her fellow diners. She was the only person dining alone. Some businessmen, of course, that was to be expected; and at least one pair of lovers, directly across from her on the opposite side of the room, holding hands under the table, eating with their eyes linked. Tricky, Mal thought, enviously. She must learn how to do that.
A basket of breads that smelled deliciously of the oven arrived and with it a round flat dish of butter. She took a roll and broke off a piece, layered on the butter, and put it in her mouth. Oh. My God. Where did they get this delicious yellow creamy sweet ever so slightly salted butter that if she ever was lucky enough to live here and dine in this place more often, would ruin her usual diet. Never had she wanted butter more.
Sitting back, she took a contented sip of the champagne. Odd, how quickly it disappeared when you were having a good time. Was she having a good time? Okay, so she was. The only trouble was she was projecting how it would be if she were with Harry, and she had come to realize it was never going to happen. Harry would never come to Paris. They would never sit in a gorgeous restaurant like this, holding hands under the table while gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes and eating divine food.
She summoned the waiter for a second glass of champagne. What the hell, she thought, remembering that old saying, in for a penny, in for a pound, or was it about burning your boats? Stuff like that, anyway. She might as well forget Harry and just enjoy her lunch.
A phone rang somewhere. She took another sip, noticed heads were turning in her direction. Oh my God, that was her phone. “Sorry, sorry, je m’excuse !” She waved an apologetic hand at them, fished the phone from her cavernous bag … why had she gotten a black phone, she could never find the friggin’ thing. Finally she had it. She breathed a sigh of relief and pressed the one button.
“Mal, are you there?”
She closed her eyes, leaning back in her burgundy padded velvet banquette, the phone clasped to her chest. It was Harry.
“Of course I’m here,” she said, smiling to herself, “and you’ll never guess where I am either.” She lowered her voice and tucked the phone under her hair, keeping Harry close to her. “Are you calling to say you are getting on that plane?”
“Not this time, Mal. I just wanted to say…”
The phone went dead. Mal rattled it furiously, clamped it to her ear again, but he was gone. She couldn’t call him back from here, it would be positively rude and to the French, no doubt indiscreet, to call one’s lover from a public place so everyone could hear you fighting about getting on a flight and getting your ass over here to be with her …
She would call him back later, if she could ever get him, of course. You never knew where Harry might be from one minute to the next.
Still, he had called her. And she was surrounded by beautiful people so she might as well people watch, and enjoy a fabulous meal in one of Paris’s most beautiful restaurants. And the hell with Harry. Well, almost. Anyway, the food was fabulous! Oh God, she was so alone without him.
19
It was lateish, after ten that night anyway, when Harry finally sat himself down in his favorite red-vinyl booth at Ruby’s Diner, the one with the perfect view of the door so he could check who came in, who went out. The dog hunkered on its haunches awaiting its own “Squeeze special” raw burger, which it practically inhaled in one ecstatic mouthful. The procedure was always completed before Harry even put in his own order, though, like Squeeze’s, his was always the same: a Ruby cheeseburger, Swiss, charred, well done. Lately he’d been trying to do without the fries but the night seemed to call for comfort food. After looking at a particularly gruesome murdered body in the icy morgue and hours spent fruitlessly searching for a drug dealer by the name of Divon, who’d had a rap sheet since he was a kid with
A basket of breads that smelled deliciously of the oven arrived and with it a round flat dish of butter. She took a roll and broke off a piece, layered on the butter, and put it in her mouth. Oh. My God. Where did they get this delicious yellow creamy sweet ever so slightly salted butter that if she ever was lucky enough to live here and dine in this place more often, would ruin her usual diet. Never had she wanted butter more.
Sitting back, she took a contented sip of the champagne. Odd, how quickly it disappeared when you were having a good time. Was she having a good time? Okay, so she was. The only trouble was she was projecting how it would be if she were with Harry, and she had come to realize it was never going to happen. Harry would never come to Paris. They would never sit in a gorgeous restaurant like this, holding hands under the table while gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes and eating divine food.
She summoned the waiter for a second glass of champagne. What the hell, she thought, remembering that old saying, in for a penny, in for a pound, or was it about burning your boats? Stuff like that, anyway. She might as well forget Harry and just enjoy her lunch.
A phone rang somewhere. She took another sip, noticed heads were turning in her direction. Oh my God, that was her phone. “Sorry, sorry, je m’excuse !” She waved an apologetic hand at them, fished the phone from her cavernous bag … why had she gotten a black phone, she could never find the friggin’ thing. Finally she had it. She breathed a sigh of relief and pressed the one button.
“Mal, are you there?”
She closed her eyes, leaning back in her burgundy padded velvet banquette, the phone clasped to her chest. It was Harry.
“Of course I’m here,” she said, smiling to herself, “and you’ll never guess where I am either.” She lowered her voice and tucked the phone under her hair, keeping Harry close to her. “Are you calling to say you are getting on that plane?”
“Not this time, Mal. I just wanted to say…”
The phone went dead. Mal rattled it furiously, clamped it to her ear again, but he was gone. She couldn’t call him back from here, it would be positively rude and to the French, no doubt indiscreet, to call one’s lover from a public place so everyone could hear you fighting about getting on a flight and getting your ass over here to be with her …
She would call him back later, if she could ever get him, of course. You never knew where Harry might be from one minute to the next.
Still, he had called her. And she was surrounded by beautiful people so she might as well people watch, and enjoy a fabulous meal in one of Paris’s most beautiful restaurants. And the hell with Harry. Well, almost. Anyway, the food was fabulous! Oh God, she was so alone without him.
19
It was lateish, after ten that night anyway, when Harry finally sat himself down in his favorite red-vinyl booth at Ruby’s Diner, the one with the perfect view of the door so he could check who came in, who went out. The dog hunkered on its haunches awaiting its own “Squeeze special” raw burger, which it practically inhaled in one ecstatic mouthful. The procedure was always completed before Harry even put in his own order, though, like Squeeze’s, his was always the same: a Ruby cheeseburger, Swiss, charred, well done. Lately he’d been trying to do without the fries but the night seemed to call for comfort food. After looking at a particularly gruesome murdered body in the icy morgue and hours spent fruitlessly searching for a drug dealer by the name of Divon, who’d had a rap sheet since he was a kid with
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