“Maybe it’s an act to get under my skin, or help me improve as a writer. I don’t know.”
“But between visits, you’re on your own?”
“At the risk of sounding like I spend my whole life paraphrasing you, didn’t you also say it was ‘possible to love someone, even when you’re alone’?”
“My situation was kind of unique, though, don’t you think?”
“So is mine.”
“Listen, you’re a writer, why don’t you write a list of the things that make you happy?”
“Iamhappy, for Christ’s sake!”
“Right. You seem to be positively bursting with joy.”
“Shit, Arthur, don’t start picking me apart. You don’t know a thing about my life.”
“We’ve known each other since high school. I don’t need a study guide to figure out what’s going on with you. You remember what my mother used to say?”
“She said a lot of things. Actually, speaking of which, I’d like to use the house in Carmel as the setting for my next novel. It’s been ages since I was there.”
“Well, whose fault is that?”
“Want to know what I really do miss?” Paul grinned. “Those walks we used to take. Out to Ghirardelli, or Fort Point, all those nights just hanging out, or fighting in the office, all the elaborate plans for the future without ever getting anywhere . . . just you and me.”
“I bumped into Onega the other day.”
“Did she ask about me?”
“She did. I told her you were living in Paris.”
“Is she still married?”
“She wasn’t wearing a ring.”
“She never should have dumped me. You know, believe it or not,” Paul added with a smile, “she was always jealous . . . of you and me.”
Mia watched the caricaturists at work on Place du Tertre. There was one she particularly liked the look of, a handsome guy dressed in cotton slacks, a white shirt, and a tweed jacket. She sat on the folding chair in front of him and asked him to be as faithful as possible.
“‘The only love that’s faithful isamour propre,’ according to Guitry,” said the caricaturist in a husky voice.
“Guitry was right.”
“Had some bad luck, eh?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you’re alone and you’ve just had your hair done. You know what they say: ‘New look, new life.’”
Mia stared at him, taken aback.
“Do you always speak in quotations?”
“I’ve been drawing portraits for twenty-five years. I’ve learned to read quite a few things in people’s faces. Yours is very pretty, but it looks like it could do with some cheering up. My pencil can take care of that if you keep still.”
Mia sat up straight.
“Are you on holiday in Paris?” the caricaturist asked, sharpening his charcoal.
