Cristoneli stepped back and adjusted Paul’s jacket.
“My Korean colleague sent me an email with all the press cuttings—and, my God, what a lot of them there are! They haven’t been translated yet, but apparently the reviews have been staggering. Seems you are a total smash in Korea!”
“We need to talk,” Paul muttered.
“Of course we need to talk . . . as long as you’re not looking for another advance. You sly fox!” Cristoneli said jovially, slapping him on the shoulder.
“You’ve got it all wrong. This whole thing is so complicated.”
“It’s never simple with women. And by women, I mean the normal ones, the type you meet every day. But you? You play for the keeping!”
“It’s ‘You play for keeps.’”
“Same thing. But you can have it your way today, my friend. Come on, let’s have a drink to celebrate . . .”
“From the sound of it, maybe you’ve had enough already. You’re even harder to decipher than usual.”
“Me? Maybe it’s you, all messed up in the head . . . but who could blame you! Oh, Paul! You sly fox, you!”
“This whole ‘sly fox’ thing is really starting to get on my nerves. What exactly did Eun-Jeong say to you?”
“Eun-Je-who?”
“My Korean editor. Who else are we talking about?”
“Listen, my dear Paul, my lips are moving, but I don’t think you’re hearing the words coming from my mouth. Maybe the airplane make your eardrums go pop? Pressure in the cabin, something like that. I cannot stand the airplanes; I refuse to fly unless I have no other choice. When I go to Milan, I take the train—a little long, admittedly, but at least I don’t have to go through an X-ray before getting on board. Anyway, how about that drink? You sly fox, you!”
They sat at an inside table at the Deux Magots. Paul gestured at a folder Cristoneli had placed on the seat beside him.
“If that’s the contract for my next novel, we seriously need to talk first.”
“I thought we already had you under contract? Hmmm, maybe you’re right. I sometimes wonder what my assistant is really up to. Anyway, I hope you are not going to take advantage of the situation, considering all the years I have supported you, through good and bad! But you can walk me through your next masterpiece another time. Right now, I want you to spill the details—all the details—just between you and me. I won’t tell a soul. These lips are peeled!” Cristoneli whispered, putting a finger to his lips.
“Gaetano! What are you on?” Paul asked, taken aback.
“What kind of a question is this?”
“Help me understand: What did Eun-Jeong tell you?”
“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.