P.S. From Paris (US Edition) by Marc Levy
“Could you stop here for a minute?” she asked as they approached number 38.
She lowered the window and stuck her head out. The fourth-floor shutters were closed.
When the car started up again, she took out her phone and reread the message she’d received late that morning.
Mia,
I pushed my opera singer under a bus last night. She was crossing the road without paying attention. Oh, well.
When I called the restaurant, Daisy told me you were fine—of course, that’s what matters.
I understand your lack of response. Maybe it’s better this way. Good-byes don’t really make any sense.
Thank you for all the precious moments we spent together.
Take care of yourself, even if that phrase doesn’t make any sense either.
Paul
When she reached the hotel, Mia pretended she had a migraine. David told the concierge to forget the theatre tickets and had their dinner brought up to the suite.
At eleven p.m., Daisy said good night to the last customers. Back at her apartment, she found a portrait of herself lying on the kitchen worktop, along with a short note.
Daisy,
I’m going back to England. I couldn’t muster the courage to stop by the restaurant. I am jealous of your new waitress. Joking aside, the truth is, if I’d seen you, I’d probably have changed my mind. These days I spent with you in Paris have been like sketches of a new life for me, a life that I started to love from the bottom of my heart. But I took your advice. I am returning to my old life and leaving you to yours.
I’ll call you from London in a few days, once I’ve got my bearings again. I don’t know if you were aware that David was coming to fetch me, but if you were, you made the right choice in not warning me. I will never be able to thank you properly for being such a good friend, for always being there when I need you, for standing up to me, even at the risk I’d be angry with you, and for never lying to me. I lied to you—you know what about—and I’m still so sorry for that.
This drawing of you was done by a caricaturist on Place du Tertre. You won’t have any trouble spotting him: he’s a lovely guy, almost as lovely as this portrait of you.
I miss you already.
Your friend, who loves you like a sister,
Mia
PS: Don’t forget your promise. Last week of September. Greece. Just the two of us. I’ll take care of everything.
Daisy quickly grabbed her phone. She tried calling Mia but couldn’t get through, so she sent her a text.
I hope you’re going to miss me as much as I’ll miss you. My new waitress is an imbecile. She’s got hairy armpits and has already broken two plates. You should call me ASAP. Temporary insanity is fine, but not to the point of taking my advice! I beg you, never do that. Outside the kitchen, your best friend is wrong about everything, especially life.
I love you, too. Like a sister . . .
The next morning, the chauffeur took the on-ramp that led to the airport and pulled up to park right next to the Departures level. David opened the door and held out his hand for Mia. She was about to exit the car when the doors of the terminal slid open. Mia had enough experience to quickly spot the paparazzi, and these vultures hadn’t even bothered hiding. She could see two of them standing in front of the check-in kiosks now.
You bastard! Who else could have tipped them off? Your whole visit to Paris, your entire charm offensive, was just to have the two of us seen together, wasn’t it? The riverboat would have been too obvious, but the airport . . . ? Just a coincidence, of course! And I actually believed you, like a complete and utter fool . . .
“Are you coming?” David asked impatiently.
“Sorry, wait for me inside. I need to call Daisy first.”
“Can I take your suitcases?”
“Don’t worry, the chauffeur can handle that. I’ll see you in five minutes.”
“Right, I’ll go on ahead and buy newspapers. But don’t take too long.”
As soon as David was out of sight, Mia closed the car door and leaned in toward the chauffeur.
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Maurice, madame.”
“Maurice, how well do you know this airport?”
“I bring passengers here maybe four to six times a day, on average.”
“Do you know where the flights to Asia leave from?”
“Terminal 2E.”
“All right, Maurice, listen up,” she said, rummaging around in her purse, “the flight for Seoul takes off in forty-five minutes. If you can get me to Terminal 2E in five minutes, I will give you a huge tip.”
The chauffeur sped off.
“Uh-oh . . . do you take credit cards?” Mia asked, embarrassed. “I don’t have any cash on me.”
“Are you going to take this flight to Asia, while your husband goes to London?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Forget the tip, then,” he said, weaving between a taxi and a bus. “That guy’s unbearable.”
The car roared along full throttle and, three minutes later, came to a halt in front of Terminal 2E.
The chauffeur hurried out to open the trunk, took out Mia’s suitcase, and put it on the pavement.
“And what am I supposed to do with his?” He gestured to David’s overstuffed bag.
“Maurice, you are now the proud owner of a pricey collection of cashmere sweaters and silk shirts. Thanks ever so much!”
Mia grabbed her luggage and hurried toward the check-in area.
There was only one agent left behind the desk.
“Hi, I have to go to Seoul. It’s urgent.”
The woman frowned doubtfully.
“I was about to close the flight. I’m afraid it’s fully booked.”
“I’m prepared to travel in the toilets if I have to.”
“For eleven hours?” the woman asked, looking up. “I can put you on tomorrow’s flight.”
“Please,” Mia begged, taking off her sunglasses.
The woman saw her face and her eyes lit up.
“I’m sorry. But are you . . . ?”
“Yes, I am! Could you please get me a seat?”
“You should have told me from the start! I have one first-class ticket left, but it’s full fare.”
Mia put her credit card on the desk.
“What date would you like for the return flight?”
“I have no idea.”
“I need a return date.”
“In a week . . . no, ten days . . . or two weeks . . .”
“Which one?”
“Two weeks! Please hurry!”
The woman behind the desk began typing furiously on her computer keyboard.
“Oh no, your suitcase! It’s too late to check it . . .”
Mia knelt down to whip open her suitcase, took out her toiletry bag and a few other things, and jammed them into her purse.
“You can keep the rest!”
“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” the woman said, leaning over the desk.
“Yes, you can!”
“Which hotel are you staying at?”
“I have no idea.”
The woman, who was now beyond being surprised by anything, handed Mia her boarding pass.
“Now run. I’ll ask them to hold the doors for you.”
Mia grabbed her ticket, took off her heels, and ran toward security, shoes in hand.
She arrived at the walkway out of breath, spotted the gate, screamed at the staff to wait for her, and did not slow down until she was on the boarding bridge.
Before getting on the plane, she tried to regain some semblance of composure, then handed her boarding pass to the flight attendant, who welcomed her with a big smile.
“That was one close shave,” he said, pointing to an empty seat. “You’re in 2A.”
Mia walked straight past her seat and continued up the aisle.
The flight attendant called her back, but she pressed on until she found the row she was lo
Mia opened the overhead luggage compartment, squeezed her purse between two cabin bags, and collapsed into her seat with a huge sigh.
Paul didn’t even look up from the magazine he was leafing through.
The flight attendant announced over the intercom that the doors were closing. Passengers were asked to fasten their seat belts and switch off all electronic devices.
Paul put his magazine in the seat-back pocket and closed his eyes.
“Can we talk or do you plan to sulk for eleven hours?” Mia asked.
“Right now, we keep our mouths shut and wait to die. A massive three-hundred-ton steel tube is about to attempt flight. And no matter what Bernoulli says, that is against the laws of nature. So, until we are up in the air, let’s just breathe, stay calm, and that’s it.”
“Right, then,” Mia replied.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any anesthetic, would you?”
“I thought we were strictly prohibited from conversing.”
“Valium?”
“Sorry.”
“A baseball bat? Any blunt object, really. If you’d be so kind as to knock me out cold, then not wake me until we’ve touched ground in Korea, that would be ideal.”
“Calm down. Everything will be fine.”
“So now you’re a pilot.”
“Give me your hand.”
“I’d rather not. It’s kind of clammy.”
Mia put her hand on Paul’s wrist.
“What did you make for the dinner I missed?”
“Hmph. I guess you’ll never know.”
“You’re not even going to ask why I’m here?”
“Nope. I will take some satisfaction from the fact that your ticket must have cost you the moon. Is that normal, that noise?”
“It’s the engines.”
“And so it’s normal they’re making so much noise?”
“If we intend to take off, then yes.”
“Okay. So are they making enough noise?”
“They’re making exactly as much noise as they’re supposed to.”
“What’s that constant boom-boom-boom I’m hearing?”
“That . . . would be your heart.”
The airplane soared into the air. Shortly after takeoff, it hit a patch of turbulence. Paul gritted his teeth. Sweat streamed down his forehead.
“Relax. There’s no reason to be afraid,” Mia soothed him.
“Fear doesn’t need a reason,” Paul replied.
He regretted not having tried the little gift that Cristoneli had offered him on the way to the airport: a homemade concoction that would, according to the editor, relieve him of all worries for several hours. Paul, who was such a hypochondriac that he was reluctant to take aspirin for headaches out of fear it would cause a brain hemorrhage, had decided not to give himself another reason to be anxious.
The plane reached cruising altitude and the cabin crew began moving through the aisles.
“Okay, now the flight attendants are up—that’s a good sign. If they’re moving around, everything must be fine, don’t you think?”
“Everything has been fine since takeoff and everything will be fine until we land. But Paul? If you keep gripping the armrest that tightly for the next eleven hours, we might have to use pliers to pry you free.”
Paul looked down at his white-knuckle grip and carefully relaxed his fingers.
A stewardess arrived with the drink cart. To Mia’s surprise, Paul asked only for a glass of water.
“I’ve heard that alcohol and high altitude don’t mix.”
Mia went for a double shot of gin.
“Maybe there’s an exception for the English,” Paul remarked, watching her down her glass.
Mia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Paul observed her in silence.
“I thought we had agreed not to talk,” she said, eyes still closed.
Paul began reading his magazine again. “I’ve been working quite a bit for the last couple of nights. My opera singer has been through some exciting adventures. Her ex resurfaced, for one thing. And naturally enough, she dove right back in. I have to figure out—does that count or does it not count?” he asked, casually turning the page. “Not that I need to know—none of my business. I just thought I’d ask. In any event, it seems that’s done now, so let’s talk about something else.”
“What in the world could’ve inspired that plot twist?”
“I’m a novelist.” He shrugged. “I dream stuff up. That’s what I do.”
Paul closed his magazine.
“But what bothers me is seeing her unhappy. I don’t know why, but that’s just the way it is.”
A steward interrupted their conversation with meal service. Paul declined his meal and announced that Mia wasn’t hungry. She was about to protest, but the attendant had already moved on to the next row.
“What the hell?” she exclaimed. “Why would you do that? I’m starving!”
“So am I. But those little meals are not intended for consumption, just distraction. You end up spending half the flight trying to guess what’s in them.”
Paul unbuckled his seat belt and stood up to remove his bag from the overhead compartment. As soon as he was back in his seat, he took out ten small airtight containers and placed them on Mia’s tray.
“And what might that be?” she asked.
“First she stands me up, now she gate-crashes my last meal.”
Mia took off the lids to find four smoked-salmon sandwiches, two slices of vegetable terrine, two small blocks of foie gras, two potato salads with black truffles, and, in the last two boxes, two coffee éclairs. She stared at Paul openmouthed.
“As I was packing my suitcase, I decided if I was going to die on this flight, I may as well die happy.”
“By eating enough for two, you mean?”
“Give me some credit. I wasn’t going to enjoy this feast all by my lonesome while the person next to me stared at their airplane food contemplating death by starvation. That would have ruined the whole thing for me.”
“You really do think of everything.”
“Only the essentials. Which still manages to take up most of my time.”
“Will your translator be waiting for you at the airport?”
“I sure hope so,” Paul replied. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason, just thinking . . . I suppose we could say I was sent by your publishers to accompany you on the trip.”
“Alternatively, we could say we’re just friends.”
“Your call.”
“And since we’re just friends, maybe you could explain how the hell you ended up on this plane instead of at your restaurant?”
“Mm, this foie gras is delicious. Where did you get it?”
“Please answer the question.”
“I had to get away.”
“From what?”
“Myself.”
“So he did come back.”
“Let’s just say that the opera singer dove back in, and quickly found herself in over her head.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Really?”
“No. Not at all. I was just being polite.”
“I’m glad I’m here too. I’ve always dreamt of visiting Seoul.”
“Really?”
“No. Not at all. I was just being polite.”
At the end of the meal, Paul tidied away the containers in his bag and stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“To wash these.”
“Are you joking?”
“Absolutely not. I’m not going to throw away my Tupperware. I’ll need it for the return trip.”
“So you’re not planning on staying in Korea indefinitely?”
“Who knows? We’ll see.”
They checked the in-flight entertainment program. Mia opted for a ro
Paul eventually went to sleep, and Mia made sure no one woke him up during the descent. He opened his eyes just as the plane’s wheels touched the ground and stiffened as the pilot activated the reverse thrust. His nightmare was ending, Mia reassured him. In a few moments, they would be getting off the plane.
After going through Passport Control, Paul retrieved his suitcase from the baggage carousel and put it on a cart.
“Yours isn’t out yet?” he asked.
“This is all I have,” she said, gesturing toward the satchel on her shoulder.
Paul said nothing, distracted by his growing anticipation. He looked at the sliding doors up ahead, trying to think how he would act as he walked through them.
A group of about thirty readers had unfurled a banner that proclaimed: Welcome, Paul Barton.
Mia put on her sunglasses.
“Wow, they really know how to make a guy feel welcome,” Paul hissed to Mia. “I mean, hiring extras . . . just a little over the top . . .”
He scanned the row of faces in search of Kyong’s, then glanced back over his shoulder. Mia had disappeared. He thought he caught a glimpse of her going past the Arrivals barrier and melting into the crowd.
The group rushed toward him, notebooks and pens in hand, begging him to sign autographs. Embarrassed at first, Paul signed with good grace until a man he assumed must be his Korean editor arrived, scattering the crowd of fans and shaking his hand warmly.
“Welcome to Seoul, Mr. Barton. It’s an honor to have you here on Korean soil.”
“The honor is all mine,” Paul replied, continuing to scan the crowd. “Really, you shouldn’t have.”
“Shouldn’t have what?” the editor asked.
“All these people, it’s just a bit . . .”
“We tried to keep them away, but you are very popular here and they knew you were arriving. In fact, they’ve been waiting here for more than three hours.”
“But . . . why?”
“To see you, of course. Follow me, I have a car waiting to take you to your hotel. I imagine you’re quite exhausted after the long voyage.”
Mia joined them outside the terminal.
“This lady is with you?” the editor inquired.
Mia introduced herself.