Mia sped up and went into the first café she came across. The couple waited outside the window. Mia stood close to the counter and ordered a bottle of Vittel, eyes glued to the mirror above the bar that reflected the street. She waited for the rude couple to get bored, then paid and left.
She reached Place du Tertre and was watching the caricaturists at work when a young man approached her with a friendly smile. Mia found him attractive in his jacket and jeans . . .
“You’re Melissa Barlow, aren’t you?” he asked in perfect English. “I’ve seen all your films.” Melissa Barlow was Mia Grinberg’s stage name. “Are you here on a shoot or just visiting?”
Mia smiled at him.
“I’m not here at all. I’m in London. You thought you saw me, but turns out it wasn’t really me. Just a woman who looks like me.”
“Sorry?” he replied warily.
“No, if anyone should be apologizing, it’s me. I realize that what I just said couldn’t possibly make any sense to you. So I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t disappointed you.”
“How could Melissa Barlow disappoint me when she’s back in England?” The young man nodded respectfully, started to walk away, then turned around.
“If you’re ever lucky enough to bump into her in London—it is a small world, after all—would you tell her that I think she’s a wonderful actress?”
“I certainly will. I know that would make her very happy. Very happy indeed.”
Mia watched him disappear into the distance. “Good-bye,” she whispered.
She fished her sunglasses out of her purse and walked a bit farther until she spotted a hair salon. It struck her that Creston would give her a severe talking-to, and this idea alone made her even more determined to put her plan into action. She pushed open the door, sat down in one of the chairs, and emerged one hour later as a short-haired brunette.
To test out her scheme, she sat on the steps of Sacré-C?ur and waited. When a tour bus with a United Kingdom license plate stopped in the square, Mia walked up to it as the passengers were getting off and asked the tour guide for the time. Sixty people, and not one of them recognized her! She blessed the hairdresser who had given her a new identity. Now she was just a simple British tourist visiting Paris.
Paul circled the block twice before finally double-parking. He turned to his two passengers with a big smile.
“I hope you two aren’t feeling too out of whack . . .”
“What, from your driving?” Arthur replied.
“Have you ever told him about that night when I spent two hours curled up under an operating table because of him?” Paul asked Lauren.
“Yes, she has. Only twenty times or so,” Arthur answered. “Why?”
“No reason. Here are the keys. Top floor. Bring up your bags while I find a place to park.”
Lauren and Arthur were busy unpacking their bags in their room as Paul came in.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t bring Joe with you,” he said with a sigh.
“It’s a long trip for a kid his age,” Lauren explained. “He’s staying with his godmother, which I think he’s pretty happy about.”
“Right, but he would have been even happier if he were staying with his godfather.”
“The two of us were kind of hoping for a romantic getaway,” Arthur pointed out.
“Romantic getaways come and go. You have time for that. I, on the other hand, very rarely get to see my godson.”
“Move back to San Francisco—you’ll see him every day!”
“Do you two feel like having something to eat? Where did I put that cake?” Paul muttered, riffling through his kitchen cupboards.
Lauren and Arthur exchanged a glance, which he caught.
Smiling at their silent humor, he made coffee and then outlined the schedule he’d drawn up.
As it was sunny, the first day would be spent sightseeing: Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, ?le de la Cité, Sacré-C?ur. And if they ran out of time, they could continue their tour the next day.
“Right . . . and the ‘romantic’ part of the getaway?” Arthur reminded him.
“Oh . . . yeah,” said Paul, a little embarrassed.
Lauren needed a rest before such a marathon, suggesting the two friends eat lunch without her to catch up.
Paul offered to take Arthur to a nearby café with a sun-drenched terrace.
Arthur put on a clean shirt and followed him out the door.
Sitting at a table, the two men looked at each other for a moment without speaking. As if both were waiting to see who would speak first . . .
“So, you’re happy here?” Arthur finally asked.
“Yeah. Well, I think so.”
“You think so.”
“Who could ever be sure that they’re really happy?”
“Nice Zen koan, or whatever that was, but don’t dodge the question.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Arthur shrugged. “Just tell me the truth.”
“I love my job, even if I still sometimes feel like a fraud with only six novels. Apparently, lots of writers feel that way.”
“So you do see other writers.”
“There’s a writing club not far from here. I go one night a week. We chat, talk about writer’s block, and then end the evening in a bar. It’s funny—listening to myself describe it, it does sound kind of dull.”
“I won’t argue with that.” Arthur offered up a smile.
“So what about on your end? Is the company booming?”
“We’re talking about you, Paul.”
“I write. That’s all there is to say, really. I go to a few book fairs. Sometimes I do book signings in shops. Last year I went to Germany and Italy, where my books are doing okay. I work out at the gym twice a week, which I hate, but I really don’t have much of a choice, given what I eat. Apart from that, what else can I tell you? Ah, yes. I write. Which I’m pretty sure I already mentioned.”
“Sounds like a real barrel of laughs,” Arthur said.
“Well, I guess I’m happiest at night . . . being with my characters and all . . .”
“Are you seeing anybody?”
“Yes and no. She’s not here very often—hardly ever, I guess, but she’s on my mind constantly. You know what that’s like.”
“Who is she?”
“My Korean translator. Not too shabby, eh?” Paul said, trying a bit too hard to sound jovial. “Yep, I’m huge in Korea. It’s too hard to visit, though. I still haven’t recovered from the flight over here.”
“That was seven years ago,” Arthur exclaimed.
“Feels like yesterday. Eleven hours of turbulence. It was a nightmare.”
“Well, you will have to come back one day, you know.”
“Not necessarily. I’ve got my resident card now. Though I guess I could take a boat back . . .”
“And this translator?”
“Kyong is wonderful, even if I don’t really know her all that well. Long-distance relationships can be a bit tricky.”
“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 . . .”