He clapped his hands, walked over to Paul’s desk, and sat down in his chair.
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“I know you’re plotting your revenge. But for now, put vengeance on the back burner. Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing to tell. The whole farce lasted about ten minutes. I mean, how long did you think it would take for two reasonably intelligent people to realize that they were the victims of a nasty trick? I apologized on your behalf. I explained to her that my best friend was a nice guy, but a total jackass, and we went our separate ways. I don’t even remember her name.”
“And that’s all?”
“Yes, that’s all!”
“So, it actually wasn’t that bad.”
“No, not that bad. But you got one thing right: I will get you back for this.”
Coming out of the métro, Mia headed toward a bookshop. She wandered around the displays and, not finding what she was looking for, asked one of the staff. The man typed something into his computer and then made his way to the back to search a shelf.
“I think I have one in stock,” he told her, standing on his tiptoes. “Yes, here it is. This is the only one of his books we have.”
“Could you order the others?”
“Yes, of course. But I could recommend some other authors if you’re an avid reader.”
“Why? Is this author not for avid readers?”
“Well, I guess I could recommend more . . .literaryworks, shall we say.”
“Have you actually read any of his novels?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have time to read everything.” The bookseller shrugged.
“So how can you judge his writing?”
The man looked her up and down and went back behind the counter.
“Would you like me to order the others?” he asked, ringing up her purchase.
“No,” replied Mia. “I think I’ll start with this one and then order the others from a less . . .literarybookshop.”
“I didn’t mean to be disparaging. He’s an American author. Often books can lose a lot in translation.”
“I work in translation,” said Mia, hands on her hips.
For a few seconds, the bookseller was speechless.
“Well, after a faux pas of that magnitude, I think I’m going to have to offer you a discount!”
Mia walked down the street, leafing through the novel. She turned it over to read the back cover and smiled when she saw Paul’s photograph. This was the first time she had held a book written by someone she knew, even if she could hardly claim to know him very well. She thought back to the conversation she’d had with the bookseller and wondered why her reaction had been so testy. It really wasn’t like her, but she was glad to have expressed her feelings on the matter. Something inside her was changing, and she liked the new inner voice telling her to be more assertive. She hailed a taxi and asked the driver to drop her off on Rue de Rivoli, outside the English bookshop.
She came out again a few minutes later with the original American edition of Paul’s first novel. She began reading it on the way to Montmartre, continued as she walked up Rue Lepic, and then sat on a bench in Place du Tertre to read some more.
The caricaturist was sitting behind his easel. He threw a smile her way, but she didn’t even notice.
It was late afternoon when she arrived at the restaurant to find Daisy hard at work in the kitchen. Handing over the reins to Robert, her sous-chef, she took Mia aside.
“I know you don’t have the right CV for this type of work, but my waitress is gone for good and it’ll take me at least a few days to find a replacement. You did really well the other night. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”
“Yes,” Mia said before Daisy could finish her sentence.
