“You just did.”
“Do you think a man and a woman really can be just friends without any gray zones? No ambiguity?”
“Yeah. Sure. Imagine one of them just came out of a relationship, and the other is in love with someone else, for example. It’s nice to be able to bare your soul to a stranger without any fear of being judged.”
She lowered her eyes and added: “I have to admit . . . I could really do with a friend at the moment.”
“Here’s an idea,” said Paul. “A few days from now, if we feel like seeing each other again, as friends, we’ll get in touch. But only if we feel like it. No obligation.”
“Okay,” agreed Mia as she got into a taxi. “Can’t I drop you off somewhere?”
“I have my car just around the corner. I’m sorry—I should have offered to drive you, but it’s too late now.”
“Well, see you soon, then. Maybe . . .” Mia smiled, closing the cab door. “Rue Poulbot, in Montmartre,” she told the driver.
Paul watched the taxi move away, before walking back up Rue du 29 Juillet. The night was clear, his spirits were high, and his car was impounded.
“All right, so the evening ended better than it began, but you’d better stick to your resolutions. As soon as you get back to Daisy’s apartment, delete your profile—no more dates with strangers. I hope you learned your lesson.”
“I’ve been driving a cab for twenty years, mademoiselle,” said the driver. “I don’t need directions, so you can stop mumbling.”
“Even if he wasn’t insane, he might very well have been. What would you have done in that case? And, my goodness, what if someone had recognized you in that restaurant? Okay, calm down, stay calm. No one could have recognized you . . . Better not tell anyone what happened tonight, ever, not even Daisy . . . in fact, especially not Daisy, because she’d kill you. Never tell anyone. It’ll be your little secret. Maybe tell your grandchildren when you’re old. But really old!”
“Why can I never find a taxi in this city?” grumbled Paul as he walked along Rue de Rivoli. “What a night! I really thought she was nuts. Arthur and Lauren must have laughed their asses off tonight. You think we’re even? Ha! You don’t know me half as well as you think you do. Think I need your help finding a date? I date who I want, when I want! Who do you think I am? And she was kind of crazy, wasn’t she? Maybe that’s a little unfair—I’m just annoyed, it’s not her fault. Anyway, she’ll never call me and I’ll never call her. It would be too embarrassing, after what happened tonight. And my car! The wheels were barely even touching the crosswalk. This sucks. The cops in this city are a total pain in the ass . . . Taxi!” Paul yelled, waving his arms.
The taxi dropped her at the corner on Rue Poulbot, and she entered the apartment building.
“I don’t even have his number, and he doesn’t have mine,” she muttered as she walked up the staircase, searching blindly through her purse for her keys. “I mean, talk about a recipe for disaster, if he were to have my—” Her hand grazed over an unfamiliar object in her bag. She took it out: “Oh shit, I’ve got his phone!”
Inside the apartment, she found Daisy sitting at the kitchen table, a pen in her hand.
“You’re home already?” Mia asked.
“It’s half past midnight,” Daisy replied, staring at a notebook. “That was quite a long film you went to see.”
“Yes . . . well, not exactly. I actually missed the eight-o’clock showing, so I went to the later one.”
“Was it any good, at least?”
“It got off to a very strange start, but got better as it went.”
“What was it about?”
“A dinner party where the guests didn’t know each other.”
“Sounds very Swedish.”
“What are you doing?”
“Accounting. You look weird,” Daisy said, glancing up at her friend.
Avoiding eye contact, Mia yawned and disappeared into her bedroom.
When he got home, Paul sat down at his desk and turned on his computer, ready to start work. Stuck to the screen was a Post-it note in Arthur’s handwriting with the username and password for Paul’s profile on the dating site.
8
After breakfast, Paul realized that he’d lost his cell phone. He went through his jacket pockets, lifted up the various piles of paper covering his desk, scanned the shelves of his bookcase, checked that it wasn’t in the bathroom, and tried to recall the last time he’d used it. He remembered giving it to Mia so she could read Arthur’s message. Now he was sure that he must have left it behind on the table. Furious with himself, he called the restaurant, but it went straight to voicemail. The place wasn’t open yet.
If the waitress had found it, she might have taken it with her. After all, he had left a generous tip. So he dialed his own number. You never know . . . could get lucky . . .
Mia was eating breakfast with Daisy when suddenly they heard Gloria Gaynor belting out “I Will Survive” from somewhere near the window.
Both women looked up in surprise.
“Sounds like it’s coming from the sofa,” said Daisy indifferently.
“You have a musical sofa?”
“Actually, I think it might be your purse doing its morning exercises.”
Mia’s eyes widened and she rushed over to the source of the music. She was rummaging around inside the bag when the tune suddenly cut out.
“Did Gloria get tired?” Daisy asked sarcastically from the kitchen.
The song erupted again, even louder this time.
“Nope,” she went on, “she was just saving herself for the encore. That Gloria sure knows how to work an audience!”
This time, Mia got to the phone in time and answered.
“Yes,” she whispered. “No, it’s not the waitress . . . Yes, it is, live and in person. I didn’t expect you to call so soon . . . I know, of course, I’m just kidding . . . Sure, I can do that . . . Where? I have no idea where that . . . In front of the Opera, one p.m. . . . Right, got it, see you later . . . Yup, bye . . . You’re welcome . . . Bye.”
Mia put the phone back in her purse and returned to the table. Daisy poured her some more tea and eyed her knowingly.
“Sounds like the usher was Swedish too.”
“Sorry?”
“Tell me about this Gloria Gaynor.”
“It was just someone who forgot his phone at the cinema. I found it and he was calling so I could give it back to him.”
“You English are so civilized! You’re going all the way to the Opera to give a stranger his phone back?”
“Why not? If it were my phone, I’d be relieved it was in the hands of someone decent.”
“What about this waitress?”
“What waitress?”
“Never mind. I’d rather be kept in the dark than treated like an idiot.”