When I called the restaurant, Daisy told me you were fine—of course, that’s what matters.
I understand your lack of response. Maybe it’s better this way. Good-byes don’t really make any sense.
Thank you for all the precious moments we spent together.
Take care of yourself, even if that phrase doesn’t make any sense either.
Paul
When she reached the hotel, Mia pretended she had a migraine. David told the concierge to forget the theatre tickets and had their dinner brought up to the suite.
At eleven p.m., Daisy said good night to the last customers. Back at her apartment, she found a portrait of herself lying on the kitchen worktop, along with a short note.
Daisy,
I’m going back to England. I couldn’t muster the courage to stop by the restaurant. I am jealous of your new waitress. Joking aside, the truth is, if I’d seen you, I’d probably have changed my mind. These days I spent with you in Paris have been like sketches of a new life for me, a life that I started to love from the bottom of my heart. But I took your advice. I am returning to my old life and leaving you to yours.
I’ll call you from London in a few days, once I’ve got my bearings again. I don’t know if you were aware that David was coming to fetch me, but if you were, you made the right choice in not warning me. I will never be able to thank you properly for being such a good friend, for always being there when I need you, for standing up to me, even at the risk I’d be angry with you, and for never lying to me. I lied to you—you know what about—and I’m still so sorry for that.
This drawing of you was done by a caricaturist on Place du Tertre. You won’t have any trouble spotting him: he’s a lovely guy, almost as lovely as this portrait of you.
I miss you already.
Your friend, who loves you like a sister,
Mia
PS: Don’t forget your promise. Last week of September. Greece. Just the two of us. I’ll take care of everything.
Daisy quickly grabbed her phone. She tried calling Mia but couldn’t get through, so she sent her a text.
I hope you’re going to miss me as much as I’ll miss you. My new waitress is an imbecile. She’s got hairy armpits and has already broken two plates. You should call me ASAP. Temporary insanity is fine, but not to the point of taking my advice! I beg you, never do that. Outside the kitchen, your best friend is wrong about everything, especially life.
I love you, too. Like a sister . . .
The next morning, the chauffeur took the on-ramp that led to the airport and pulled up to park right next to the Departures level. David opened the door and held out his hand for Mia. She was about to exit the car when the doors of the terminal slid open. Mia had enough experience to quickly spot the paparazzi, and these vultures hadn’t even bothered hiding. She could see two of them standing in front of the check-in kiosks now.
You bastard! Who else could have tipped them off? Your whole visit to Paris, your entire charm offensive, was just to have the two of us seen together, wasn’t it? The riverboat would have been too obvious, but the airport . . . ? Just a coincidence, of course! And I actually believed you, like a complete and utter fool . . .
“Are you coming?” David asked impatiently.
“Sorry, wait for me inside. I need to call Daisy first.”
“Can I take your suitcases?”
“Don’t worry, the chauffeur can handle that. I’ll see you in five minutes.”
“Right, I’ll go on ahead and buy newspapers. But don’t take too long.”
As soon as David was out of sight, Mia closed the car door and leaned in toward the chauffeur.
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Maurice, madame.”
“Maurice, how well do you know this airport?”
“I bring passengers here maybe four to six times a day, on average.”
“Do you know where the flights to Asia leave from?”
“Terminal 2E.”
“All right, Maurice, listen up,” she said, rummaging around in her purse, “the flight for Seoul takes off in forty-five minutes. If you can get me to Terminal 2E in five minutes, I will give you a huge tip.”
The chauffeur sped off.
“Uh-oh . . . do you take credit cards?” Mia asked, embarrassed. “I don’t have any cash on me.”
“Are you going to take this flight to Asia, while your husband goes to London?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Forget the tip, then,” he said, weaving between a taxi and a bus. “That guy’s unbearable.”
The car roared along full throttle and, three minutes later, came to a halt in front of Terminal 2E.
The chauffeur hurried out to open the trunk, took out Mia’s suitcase, and put it on the pavement.
“And what am I supposed to do with his?” He gestured to David’s overstuffed bag.
“Maurice, you are now the proud owner of a pricey collection of cashmere sweaters and silk shirts. Thanks ever so much!”
Mia grabbed her luggage and hurried toward the check-in area.
There was only one agent left behind the desk.
“Hi, I have to go to Seoul. It’s urgent.”
The woman frowned doubtfully.
“I was about to close the flight. I’m afraid it’s fully booked.”
“I’m prepared to travel in the toilets if I have to.”
“For eleven hours?” the woman asked, looking up. “I can put you on tomorrow’s flight.”
“Please,” Mia begged, taking off her sunglasses.
The woman saw her face and her eyes lit up.
“I’m sorry. But are you . . . ?”
“Yes, I am! Could you please get me a seat?”
“You should have told me from the start! I have one first-class ticket left, but it’s full fare.”
Mia put her credit card on the desk.
“What date would you like for the return flight?”
“I have no idea.”
“I need a return date.”
“In a week . . . no, ten days . . . or two weeks . . .”
“Which one?”
“Two weeks! Please hurry!”
The woman behind the desk began typing furiously on her computer keyboard.
“Oh no, your suitcase! It’s too late to check it . . .”
Mia knelt down to whip open her suitcase, took out her toiletry bag and a few other things, and jammed them into her purse.
“You can keep the rest!”
“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” the woman said, leaning over the desk.
“Yes, you can!”
“Which hotel are you staying at?”
“I have no idea.”
The woman, who was now beyond being surprised by anything, handed Mia her boarding pass.
“Now run. I’ll ask them to hold the doors for you.”
Mia grabbed her ticket, took off her heels, and ran toward security, shoes in hand.
She arrived at the walkway out of breath, spotted the gate, screamed at the staff to wait for her, and did not slow down until she was on the boarding bridge.
Before getting on the plane, she tried to regain some semblance of composure, then handed her boarding pass to the flight attendant, who welcomed her with a big smile.
“That was one close shave,” he said, pointing to an empty seat. “You’re in 2A.”