“This is the beginning of a friendship, and that’s all. I’m not over David yet.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. I can see the look on your face whenever your phone starts vibrating. Still, you have to realize you’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I’m not playing any games at all, I’m living my life. He’s funny, and he’s not trying to get me into bed. He has a long-distance girlfriend. We’re just fighting off the loneliness.”
“Well, tomorrow, you continue your fight without me.”
“I don’t even know how to make a proper omelet!”
“Just break some eggs and beat them with a bit of cream.”
“There’s no need to be mean. I’m asking you for a favor, that’s all.”
“I’m not being mean. I just refuse to take part in this charade.”
“Why do you always assume the worst?”
“I can’t believe what you’re saying! You are planning on telling your friend the truth at some point, aren’t you? Have you immersed yourself so deeply in your role as a waitress that you’ve forgotten who you really are? What will you do when your film comes out—when you have to promote it with your husband?”
“Paul’s leaving for Korea soon. Probably for good. When the time comes, I’ll write to him and confess the truth. By then, he’ll be back with his translator and he’ll be happy.”
“Life isn’t a movie script, Mia.”
“Fine, then I guess I’ll have to cancel.”
“You’re not going to cancel anything—that would be rude. No, I imagine you’ll play your role to the end, no matter the consequences.”
“Why are you torturing me?”
“Because!” Daisy yelled before going out to meet some customers who had just entered the restaurant.
13
Mia had just thrown her third omelet in the trash. The first had burned, the second was too bland, and the third resembled a sorry attempt at scrambled eggs. How did the French do it?
At least the table looked good. It was set for three—Mia preferred pretending Daisy had stood them up at the last minute rather than having to explain her absence—with a bouquet of flowers in the center, along with a basket of pastries. So at least there would besomethingedible. Her phone buzzed. She washed the egg yolk from her hands and forearms, opened the refrigerator for the tenth time, and prayed that it was Paul telling her he couldn’t make it.
I’m downstairs.
Come on up!
She cast a last look around the room and ran over to crack open a window. The Bakelite handle of a saucepan she was using to warm some premade apple compote had burned slightly and was giving off an acrid stench.
The doorbell rang.
Paul came in, holding a small parcel.
“You shouldn’t have. What is it?” Mia asked.
“A scented candle.”
“Lovely. I’ll get a lighter,” she said, thinking venomously of Daisy.
“Sounds good.Wish I’d brought six more—smells like she’s cooking tires in here!”
“Did you say something?”
“No, I was just thinking how nice your place is. And what a wonderful view.”She seems nervous. I shouldn’t have invited myself. I should ask if she wants to head to a restaurant instead. Maybe we could sit outside, with the weather so nice and all. What am I saying? She’s probably been slaving away cooking all morning—that would make it even worse.
