Free The Ingredients of Love by Nicolas Barreau Page B

through or not?” It was Madame Petit, unmistakably still on her high horse.
    â€œYes, yes, of course,” I managed to choke out, trying to swallow the lump of baguette somehow. “It’s Goldberg’s assistant, put her through, put her through!” Sometimes Madame Petit really had trouble adding two and two together.
    There was a crackle on the line, and then I heard a somewhat breathless female voice saying: “Is that Monsieur André Chabanais?”
    â€œThat’s me,” I replied, having got rid of the baguette. Adam’s assistants always had such pleasant voices, I thought. “Great that you’ve been able to call back so quickly, I need to speak to Adam urgently. Where’s he been?”
    The long pause at the other end of the line irritated me. I suddenly went ice cold, and I thought of that awful story the previous fall when an American agent had collapsed at the bottom of his stairs with a brain hemorrhage on the way to the book fair.
    â€œAdam’s okay, isn’t he?”
    â€œEr … well … I wouldn’t know anything about that.” The voice sounded a bit baffled. “I’m actually calling about Robert Miller.”
    She’d obviously read my e-mail to Adam. Adam and I had agreed at the time that we wouldn’t tell anyone else about our little secret, and I hoped he’d stuck to the plan.
    â€œAnd that’s precisely why I need to talk to Adam,” I said cautiously. “It’s because Robert Miller is supposed to come to Paris, as you probably know.”
    â€œOh,” said the voice with delight. “That’s just wonderful. No, I didn’t know that. Tell me … did you get my letter? I hope it was all right that I just dropped it in like that. And would you be so kind as to forward it to Robert Miller? It’s extremely important to me, you know.”
    I was gradually beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland when she met the White Rabbit.
    â€œWhat letter? I haven’t received a letter,” I bleated in confusion. “Tell me, you are from the Goldberg Literary Agency, aren’t you?”
    â€œOh, no. This is Aurélie Bredin. Not an agency. I think I’ve been given the wrong extension. I wanted to talk to the editor who deals with Robert Miller,” the voice said with cheerful certainty.
    â€œThat’s me.” I was gradually getting the feeling that the conversation was beginning to go round in circles. I didn’t know anyone called Aurélie Bredin. “Now, Madame Bredin. What can I do for you?”
    â€œI dropped a letter for Robert Miller at your office yesterday evening, and just wanted to make sure that it had arrived safely and will be forwarded to him.”
    At last the penny dropped. Nothing ever went quickly enough for these press people.
    â€œAh, now I know … you’re the lady from Le Figaro, is that it?”
    â€œNo, monsieur.”
    â€œWell, but … who are you then?”
    The voice sighed. “Aurélie Bredin, I’ve already told you.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThe letter,” the voice repeated impatiently. “I’d like you to forward my letter to Monsieur Miller.”
    â€œWhat letter are you talking about? I haven’t received any letter.”
    â€œThat can’t be right. I brought it personally yesterday. A white envelope. Addressed to the author Robert Miller. You must have got the letter.” The voice was becoming persistent, and now it was I who was beginning to lose patience.
    â€œListen, madame, if I say that there’s no letter here, then you can believe it. Perhaps it may still come, and then we’ll gladly forward it. Can we leave it at that?”
    My suggestion seemed not to meet with much enthusiasm.
    â€œWould it be possible to get Robert Miller’s address? Or does he perhaps have an e-mail address where he can be reached?”
    â€œI’m sorry,