Kyong remained on Paul’s mind when she wasn’t there, becoming perhaps even more present. Why did he miss her so much?
As soon as he finished writing a manuscript, she would begin her first one-week visit. Showing none of the exhaustion that would overcome any normal person who had just spent twelve hours traveling, she always looked fresh as a daisy. After a frugal lunch, consisting invariably of egg with mayonnaise, a slice of bread, and a glass of shandy (which perhaps was a miracle cure for jet lag—he really should test that out himself one day), which she would, also invariably, want to savor at the same café, on the corner of Rue de Bretagne and Rue Charlot, they would go up to Paul’s apartment. Kyong would take a shower, then sit at Paul’s desk to read the new manuscript. Paul would sit at the foot of the bed and watch her. This was inarguably a complete waste of time, as her face remained impassive while she read. It seemed to him that the question of whether or not she would leap into his arms depended on her assessment of the novel. As if her offer of “friendship and maybe more” translated to “more if I like your chapters.” For this reason, rather than expecting explicit feedback from the translator who was responsible for a substantial part of his income (since Paul lived off his Korean royalties), Paul sat tight until the moment when she would give herself to him.
He liked writing and living abroad. He liked Kyong’s biannual visits. Were it not for the fact that the price of this existence was a certain solitude throughout the rest of the year, he would have found his new life almost perfect.
The glass doors opened and Paul gave a sigh of relief.
Arthur was pushing a luggage cart while Lauren waved.
4
Mia opened her eyes and stretched. It took her a few moments to get her bearings, geographically and emotionally. She climbed out of bed, opened the bedroom door, and went to look for Daisy. Yet the apartment was empty.
Breakfast awaited her on the kitchen island, accompanied by a note in an old earthenware dish.
Seemed like you needed the sleep. Meet me at the restaurant when you’re ready.
Mia turned on the kettle and walked over to the window. By daylight, the view was even more stunning, as artists and locals filled the streets below on their way to the market, and she spotted the dome of Sacré-C?ur above the rooftops in the distance. She wondered what to do with her day, and the days to come. She looked at the oven clock and tried to imagine what David might be doing now; whether he was alone or making the most of her absence. Had she been right to leave, in hopes that he would miss her? Wouldn’t it have been better to stay and try to recapture what was lost?
Mia didn’t know what she wanted, but she knew what she didn’t want any more. The waiting, the silence, the suspicion. She wanted to rediscover her appetite for life and to stop waking up with her stomach in knots.
The sky was gray, but at least it wasn’t raining. That was a good start. She decided not to go and meet Daisy; instead, she would wander around Montmartre, poke about the shops, maybe even get her picture drawn by one of the many caricaturists. Totally kitschy, of course, but that was just what she felt like doing. In France, fewer people would recognize her. She was going to make the most of this freedom.
Mia rummaged through her travel bag, found an outfit, and then paused to give in to the temptation of exploring her best friend’s apartment. She ran her gaze over the white-painted bookcase, its shelves groaning under the weight of books. She pilfered a cigarette from the pack that someone had left on the coffee table, looking for any clue that might reveal the identity of its owner. Was it a man? A friend? A lover? Odd that Daisy hadn’t said anything. The mere thought that Daisy was sharing her life with someone rekindled Mia’s desire to call David, to go back in time to before that film with the supporting actress who had caught his eye. That affair probably wasn’t the first, but actually standing by helplessly as it unfolded in front of her had been a cruel experience, to say the least. Out on the terrace, she lit her cigarette and watched it burn between her fingers.
She went back into the apartment and sat at Daisy’s desk. The screen of her laptop was locked.
Mia texted her friend:
What’s your password? I need to check my email.
Can’t you do that on your phone?
Not when I’m abroad . . .
Ha! Cheapskate.
Is that the password?
You’re kidding, right?
Well, then what is it?
I’m working. Chives.
????
That’s my password.
Imworkingchives?
Just “chives,” dummy!
Not much of a password.
Nope. And don’t even think of snooping through my files.
I wouldn’t dream of it.
Mia put down her phone and typed in the password. She logged in to her account and found a message from Creston asking her where she was and why she wasn’t answering her phone. A fashion magazine had requested a photo shoot at her home, and her agent needed her consent as soon as possible.
She began to reply, pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts:
Dear Creston,
I’ve gone away for a while, and I’m relying on your discretion. Please don’t tell anyone—and I mean anyone. In order to keep up this fa?ade with David, I need to be alone, without taking orders from a director, a photographer, you, or any of your assistants. So: I will not be posing for a fashion magazine, because I don’t feel like it. I made a list of resolutions last night on the Eurostar, and the first was to stop being a pushover. I need to prove to myself that I’m capable of that, at least for a few days. I’m going out for a walk now, though I’ll be in touch soon. And don’t worry, you can count on my absolute discretion.
All the best,
Mia
She read it through, then hit “Send.”
A tab at the top of the screen caught her eye, and she clicked on it. Her eyes widened as she found herself staring at a dating site.
She had agreed not to go through Daisy’s files, but this was different . . . Besides, Daisy would never know.
She checked out the profiles of the men selected by her friend, burst out laughing at some of the messages she read, and spotted two bios that struck her as quite interesting. When a ray of sunlight glinted off the screen, she decided it was time to leave this virtual world and go outside into the real one. She turned off the laptop and borrowed a light jacket from the coatrack in the hallway.
After leaving the building, she walked up the street toward Place du Tertre, stopped outside a gallery, then continued on her way. A tourist couple stared at her. She saw the woman point and heard her say to her husband: “I’m sure it’s her! Go and ask!”