“Northern Ireland? Not the other part, because I don’t have my passport.”
“Don’t you?” I pull anoh shitface.
“Do you carry your passport around with you?” she scoffs, unfolding her legs from beneath her and turning to face me fully.
“What? You mean Americans don’t?” I frown, confused, as I slip my hand into the top pocket of my shirt and, “Ta-da!”
“You don’t carry your passport around with you.”
“So what’s this?” I give it a little shake.
“Well, mine is with HR,” she says, flopping back in her seat. “They asked me to bring it in during the week. Something about my visa and the biometric reading.”
“Oh, dear. Sounds like you’ve been scammed. It’s probably been sold one and an Albanian nana somewhere is at this moment opening a bank account in your name.”
“Don’t joke about that.” She folds her arms across her chest and scowls in my direction. After a beat, she adds, “Are we really going somewhere I’ll need it because I really don’t have it.”
“No, but I do,” I say, pulling it out of my jacket pocket.
“You sneak!” She immediately follows this up with, “So, where are we going?”
But I just laugh.
* * *
“Paris!” she squeals.
“Steady on,” I faux-complain, sticking my finger in my ear. “These eardrums have got to last me another fifty years, at least.”
“You brought me to Paris!”
“Happy?”
“Try ecstatic!” Mimi practically bounces her way to immigration at Le Bourget private terminal. One of the better perks of flying private, especially into Paris, is avoiding the immigration queues. Charles de Gaulle Airport makes you feel like you need a break just to get over the experience.
Why Paris? It’s the city of love, right? If I can’t make her love me here, what chance have I got? And I will be pulling out all the stops. But also, Mimi had become engrossed in a travel program on TV recently, so I knew it was somewhere she’d like to visit. And then there’s the matter of her favorite movie, which I think I might be able to incorporate.
“Bonjour!” She greets the immigration officer with such enthusiasm, complimenting the woman on her lipstick and generally peppering her with thoughtful questions.
“How to win friends and influence people,” I say, taking her hand as we step out of the terminal. I bring our linked fingers to my lips. “I should’ve taken you with me when I had to meet the FCA.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve missed your calling. If you can make a Parisienne immigration officer smile, you should go into hostage negotiations.”
“It costs nothing to be nice.”
Nothing. Just my heart.
We climb into the Mercedes Town Car I’d arranged.
“Where to first?” she asks, still vibrating with excitement.
“I think it would be rude not to eat a croissant first.” My laughter fills the back of the Mercedes as she wraps her fist in my sweater, pulling my lips down to hers.
37
MIMI
