“I would love the chance to ‘reread’ that reply. So, you have a restaurant serving Proven?al cuisine? Pretty original for a Brit.”
“All my summers growing up were spent in Provence. Funny how childhood memories can be so formative in terms of taste, figuring out what you want. What about you? Where did you grow up?”
“San Francisco.”
“So how does an American writer end up Parisian?”
“It’s a long story. But I don’t like going on and on about myself—boring subject.”
“I suppose I’m not really crazy about myself as the subject either.”
“Careful. We run the risk of getting writer’s block.”
“What about a description of this place? That could certainly fill a few pages.”
“You only need two or three details to set the scene. More than that and you can lose the reader’s interest.”
“I thought there was no formula for good writing.”
“I was speaking as a reader, not a writer. Do you like long descriptions?”
“No, you’re right, they can be rather tedious. So what do we write now? What do the two protagonists do next?”
“Order a dessert?”
“Just one?”
“Good point. Two. It’s their first date, remember. We need to maintain a certain distance between them.”
“As cowriter, I might point out the fact that Madame’s glass is empty, and she’d love it if her date would pour her another.”
“Excellent idea! Although he really should have taken care of that before she had to ask.”
“Except she might have thought he was trying to get her drunk.”
“Ah. I forgot she’s British.”
“Aside from that, what are your biggest turnoffs with women?”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, what if she rephrased the question in a positive light? For example: What do you like most in a woman?”
“Oh, no, not so fast—that’s not the same thing at all. And if the question had been put that way, it could seem like she’s trying to hit on him.”
“That’s debatable, but fine. Anyway, biggest turnoff is lying. But to put it in a positive light, my answer would have been ‘honesty.’”
Mia looked at him for a long time, then said: “I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just a bit of honesty.”
“Thanks, I think. That might have been more brutal than honest. And what do you look for in a man?”
“Sincerity.”
“I sincerely had no intention of trying to sleep with you.”
“You don’t find me attractive?”
“I think you’re beautiful. So should I infer that you don’t find me attractive?”
“I didn’t say that. You’re definitely awkward, which you’ve admitted—and that’s quite a rare thing, and maybe even a little touching. I didn’t come on this date hoping for a new start, I just wanted to close a door on the past.”
“What brought me here is my fear of flying.”
“Sorry, I don’t see the connection.”
“Consider it an ellipsis—a sort of mystery that will come to light in a later chapter.”
“Oh, so we’re going to have another chapter, are we?”
“Why not? If we both already know we’re not going to sleep with each other, there’s nothing to keep us from trying to become friends.”
“That’s original. Don’t people normally make that kind of declaration—‘Let’s be friends’—when they’re breaking up?”
“Exactly. Which makes this an incredibly unique idea.” Paul laughed.
“Cut ‘incredibly.’”
“Why?”
“Adverbs lack a certain elegance. I’m more keen on adjectives—though never more than one in a sentence.”
“All right, so let me start again . . . Since I’m not your type of guy, do you think I could be your type in terms of a friend?”
“As long as your real name isn’t Gazpacho2000.”
“Don’t tell me that’s the screen name they gave me!”
“No, not to worry,” said Mia, laughing. “I’m just winding you up. That’s something friends do, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Paul replied.
“If I were going to read one of your books, which one would you recommend?”
“I’d recommend one by another author.”
“Oh, come on, answer my question.”
“Choose one where the flap copy makes you want to meet the characters.”
“I would think to start with the first one.”
“No way, definitely not that one.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s the first. Would you want the people who come to your restaurant to judge you based on the first dish you ever cooked?”
“Friends don’t judge friends. They just gradually learn to understand them better.”
The waitress brought them two desserts.
“One lucuma-and-kalamansi éclair, and one fig tart with fromage blanc ice cream,” she announced. “Compliments of the chef.”
And she slipped away as quickly as she had arrived.
“What do you reckon lucuma and kalamansi are?”
“Clearly not part of your Proven?al repertoire. One is a Peruvian fruit,” Paul explained. “The other is a citrus fruit, like a cross between a tangerine and a kumquat.”
“Impressive!”
“Truth is, I read it earlier, before you showed up. They explain it in the menu.”
Mia rolled her eyes.
“You should have been an actress,” said Paul.
“What makes you say that?”
“Your face is just . . . so expressive when you speak.”
“Do you like cinema?”
“I do. But I never go. It’s awful—I haven’t seen one movie since I moved to Paris. But I write at night, and going to the movies alone just isn’t much fun.”
“I like going to the cinema on my own, blending in with the audience, looking around the theatre . . .”
“Have you been single for a long time?”
“Since yesterday.”
“Wow. That is recent. So you weren’t even single when you joined the dating site?”
“I thought that part of our reworked scene had been cut out. Yesterday made it official. In reality, I’ve been single for a few months. What about you?”
“Well . . . strictly speaking, I’m not. The woman I’m involved with lives on the other side of the world. But to be honest, I don’t really know what we have anymore. So, to be fair, I guess I’ve been single since the last time she visited, six months ago.”
“Don’t you ever visit her?”
“I have a fear of flying.”
“Don’t people say that love gives you wings?”
“Yes, cheesy as that may be. No offense. The wings don’t seem to be working.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a translator. In fact, she’s my translator, although I doubt that we’re exclusive in that sense. What about your other half—what does he do?”
“He’s a chef, like me. Well . . . more of a sous-chef, really.”
“Did you use to work together?”
“At times. Terrible idea.”
“How so?”
“He ended up sleeping with the dishwasher.”
“Ouch! That’s tactless, at best.”
“Have you always been faithful to your translator?”
The waitress brought them the bill. Paul reached for it automatically, preventing any of the usual awkwardness.
“Let’s split it,” Mia protested, “since we’re just friends.”
“You had enough to put up with during this meal. Don’t hold it against me—I’m clumsy and old-fashioned.”
Paul accompanied Mia to the taxi stand.
“I hope your night wasn’t too bad, all things considered.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Mia said.