“Maybe. But imagine: What if there’s a chance it does work, even just a tiny one? How many times have you attempted something impossible in the operating room, when everyone else was telling you to throw in the towel?”
“Don’t try to win me over by stroking my ego. Honestly, I can’t figure out if this plan of yours is totally evil or totally hilarious.”
“Probably a little bit of both. Unless it works . . .”
Lauren asked the waiter for the bill.
“Where are we headed?” Arthur asked.
“To pack our bags and find a hotel. I’m afraid Paul’s going to kick us out tomorrow morning.”
“Good idea. Let’s bust out of Paris tonight. I’ll take you to Normandy.”
Paul thought it rather high-handed of Arthur to book the table under Paul’s own name, and he was further irritated at being the first to arrive. The waitress showed him to a table for four, with only two places set. He pointed this out to her, but she slipped away without replying.
Mia arrived almost on time. She greeted Paul and sat down across from him.
“I thought writers were quite old,” she said with a smile.
“As long as they don’t die young, they all inevitably end up that way.”
“That was a Holly Golightly line.”
“Ah.Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“One of my favorite films.”
“Truman Capote,” said Paul. “A great man, one I hate with a passion.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“That much talent in one person? It’s enough to drive you nuts with jealousy. Couldn’t he have shared a little bit with the rest of us?”
“I guess so.”
“I apologize. It’s unusual, showing up this late . . .”
“Five minutes isn’t late for a woman,” Mia replied.
“No, I wasn’t talking about you; I would never say something like that. I mean them. I don’t know what they’re up to. They really should be here by now.”
“Um . . . Okay . . . If you say so . . .”
“Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Paul, and you must be . . .”
“Mia, of course.”
“I’d rather wait for them to get here before we really get started, but that doesn’t mean we have to sit in silence. You have an accent—are you British?”
“Well, yes. I did mention that in my PS, didn’t I?”
“No, he didn’t say a word about that! I’m American, but let’s continue speaking in the language of Molière. The French hate it when people speak English in their country.”
“All right, French it is.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you off by what I said. The French love foreign restaurants. And it’s an excellent idea to open one here in Paris.”
“What I cook is more Provençal, actually,” said Mia, putting herself in Daisy’s shoes.
