Ha! Cheapskate.
Is that the password?
You’re kidding, right?
Well, then what is it?
I’m working. Chives.
????
That’s my password.
Imworkingchives?
Just “chives,” dummy!
Not much of a password.
Nope. And don’t even think of snooping through my files.
I wouldn’t dream of it.
Mia put down her phone and typed in the password. She logged in to her account and found a message from Creston asking her where she was and why she wasn’t answering her phone. A fashion magazine had requested a photo shoot at her home, and her agent needed her consent as soon as possible.
She began to reply, pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts:
Dear Creston,
I’ve gone away for a while, and I’m relying on your discretion. Please don’t tell anyone—and I mean anyone. In order to keep up this façade with David, I need to be alone, without taking orders from a director, a photographer, you, or any of your assistants. So: I will not be posing for a fashion magazine, because I don’t feel like it. I made a list of resolutions last night on the Eurostar, and the first was to stop being a pushover. I need to prove to myself that I’m capable of that, at least for a few days. I’m going out for a walk now, though I’ll be in touch soon. And don’t worry, you can count on my absolute discretion.
All the best,
Mia
She read it through, then hit “Send.”
A tab at the top of the screen caught her eye, and she clicked on it. Her eyes widened as she found herself staring at a dating site.
She had agreed not to go through Daisy’s files, but this was different . . . Besides, Daisy would never know.
She checked out the profiles of the men selected by her friend, burst out laughing at some of the messages she read, and spotted two bios that struck her as quite interesting. When a ray of sunlight glinted off the screen, she decided it was time to leave this virtual world and go outside into the real one. She turned off the laptop and borrowed a light jacket from the coatrack in the hallway.
After leaving the building, she walked up the street toward Place du Tertre, stopped outside a gallery, then continued on her way. A tourist couple stared at her. She saw the woman point and heard her say to her husband: “I’m sure it’s her! Go and ask!”
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. Youthoughtyou 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. SoI’msorry. I hope I haven’t disappointed you.”
