Free The Ingredients of Love by Nicolas Barreau Page A

who’d read a maximum of five books in his whole life and was now more or less made aware—less rather than more, actually—that he was the author of a novel. “How very funny,” was, according to Adam, all that he said about it.
    I had serious doubts about whether this placid man would still find it funny to come to Paris, talk to journalists about his book, and give a reading. Did he even know the city he was supposed, according to his biography in the blurb, to have such a liking for? Or had he never left his sleepy county? Was he likely to be up to speaking and reading in public? Perhaps he had a speech defect, or would refuse on principle to act as a ringer. It was only now that I realized that I knew nothing at all about Adam’s brother, except that he was Libra with Libra in the ascendant (and so, according to Adam, a miracle of equilibrium) and a thoroughbred dentist (whatever that might mean). I didn’t even know his name. No, of course I did: Robert Miller.
    â€œHoly shit!” I laughed desperately and cursed the evening this whole lunatic plan had been hatched. “It’s not clever, it’s brilliant!” I mimicked my friend. Yes, that was in fact the most brilliant drunken idea that clever Adam had ever had and now everything was threatening to go off the rails and I was going to be in deep trouble.
    â€œWhat can I do, what can I do?” I murmured, staring as if hypnotized at the screen-saver, which had flicked on and was showing a continuous series of dreamy Caribbean beaches. What wouldn’t I have given to be that far away now, lazing on one of those white beach loungers under the palms with a mojito in hand, just staring into the empty blue sky for hours on end?
    There was a timid knock at the door.
    â€œWhat is it this time?” I barked, and sat up straight.
    Mademoiselle Mirabeau came carefully into the room. She was carrying a big pile of printed paper and looked at me as if I were a cannibal who wolfed down little blond girls for breakfast.
    â€œI’m sorry, Monsieur Chabanais, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
    Heavens, I must pull myself together!
    â€œNo, no, you’re not disturbing me!” I tried a smile. “What is it?”
    She stepped closer and put the pile of papers down on my desk. “This is that Italian translation that you gave me to edit last week. I’ve finished working on it.”
    â€œGood, good, I’ll look at it a bit later.” I took the pile and laid it to one side.
    â€œIt was a good translation. Didn’t need much work.”
    Mademoiselle Mirabeau put her hands behind her back and remained in the room as if rooted to the spot.
    â€œGlad to hear it,” I said. “Sometimes you just get lucky.”
    â€œI’ve tried to write the jacket copy as well. It’s on top of the pile.”
    â€œWonderful, Mademoiselle Mirabeau. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
    A gentle blush spread over her fine, heart-shaped face. Then she said abruptly: “I’m so sorry that you’re having such problems, Monsieur Chabanais.”
    My goodness, she was really sweet! I cleared my throat.
    â€œIt’s not that bad,” I replied, and hoped that it sounded as if I had everything under control.
    â€œLooks as if that Miller guy’s being a bit difficult. But I’m sure you’ll talk him round.” She gave me an encouraging smile and went over to the door.
    â€œSure thing,” I said, and for one happy moment forgot that my problem wasn’t Robert Miller, but the fact that he didn’t exist.
    *   *   *
    It was just as I expected. The very moment I unwrapped my ham baguette and took a hearty bite, the phone rang. I grabbed the handset and tried to maneuver the unchewed bite into the corner of my cheek.
    â€œHm … yes?” I said.
    â€œThere’s some woman on the line. Says it’s about Robert Miller—should I put her