so deeply in your role as a waitress that you’ve forgotten who you really are? What will you do when your film comes out—when you have to promote it with your husband?”

  “Paul’s leaving for Korea soon. Probably for good. When the time comes, I’ll write to him and confess the truth. By then, he’ll be back with his translator and he’ll be happy.”

  “Life isn’t a movie script, Mia.”

  “Fine, then I guess I’ll have to cancel.”

  “You’re not going to cancel anything—that would be rude. No, I imagine you’ll play your role to the end, no matter the consequences.”

  “Why are you torturing me?”

  “Because!” Daisy yelled before going out to meet some customers who had just entered the restaurant.

  13

  Mia had just thrown her third omelet in the trash. The first had burned, the second was too bland, and the third resembled a sorry attempt at scrambled eggs. How did the French do it?

  At least the table looked good. It was set for three—Mia preferred pretending Daisy had stood them up at the last minute rather than having to explain her absence—with a bouquet of flowers in the center, along with a basket of pastries. So at least there would be something edible. Her phone buzzed. She washed the egg yolk from her hands and forearms, opened the refrigerator for the tenth time, and prayed that it was Paul telling her he couldn’t make it.

  I’m downstairs.

  Come on up!

  She cast a last look around the room and ran over to crack open a window. The Bakelite handle of a saucepan she was using to warm some premade apple compote had burned slightly and was giving off an acrid stench.

  The doorbell rang.

  Paul came in, holding a small parcel.

  “You shouldn’t have. What is it?” Mia asked.

  “A scented candle.”

  “Lovely. I’ll get a lighter,” she said, thinking venomously of Daisy.

  “Sounds good. Wish I’d brought six more—smells like she’s cooking tires in here!”

  “Did you say something?”

  “No, I was just thinking how nice your place is. And what a wonderful view.” She seems nervous. I shouldn’t have invited myself. I should ask if she wants to head to a restaurant instead. Maybe we could sit outside, with the weather so nice and all. What am I saying? She’s probably been slaving away cooking all morning—that would make it even worse.

  “Let’s start with some croissants.” Yes, excellent idea—I’ll stuff him full of croissants and pains au chocolat until he explodes, and then I’ll go round with the Hoover.

  “You know what, I’m sorry. It’s your only day off all week, and I force you to cook and wait on me hand and foot. It was a selfish move, and I feel terrible about imposing. What would you say to a relaxed meal outside on a sunny terrace?”

  “If that’s what you’d prefer . . .” Turns out there is a God! I’m sorry, Lord, for all the times I’ve doubted you. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll go to church and light a candle.

  “I know you’ve probably already gone to a lot of trouble, though, and I don’t want to offend you. In fact, the only reason I suggested going out to eat was to avoid being impolite.”

  Ten candles! Twenty, if that’s what it takes!

  “It’s your call, whatever you prefer,” Paul continued.

  “The weather certainly is lovely today. I should have put the table on the balcony . . .” What is wrong with you? Why would you say something like that?

  “You want me to set up the table outside?”

  “Just, um, which café did you have in mind?” Mia asked feverishly.

  “Any. I’m starving.”

  Grab your purse before he changes his mind. Tell him it’s a brilliant idea and run down the stairs now!

  Just then, the apartment door opened. Mia and Paul turned to see Daisy enter, carrying two large shopping bags.

  “You could have at least helped me carry them,” she said, placing the bags on the island.

  She took out three large plates covered in tinfoil.

  “I’m Daisy, Mia’s business partner. You must be the Swedish writer?”

  “Sort of. I’m actually American.”

  “Of course. That’s what I meant.”

  “What’s all that?” Paul asked, eyeing the food on the island.

  “Brunch! Mia is a wonderful cook, but I’m the one who always gets stuck doing the serving. Even on Sundays. Disgraceful.”

  “Oh, give me a break!” Mia protested. “It hadn’t finished cooking. And someone had to come up here and set the table.”

  Daisy stepped on Mia’s foot as she walked past.

  “Let’s see what you prepared for us, shall we?” Daisy said, removing the foil. “Caramelized onion tart, chard pie, and baked stuffed vegetables. If anyone’s still hungry after all this, you should think of a new line of work!”

  “Smells amazing,” Paul said to Mia.

  Daisy started sniffing the air—once, twice. After the third sniff, she advanced toward the table, spotted the scented candle, made a face, blew it out, and threw it straight in the trash, smiling as she noticed what else was in there.

  “Um . . . all right, then,” Paul stammered, somewhat taken aback.

  Mia gave him a knowing look, suggesting that her business partner was sometimes a little odd. Daisy must have noted the exchange because she ordered them to eat immediately.

  Paul wanted to know how the two had met and become friends. Mia started talking about Daisy’s first trip to England. Daisy interrupted to tell him about Mia’s first trip to Provence, and how she’d been terrified of cicadas. She recounted their nocturnal escapades and all the tricks they’d played on each other. Paul was only half listening, thinking constantly about his own adolescence with Arthur, the boarding school where they’d met, the house in Carmel . . .

  As they sipped at coffee after the meal, it became Paul’s turn to answer all of Daisy’s questions. Why he had moved to Paris, what had made him want to write, which writers he admired most, what his working habits were. Paul played along, replying with good grace. Mia stayed nearly silent, simply watching the other two.

  She stood up to clear the table and went behind the island. A little later, Paul tried to get her attention, but she stared fixedly at the sudsy d
ishes.

  Shortly after midday, he thanked them both for a lovely time and said good-bye, congratulating Mia on her amazing cooking—by far the best meal he’d had in ages. On his way out, he promised Daisy that he would devote one of his chapters to Provence. It was Daisy who saw him to the door. Mia just waved and carried on tidying up. He rolled his eyes and left.

  Daisy closed the door and waited for a moment.

  “He’s much better looking in real life than in the photo on his book,” she said with a yawn. “I’m going to take a nap. I’m exhausted. It was fun, though, wasn’t it? He certainly did seem to enjoy my cooking . . . I mean, your cooking.”

  With these words, Daisy went into her bedroom, Mia into hers, and the two friends did not speak another word to each other all day.

  Lying on her bed, Mia picked up her phone and reread all of David’s messages.

  In the early evening, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a light sweater and went out, slamming the door behind her.

  The taxi dropped her off at Place de l’Alma. She sat outside at a café and ordered a glass of pink champagne, which she downed in one gulp while keeping an eye on her phone. She had just ordered a second glass when the screen lit up. This time it was a call, not a text. She hesitated before answering.

  “What’s going on? Why were you acting like that today?”

  “Why were you acting like that?”

  He sighed. “Where are you?”

  “Place de l’Alma.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Looking at the bridge.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like it. Is that okay with you?”

  “And where are you looking at it from?”

  “From an outside table at Chez Francis.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Paul turned up four glasses of champagne later. He double-parked his car and sat down next to Mia.

  “Has your meal gone down yet?” she asked him.

  “Listen, I couldn’t care less if the truth is that you don’t know how to cook, and I couldn’t care less if you’re actually a waitress and not the owner. But I will not accept you trying to set me up with your friend.”

  Mia looked upset. “So do you like her, or not?”

  “Daisy is beautiful, lively, and interesting, and she’s a superb cook,” Paul admitted. Then, raising his voice: “But it is up to me, and me alone, to decide who I meet and who I don’t meet. I don’t let my oldest friends meddle with my private life, and I’m sure as hell not going to let you do it.”