“There’s no light in my entire life,” Mia said.
“That’s maybe overdoing it just a bit.”
“I needed to get away, Daisy, I don’t know how to live a lie. I can’t,” Mia continued, in a tone of voice that was just begging for compassion. But Daisy had known her too long to fall for that little trick.
“Enough of that crap. You’re a talented actress, which basically makes you a professional liar . . . I know I have candles somewhere, just have to find them before my iPhone battery—”
Right on cue, the screen of her phone flickered to black.
“Just smile through the tears, like all the other A-listers? Is that it? What if I just told them all to go fuck themselves?” Mia whispered.
“Mia. Has it crossed your mind to maybe . . . start helping me out a bit?”
“I would, but it’s pitch-black in here.”
“Hallelujah! She noticed.”
Daisy groped her way forward. Trying to negotiate the table, she bumped into a chair and let out a groan before finally reaching the worktop at the far end of the room. Still feeling her way around, she found the stove, picked up a box of matches from the shelf, and lit one of the gas rings.
A bluish halo illuminated the spot where she stood.
Mia plopped right down at the table.
Daisy rummaged through the drawers one by one. Scented candles were strictly prohibited in her apartment. Her passion for gastronomy was high maintenance, to say the least, and she was adamant that nothing should disturb the smell of a dish. Where some restaurant owners might put a sign on the door declaring “No Credit Cards Accepted,” she would have gladly posted: “Customers Wearing Too Much Perfume Will Be Promptly Escorted from the Premises.”
At last, she found the unscented candles and lit them. The bright flames chased the darkness from the room.
Daisy loved her kitchen, especially that it took up her whole apartment. It served as the living room, since it was bigger than the two small bedrooms and connecting bathroom put together. Her countertop held terra-cotta pots filled with thyme, bay leaves, rosemary, dill, oregano, bergamot, and Espelette peppers. This kitchen was Daisy’s laboratory, where she found exhilaration and release. It was here that she developed recipes for the clientele of her small restaurant perched on the slopes of Montmartre, just around the corner from her apartment.
Daisy hadn’t gone to any fancy culinary school; her profession was inspired by her family and her native Provence. As a child, she would spend hours watching her mother, learning to mimic her techniques, while Daisy’s friends played in the shade of the pine and olive trees.
“Are you hungry?” she asked Mia.
“Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Daisy opened the refrigerator and took out a plate of chanterelle mushrooms and a bunch of flat-leaf parsley, then tore a bulb of garlic from the string that hung to her right.
“Do you have to add garlic?” Mia asked.
“Why, are you planning on kissing somebody tonight?” Daisy retorted as she chopped the parsley. “How about you tell me what’s going on while I get dinner ready.”
Mia took a deep breath.
“Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”
“Just as I’m closing up my bistro, you pop up out of nowhere with an overnight bag and a look on your face like the world just broke into a million pieces. And since then, you haven’t stopped bellyaching once. I take it you didn’t show up just because you missed me.”
“My world really is broken in a million pieces . . .”
Daisy abruptly stopped what she was doing.
“Enough’s enough, Mia! I want to hear everything, but tone down the whining and moaning. Save it for the camera.”
“You’d make quite the director, you know,” Mia said.
“Quit stalling and talk to me.”
And as Daisy sliced the mushrooms, Mia spilled the beans.
They both jumped when the electricity came back on. Daisy dimmed the lights, then opened the electric shutters, revealing the view over Paris from her apartment.
Mia walked toward the window.
“Do you have any cigarettes?”
“On the coffee table. I don’t even know where they came from.”
“You must be seeing a lot of men if you can’t even keep track of who leaves what!”
“If you want to smoke, go out on the terrace.”
“Are you coming?”
“I have to know what happened next. So I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“So you left the light on in your room,” Daisy confirmed as she poured more wine.
“Right, but turned off the light in the walk-in closet. I planted a stool there so he’d bang into it.”
“Wow. I forgot you have a walk-in closet.” Daisy snorted. “Anyway. What happened next?”
“I pretended to be asleep. He got undressed in the bathroom and took a nice, long shower, then hopped into bed and turned off the light. I was waiting for him to whisper something, to give me a kiss. But maybe his ‘batteries’ hadn’t fully recharged, ’cause all he did was fall fast asleep.”
“You want my opinion? Don’t answer, I’m going to give it to you anyway. You married a bastard. The real question, and a simple one, is to figure out whether the good outweighs the bad. No, forget that. The real question is why you’re in love with him in the first place if he makes you so miserable. Unless you’re in love with him because he makes you so miserable . . .”
“He made me very happy . . . at the beginning.”
“I sure hope so! If all relationships started badly, Prince Charming would disappear from every fairy tale ever written and romantic comedies would be filed under horror. Don’t look at me that way, Mia. If you want to find out if he’s cheating, you need to ask him, not me. And put that out—you won’t find love at the end of a cigarette.”
Tears streamed down Mia’s cheeks.
Daisy sat next to her friend and put her arms around her.
“Go ahead—let it out, if it makes you feel better. A broken heart hurts like hell, I know, but it’s better than being so empty you’ve got nothing to cry about.”
Mia had sworn to remain dignified under any circumstances, but with Daisy it was different. They had been friends for so long, they were like sisters.
“What are you talking about, empty?” she asked, wiping away her tears.
“Wow. Is that your way of finally asking me how I am?”
“Don’t tell me you’re alone too. Oh, Daisy, I’m afraid we’re never going to find happiness.”
“Seems to me you came pretty close, these past few years. You’re famous, a well-respected actress, you make more for one film than I could in a lifetime . . . and you’re married. I mean, take one look at the news, the terrible things happening in the world, you’ll see we can’t really complain.”
“Why, what happened?”
“I don’t have a clue, but if there’d been any good news, people would be out on the streets celebrating. What did you think of my chanterelles?”