As the evening went on, she told him the story of her life, and once more Paul enjoyed listening to memories of Daisy and Mia growing up side by side, though he longed for Mia to be sharing them with him.
At midnight, he accompanied Daisy to the front door of her apartment building. Paul looked up at the windows.
“If you hear from her, promise you’ll tell her to call me.”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“I swear I’m not a bad guy.”
“That’s exactly why. Believe me, the two of you were not right for each other.”
“And what if I told you I miss her as a friend?”
“Then I’d tell you you’re as bad a liar as she is. The first days are the hardest; after that, it gets easier. There will always be a table for you at my restaurant, Paul, anytime. Good night.”
Daisy opened the door and disappeared.
Three weeks passed. Paul wrote constantly. He barely left his desk, except to eat lunch at Moustache’s café and Sunday brunch at Daisy’s flat. Though Daisy was pleasant company, she maintained her silence on all things Mia. The tabloids had quieted as well.
One evening, at eight p.m. exactly, he received a call from Cristoneli.
“Are you writing?”
“No.”
“Watching television?”
“No.”
“Perfect. Whatever you’re doing . . . you keep doing it.”
“You’re calling just to find out about my schedule?”
“No, I wanted to check how you are, and how your novel is going.”
“I threw out the one I was writing and I’ve started a whole new one.”
“Excellent.”
“Completely different.”
“Oh, really? You’ll have to tell me what it’s about.”
“I’m not so sure you’re going to like it.”
“Oh, nonsense! You’re just saying that to pique my curiosity.”
“No, I really don’t think so.”
“What is it, a thriller?”
“Check back in with me a few weeks from now . . .”
“A detective story? Procedural?”
“Right now I’m just going to focus on getting that first draft out.”
“Erotica, you little devil?”
“Gaetano, is there something in particular you wanted to talk about?”
“No . . . as long as you tell me you are okay.”
“I’m fine, thanks. Scratch that. I’m great. And since you’ve taken such an intense interest in my life, I should tell you I did some tidying up this morning, then I had lunch at the café down the road, after which I spent most of the afternoon reading, and tonight I’ve warmed up some lentils for dinner. Which are currently going from lukewarm to cold. After I’m off the phone with you, I’m going to write, and then go to bed. Does that satisfy your newfound curiosity?”
“Lentils? A little tough to digest at night, if you ask me.”
“Good night, Gaetano.”
Paul hung up, shaking his head, and turned back to his computer. As he began a new paragraph, he reran the bizarre conversation with his editor in his head.
Suddenly seized with doubt, he grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV. The news was on TF1 and France 2. He kept flicking through channels, frowned, then went back to France 2, which was showing the trailer for a new film.
In it, Paul saw a man kissing a woman in an evening dress. The man took the woman in his arms and laid her on a bed before undressing her. He kissed her breasts as she moaned with pleasure.
There was a close-up of the actors, which became a freeze-frame and then cut to a television studio where the same two actors were live on camera.
“Alice’s Strange Journey opens in cinemas tomorrow,” the host declared. “And while we have high hopes for the film, the greatest anticipation and liveliest buzz is all centered on watching you as a couple, as real-life sparks ignite between the two of you on the big screen. Melissa Barlow, David Babkins—welcome, and thank you for joining us tonight.”
The camera showed the two of them side by side.
“Thank you for having us, Monsieur Delahousse,” they chorused.
“First, I have to know—as do all of our viewers—does starring alongside your real-life spouse make the performance easier or more challenging?”
Mia let David speak. He explained that it depended on the scene in question.
“Of course, whenever Melissa performs a stunt, I’m terrified. And vice versa, naturally. People automatically think that the love scenes are easier, though that’s not necessarily the case. Obviously, we know each other better than anyone else, but it’s not like having a whole crew full of technicians there really helps set the mood. They’re not generally invited into our bedroom,” he added, chuckling at his own joke.
“Mr. Babkins, your comment on the subject of love brings me to my next question. Melissa Barlow, about the many photographs recently released . . . Should we interpret your appearance together here tonight as a sign that the stories are nothing but gossip? To put it another way, who exactly is this Paul Barton to you, Melissa?”
“He’s a friend,” Mia replied tersely. “A very dear friend. Who writes lovely books.”
“So you admire him? As a writer.”
“A writer and a friend. The rest doesn’t count.”
Paul switched off the television. His hands were trembling so much he could barely keep his grip on the remote control.
Over the next hour, he struggled to write a single word. Around midnight, he picked up the phone.
The limousine with tinted windows drove into the hotel parking lot. David put his hand on the door handle and turned to face Mia.
“You need to be absolutely sure this is what you want, Mia.”
“It is. Good-bye, David.”
“Why don’t we give it one more shot? You’ve had your revenge. Plastered it all over the tabloids, even.”
“I didn’t have anything to hide. But now that we can leave this pretense of conjugal bliss behind, hiding is exactly what I need. From everyone, from myself. I feel dirty, and that’s worse than feeling alone. One last thing: you’d best sign the papers that Creston sent you, otherwise I’ll ditch the phony cover story and let everyone know the truth about what you did.”
David stared at her with contempt, then got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.
The chauffeur asked Mia where she wanted to go. She told him to take the southbound expressway. Then she took out her phone to call Creston.
“I’m sorry, Mia, I wanted so much to be there for your last promotional appearance, but I can hardly walk with this damned sciatica. So, tell me. Do you feel free now?”
“Free of him, yes. And of you. But the rest is still there.”
“I did my best to protect you, you know. You made it impossible.”
“I know that. I don’t blame you, Creston. What’s done is done.”
“Any idea where you’re headed?”
“Sweden. Daisy keeps going on about it.”
“Pack lots of layers. It’s positively frigid there. Be sure to drop a line now and again.”
“I will. But not for a while.”
“In a few weeks, all of this will be behind you, with nothing but your glorious future lying ahead. So savor this time away, recharge your batteries.”
“Sounds beautiful. Like hitting the delete key, to wipe away all your mistakes and start over. Sadly, it only works that way in books. Good-bye, Creston. Get well soon.”
Mia hung up. Then she opened the window and threw her phone out of it.
20