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العودة   شبكة روايتي الثقافية > مكتبات روايتي > English Library > Fiction > Drama > Danielle Steel

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قديم 29-04-11, 02:49 PM   #11

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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Chirolp Krackr


The evening gowns that came toward the end of the show were equally fabulous and unique. He couldn't imagine any of the women he knew wearing these creations to the opening of the Met, or any of the events he went to, but he loved watching them, and seeing all the drama and spectacle that surrounded the models. And when the bride came out, she was wearing a huge exaggerated version of a Masai headdress, a white painted taffeta skirt so enormous she could hardly get it off the train, and a gold breastplate entirely encrusted with diamonds. And at the instant the model stepped off the train, John Galliano appeared on a white elephant, wearing a loincloth, and an identical breastplate himself. And half a dozen of the painted warriors lifted the bride up to him, and sat her behind him on the elephant, as they both waved and were led away. The tigers and snow leopard had been removed by then, which seemed fortunate to John, as the crowd around them went absolutely berserk, screaming and shouting and cheering and applauding, as the rest of the models filed past, and the drum music got deafeningly louder. And moments later the warriors and models got on the train, and were carried out of the station. It was pandemonium on the platform, as Fiona finally turned to look at John.
“Well?” She looked amused, and could see that he was stunned. He had been mesmerized by the performance. It was heady stuff for a novice, or even an aficionado of the couture shows. But in this realm at least, John was decidedly a virgin. This was a hell of a way to go.
“Just another day at the office for you, I guess.” He smiled at her. He had loved it. “But it blew my socks off. Absolutely amazing. All of it. The clothes, the women, the warriors, the music, the animals. I didn't know where to look first.” In a far, far more glamorous way, it had reminded him of his first time at a three-ring circus. This wasn't even Disneyland. It was nirvana. “Is it always like this?”
“At Dior it is. They seem to outdo themselves every time. The old houses never did anything like this. The shows used to be elegant and sedate. But Dior has been this way ever since Galliano. It's more about theater than fashion. It's more of a publicity campaign than a serious intent to dress women. But it works for them, and the press loves it.”
“Does anyone wear the clothes?” He couldn't imagine it, although a wedding with Galliano's bride in the gold and diamond breastplate would have been interesting certainly.
“Not many. And they make a lot of changes and adjustments. There are only thirty or forty women in the world who wear couture anyway, so many of the houses are closing. The workmanship is so intense, the cost of the materials and labor so high, they all lose money on it. Which is why in some cases they make it about publicity now and not making money. But in some ways, it has an impact on ready-to-wear, and it's worth covering from that standpoint. Because sooner or later, we'll see some mutation of this on real women who buy their clothes at Barney's.”
“I can hardly wait for that,” John said, and she laughed. “I'd love to see that at my office.”
“You might at some point, in a very watered-down version. Sooner or later it gets there, in a forum and rendition tolerable to the masses. This is where it starts, in its purest form.” It was one way to look at it, and he knew she was intensely knowledgeable about her business. He had even more respect for her, and was even more fascinated by her, after seeing her in Paris. And she was obviously enjoying being with him.
As the crowd began to thin, they made their way toward the exits. They were going back to the hotel for a drink, and eventually they were going to a public swimming pool for the party hosted by Dior. But Fiona said there was no point going before midnight. It was already ten o'clock as they left the station. And ten-thirty when they got back to the hotel, and they settled in at a corner table in the bar for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres. He was starving by then, but she said she wasn't hungry. Adrian stopped in to see them for a few minutes, said he thought the show was fabulous, and every five minutes, someone else stopped to say hello to Fiona. It was more than obvious that in this realm she was queen.
“Do you ever get a break from all this?” he asked with interest.
“Not here,” she said, sipping a glass of white wine. He had ordered a martini, and he didn't complain to her that it was mostly vermouth. He didn't really care. He was having too much fun with her to care what he drank. And it was easy to see how much she loved it, not just the attention, but the ambiance. She was totally in her element, surrounded by her subjects and slaves. Everyone wanted to know what she thought of the clothes, and she was ready to admit finally that she loved them for the most part.
“What did you love about them?” he asked, intrigued.
“The workmanship, the detail, the imagination, the color, the mood. The painted skirts were fabulous, they were works of art. He really is a genius. You know, in haute couture, every single stitch in any garment must be sewn by hand. There isn't a single machine stitch in the entire collection,” she explained. It was all a mystery to John. It was about as far as you could get from the world of the little black cocktail dress that he understood. It was Fiona's world, not his. And he admired her for it. “Do you like clothes?” she asked as they munched nuts, and little hors d'oeuvres, while exotic-looking people continued to interrupt them. They were all paying homage to Fiona, and some seemed curious about John when she introduced him. But most ignored him. It was Fiona they wanted to talk to, and approached in droves.
“I like well-dressed women. This is a little beyond me, but it certainly is fun to watch. And very different.” She nodded, as yet another hanger-on stopped at their table. “You don't get much peace here.” In fact she got none at all. But she hadn't come to Paris for peace.
“I don't expect to,” she said calmly. The truth was she didn't get much peace anywhere, and didn't mind it. This was what she had filled her life with instead of a husband and children. The only constants in her life were her work, Adrian, and Sir Winston. The rest was stage sets and actors who came and went onstage. She loved the visuals and the drama. “I think too much peace makes me nervous. I miss the noise.”
“How are you on vacation?” he asked with interest. It was hard to imagine her doing nothing, or alone. She seemed so much a part of the chaos she lived in, he could no longer imagine her without it, nor could she. He suspected that long term, or full time, it would drive him crazy, but it totally fascinated him for now.
“I get anxious for the first week,” she said honestly in answer to his question. “And bored the second.” They both laughed at what she'd said.
“And the third?”
“I go back to work.”
“That's what I thought. So no taking a month off on a desert island. That's too bad.”
“I spent a month in Tahiti once after I'd been sick, and my doctor insisted I go to a warm climate and rest. I nearly went out of my mind. I take my vacations in Paris, London, and New York.”
“And St. Tropez,” he added, and she smiled.
“That's more of this, with water and bikinis. It's not really peace. But it's a lot of fun.” He conceded that it would be, especially with her. She was a rare, exotic bird, with plumage as bright and colorful as what he had just seen at Dior—there was nothing small and brown and tame about her. Nothing at all. But he liked her this way. Immensely so. “Are you ready for another round of Dior?” she inquired with a look of mischief.
“More tigers and elephants and warriors?” They were intriguing, but he had had enough of them for one day.
“No, it's a water theme,” Fiona told him, but once again, when they arrived, he was completely bowled over by what they had done to an ordinary swimming pool. There was a Lucite dance floor placed over the pool, with huge exotic fish swimming under it, and girls painted to look like fish in brilliant hues with stripes of gold wearing only body paint and nothing else as they wandered through the crowd. And men in tiny gold bikinis with incredible bodies served food and drinks. The techno music was deafening as people danced and writhed on the Lucite floor. The entire party was decorated to look as though it were underwater. They served sushi and exotic seafood, and every supermodel in Paris was there, along with movie stars, photographers, socialites, aristocracy and royalty, exquisite people, and the elite of the fashion world. And again everyone knew Fiona and greeted her. It was an incredible evening, but John was grateful when they left in less than an hour. Fiona had done her duty and was satisfied to leave, as they both leaned back against the seat in the limousine, relieved to have escaped the noise.
“My God, that was quite a scene,” he said, unable to find words to comment on it. He was beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland, or as though he had overdosed on LSD at lunch. He couldn't imagine spending a week doing this twice a year, but she seemed to thrive on it, and be unperturbed by the frenzy and turmoil. She smiled peacefully at him as they drove back to the Ritz under an incredibly beautiful Paris night sky.
“The other parties this week won't be as exotic as this. Dior goes all out.” She knew they had spent three million dollars on the party they'd just left and much more on the show they'd seen that afternoon. The other houses were more circumspect, both in their budgets and their themes. This was quite an introduction for him, and as they approached the Place Vendôme, Fiona asked the driver to stop and turned to John. “Do you want to walk for a few minutes, or are you too tired?” She liked walking in Paris before she went home to bed, but it had been a long day for both of them, and jet lag was finally catching up with her.
“I'd like that,” he said quietly, as she dismissed the car for the night, and they strolled slowly down the rue Castiglione to the Place Vendôme. Suddenly they felt like real people in a real world in the most beautiful city on the planet, and he was grateful for the exercise and the air. It seemed to restore some normalcy to the night after all the exotic things they'd experienced and seen. “I was beginning to feel like I was on drugs,” he admitted, as they walked into the square, and stopped to look in shop windows. He felt almost normal again, just tired.
“Have you had enough of it?” Fiona asked, curious about the extent of his tolerance for her milieu.
“Not yet. I'm fascinated, although today will be hard to top. I'm going to be disappointed, I think, if the other shows are anything less.”
“Not less, just more restrained. You might enjoy them more. They're not as much sensory overload as Dior. That's their stock-in-trade.”




Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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قديم 29-04-11, 02:50 PM   #12

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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My Mms ~
افتراضي

“And yours?” he asked, as he tucked her hand in his arm and they walked on.
“Maybe. I like the beautiful and the exotic, interesting people with talent and creative spirits. I think I've gotten spoiled. Sometimes I'm not sure what normal is anymore. This is all normal to me. I forget sometimes that other people lead simpler lives.”
“You're going to be very bored if you leave all this one day, Fiona. Or maybe it will give you something exciting to write about.” But even after knowing her for such a short time, he could not imagine her doing anything other than what she was, with a flock of adoring minions revolving around her. It was heady air she breathed, and in the midst of it all, she was the queen bee, as powerful as any queen. He imagined it made it hard for her to ally with any man—and he was sure she was well aware of it. Few men would be willing to exist on the fringes of her world. And fewer still would be able or willing to participate in it. To most men, her life was like traveling on a rocket through outer space. And John felt that way too. But he enjoyed being with her, it was a rare opportunity. But not one he could have tolerated easily day to day. His own life seemed half-dead and incredibly mundane compared with hers, although he ran one of the largest ad agencies in the world. But even his world seemed tame compared to hers. He couldn't even begin to imagine what it would be like being married to her. And he wondered now if this was why she had never married, and he couldn't resist asking her as they approached the Ritz. He wondered if her single life was too much fun to give up and married life far too boring. He couldn't imagine anyone with a husband or wife staying in that world for long.
“Not really,” she said thoughtfully. “I've just never felt a need to be married, nor wanted to be. It seems so painful when it doesn't work out. I've never wanted to take that risk. Rather like jumping out of a burning building. If you're lucky, you might land in the net they hold out to you, but from what I can see, you're a lot more likely to hit the cement.” She looked at him with wide honest eyes, and he laughed, as they walked slowly into the Ritz. There were guards with dogs outside. And the paparazzi were still standing watch, waiting for celebrities to come home.
“That's one way to look at it, I guess. It's wonderful when it does work out. I loved being married. But you have to choose the right person, and maybe have a lot of luck.” They both thought of his late wife as he said it, although Fiona didn't want to go there.
“I've never liked gambling,” Fiona said honestly. “I'd rather spend my money on things I like, than risk losing it all. And I've never met anyone who I thought would really be able to tolerate being part of my life forever. I travel a lot, I'm too busy, I have a lot of crazy people around. My dog snores. And I like it all just the way it is.” Somehow, John found that hard to believe. In his mind, sooner or later, everyone realizes that they don't want to be alone. And yet, he had to admit that she seemed immensely content with her life just as it was.
“And what happens when you get old?”
“I'll deal with it. I've always thought that was a particularly stupid reason to get married. Why spend thirty years with someone who makes you uncomfortable, in order not to be alone when you get old? What if I got Alzheimer's and didn't even remember him? Think of all the time I'd have wasted being miserable, in order not to be unhappy when I'm old. That's like an insurance policy, not a union of minds and souls. Besides, I could go down in a plane next week, and then I'd make someone terribly unhappy if something like that happened. This way the only one who'd be upset is my dog.” John found it an odd way to look at things, but she seemed comfortable with it.
It was the antithesis of the way he'd lived, with a long marriage, a wife he had loved, and two kids. And even though he'd been devastated when Ann died, he thought the years they'd shared before were well worth it. When he went, he wanted to be mourned by more than a dog. But Fiona didn't. She was very clear about it. She had seen her mother's pain each time a man left her life, and felt her own when her two long-term relationships had ended. She could only imagine that marriage, and losing a spouse, would be far worse, perhaps even unbearable. It was easier, in her mind at least, not to have one in the first place. So she filled her life with other things, pastimes, pursuits, projects, and people.
“Besides,” she continued thoughtfully, “I don't like being encumbered. Maybe I just like my freedom.” She grinned impishly at him as she shrugged her shoulders, but she did so without apology. “My life suits me as it is.” And in spite of his own very different ideas, he agreed with her. She seemed perfectly content with her existence, and made no bones about it.
Once back in the Ritz, they walked past the vitrines full of expensive items of jewelry and clothing, as he took her to the elevator on the Cambon side. Their rooms were on the third floor, and his was just down the hall from hers. He stood outside her door, as she reached into her bag to find the large blue plastic key. They put it on a heavy brass ring, and she always took the key off and left the brass part on the desk in her room. It was too heavy to drag around in her bag. John waited politely until she found it, inserted it in the electronic lock, and the door opened as she turned to thank him for coming to Paris with her. It had been fun sharing the Dior evening with him, from beginning to end. Or rather, from train station to pool.
“Do you have time for breakfast tomorrow morning, or will you be too busy?” he asked, as she noticed that he looked as impeccably groomed as he had at the beginning of the evening. And it was already two o'clock in the morning. It had been a long night, but a good one. And he wore well. He was flexible and easygoing and fun to be with, and he had a nice manly look to him that she was not unaware of. She just wasn't ready to respond to it. Or at least she was being careful not to for the time being.
“I have to make some calls when I get up, and at some point, I have to meet with our photographer to go over the proof sheets from the Dior show. But he won't have them until late afternoon. And we have to be at the Lacroix show at eleven. We should leave here at ten-thirty…. I want to dress by nine…. I could do breakfast with you at eight-thirty.” She made it sound like a business meeting she was fitting in, and he smiled at her.
“I think I can manage that.” He had to make some business calls himself, but he was planning to do them in the afternoon, because of the time difference with New York. “What do you like for breakfast? I'll order for both of us, if that's all right with you.” She was so independent that he didn't want to step on her toes, or make her feel out of control. He had a feeling that wouldn't be a good move.
“Grapefruit and coffee,” she said unceremoniously, with a small yawn. She was getting sleepy, and he liked the way she looked when she did. She seemed somehow softer and smaller, and not quite as efficient or as daunting, or as much in control.
“Can't you do better than that? You can't run around till lunchtime on half a grapefruit and a cup of coffee. You'll fall over, Fiona. What about an omelette?” She looked hesitant for a minute, and then nodded. “Do you like anything in it?”
“Chanterelles,” she said, smiling up at him, and he looked pleased.
“That sounds good to me too. I'll order it for eight-thirty. My room or yours?” But he had already guessed before she said it. He was starting to know her.
“Mine probably. Someone may need to call me. I'm working.”
“No problem. See you in the morning, Fiona. I had a wonderful time tonight. Thank you for including me. This is definitely a night I won't forget, though I don't think anyone would believe me if I described it to them. I think I liked all those Masai warriors best of all.”
“Naturally.” She smiled at him. “That's boy stuff.”
“What did you like best?” he asked with interest.
She had a sudden overwhelming urge to say “being with you” but didn't, and was shocked at herself that it had even come to mind. “The wedding dress maybe, or the painted skirts.” She was going to write about them for the magazine, and hoped that the photographs of them were good.
“I thought the tigers and leopard were great too,” he said, sounding boyish. He could hardly wait to tell his daughters what he'd seen. They knew he had gone to Paris, but they didn't know why or with whom. He always let his daughters know where he was, particularly now that Ann was gone.
“I should have taken you to the natural history museum or the zoo instead of Dior,” Fiona teased him, and they both laughed, as she scolded him for the irreverence, and lack of fascination with fashion, but she knew he'd had a good time, which was all that mattered. They lingered for a moment, sensing each other more than saying anything, and then he gently kissed her on the forehead and walked to his own room with a wave. Fiona felt haunted by him as she walked into her own room. He was damnably attractive, responsible and normal, sensible and so undeniably all-male. For a mad moment, she wanted to run down the hall after him, but she had no idea what she would do after that, if she did. She was trying to keep her head clear despite his proximity, but suddenly it seemed harder to do. She felt overwhelmingly attracted to him. But fortunately, he had closed the door to his room by then, and Fiona congratulated herself silently for her self-control. It would serve no purpose getting involved with him, she told herself. She had made that decision in the course of the evening. He was handsome as hell, and she was physically attracted to him, but she was wise enough to know that they were just too different. She wasn't a kid anymore, after all, and some gifts, no matter how alluring they were, were better left wrapped and unopened. All she had to do now was get through the next few days of the shows without losing control. She was determined to do just that and not succumb to John's charm, no matter how hard to do. And when it came to self-control, Fiona was a pro.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
التوقيع
أنْت يـَـــا اللَّـه 【 تَكْفِينِي 】ツ

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قديم 29-04-11, 02:50 PM   #13

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

? العضوٌ??? » 130321
?  التسِجيلٌ » Jul 2010
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? الًجنِس »
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?  نُقآطِيْ » Dalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond repute
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?? ??? ~
My Mms ~
افتراضي

Chapter 5





John Anderson knocked on Fiona's door the next morning, with the room service waiter standing right behind him. As Fiona opened the door, she looked wide awake and was wearing a pink terry-cloth Ritz robe and matching slippers. Her teeth were brushed, her hair was combed, and she told John she had been on the phone since seven o'clock that morning. She and Adrian had discussed the Dior show from the day before, and were in complete agreement as to which were the most important pieces. They were both going to Lacroix that morning. Adrian had been to the ateliers the day before and was extremely enthusiastic about what they'd shown him. By the time John arrived for breakfast, her head was already full of business and fashion.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked solicitously. He was wearing gray slacks and a blue shirt with the collar open. And he was wearing impeccably shined black Gucci loafers. As she looked at him, she was aware once again of how attractive and sexy she found him.
“Yes, thank you.” She smiled at him as the waiter set out their breakfast on the rolling table and pulled up two comfortable chairs for them. There was a folded newspaper at each place, and a small vase of red roses on the table. It was the perfect breakfast. “I always sleep well. Although I have to admit, after I've been here awhile, I miss the sound of Sir Winston snoring. It's kind of like the ocean,” she said as they both sat down, and glanced at the papers. They had two copies of the Herald Tribune. And for a moment, they sat in silence, eating, lost in their own thoughts, as they contemplated the morning.
“So what am I going to see today? More leopards and tigers, or something tamer?”
“Today you see living art.” She smiled at him. “Poetry in motion. Living sculpture. Lacroix's clothes are like paintings worn by women, with different elements integrated, unrelated fabrics, and vibrant colors. I think you'll love it.”
“Anything like yesterday?” he asked with interest, sitting back in his chair, eyeing her. He liked the way she looked in the morning with her hair cascading past her shoulders. It made her look younger. She thought he had the clean, fresh-shaven look of a man of distinction and good grooming, and even from across the table, she noticed that he smelled delicious.
“Completely different,” she said, in answer to his question. “This is quiet, distinguished, striking, but very elegant. Galliano is a showman and creates theater, Lacroix is a genius and creates art.”
“I like your description,” John said, turning to the financial page of the paper, and glancing down the list of stocks. Once satisfied that all was well, he turned his attention back to her. “You're teaching me a lot.” He wasn't sure what he'd do with it, but he liked sharing the experience with her. It was fun seeing her in her world, and getting to know her better.
She ate the whole omelette he had ordered for her, the half grapefruit she had wanted anyway, and then as an afterthought, she ate a pain au chocolat and drank two cups of coffee. “I can't see you anymore, John,” she said as she set her cup down, and he looked across the table at her, startled.
“That was sudden.” He suddenly wondered if there was someone else in her life. It would explain the distance he felt from her occasionally. He had thought it was self-protection, and now he wondered if it was actually due to another romance. He hated to admit it, but he was disappointed. “What brought that on?”
“Breakfast. If I hang around you any longer, I'll be the size of this table. You're too fattening. I eat too much when I'm with you.” He looked at her in amazement and relief and grinned broadly. And then sounded sheepish when he answered.
“I thought you meant it. For a minute you had me worried.” He felt vulnerable as he said it.
“I did mean it. I can't afford to get fat in my business. I'd look foolish. I mean, how chic is a two-hundred-pound editor of the world's most important fashion magazine? They'd drum me right out of the business, and it would be all your fault.”
“Okay, in that case, stop eating. I'm not going to feed you ever again, and if I see you touch lunch today, we'll call the doctor and ask him to have your stomach stapled. Personally, I think you could use a little weight, but who am I to ask you to risk your job for an omelette?”
“It's not the omelette, it's the pain au chocolat that went with it. I'm addicted to them.” She was smiling at him as she said it, and just looking at her, he could feel a tug at his heart.
“We'll put you in a twelve-step program when you get home. But I still think you need to eat breakfast.” And the truth was that she was enjoying every moment of eating it with him. He was good company, even in the morning, and usually she didn't like talking to anyone before she got to the office, even Sir Winston. But this was different. This was Paris, and there was an aura of ease and happiness and romance everywhere around them. Particularly at the Ritz. It was one of her favorite hotels in the world. Ordinarily, when he came to town, he stayed at the Crillon. But this time he was happy to be at the Ritz, with her.
“I have to get dressed,” she said unceremoniously and stood up, in bare feet and the pink bathrobe. And for a moment, he felt nearly married, whatever her views on the subject. They were in the living room of her suite.
“You look very pretty.”
“Like this?” She looked at him as though he had said something utterly ridiculous, as she ran a hand through her hair and tightened the bathrobe. She was wearing nothing underneath it, but he couldn't see anything, and the pale pink color looked soft and flattering near her face. “Don't be silly,” she said, dismissing the compliment, walked into her bedroom, and closed the door. He said he was going to read the paper while he waited, but instead when she returned, she found him staring out the window. He was lost in thought, and gave a start when she touched his shoulder. He had been a million miles away, and thinking of her.
“Don't you look elegant,” he said admiringly. She was wearing a black-and-white summer linen pantsuit that had been given to her the year before as a gift from Balmain, and it suited her well. She was wearing high-heeled black lizard Blahnik sandals, and a soft black leather Hermès bag known as the “Kelly mou.” Her hair was tied back in a neat knot, and she was wearing big black shell earrings by Seaman Schepps. She looked elegant and demure, and the only spot of color was her enormous turquoise bracelet on her wrist. She looked every bit the editor-in-chief of Chic. “Ready?” he asked as they prepared to leave the room. It was all very proper, but somehow felt surprisingly domestic, and as they walked out of the living room of her suite, they ran right into Adrian, hurrying out of his room. He raised an eyebrow at both of them and grinned.
“My, my, isn't this good news. I was hoping something like that would happen. A honeymoon at the Ritz.” It was a rather bold assumption on his part.
“Oh, shut up, Adrian,” Fiona said, looking embarrassed, as John smiled at them both. He had put on a blazer by then, and a good-looking yellow Hermès tie. “We just had breakfast together. Relax. I'm still a virgin.”
“That's disappointing to hear,” he said as they got in the elevator together. John seemed to be a good sport about Adrian's teasing. The two men chatted on the way down, and Fiona strode out of the elevator ahead of them. As it turned out, Adrian's driver was late, so all three of them rode to the Académie des Beaux Arts on the Left Bank together in Fiona's car.
And just as Fiona had predicted, the show was dignified, yet elegant and impressive, an entirely different scene than the show she'd taken John to the day before. He was vastly impressed and said he loved it. After the show, Adrian went back to the hotel to talk to the photographer. John and Fiona went to lunch at Le Voltaire. She was beginning to feel as though she were being lazy. She was more interested in spending time with John than in doing her work.
They shared a relaxing, comfortable three hours eating lunch at Le Voltaire, and by the time it was full, Fiona knew more than half the people there. Hubert de Givenchy had come for lunch, as did the Baronne de Ludinghausen, formerly from Saint Laurent. There were designers and socialites and bankers, and as they ordered coffee, Fiona chatted amiably with a Russian prince at the next table. She knew everyone, and more important, they all knew her.
They both went back to the hotel to make phone calls to New York after lunch, and met up again at four-thirty. They had agreed to take a walk down the Faubourg St. Honoré, and he followed her willingly into Hermès. By the time they got back to the hotel at six o'clock, they had spent the entire day together, and Fiona was surprised at how totally at ease she felt with him. It was so comfortable being together. She went to change, while he sent some e-mails on his computer, and when they met again an hour later, she was wearing an ice-blue silk suit. They were on their way to see Givenchy, which turned out to be slightly outrageous, and although she said she liked some of the pieces, she was disappointed in it from a professional point of view.
After that they came back to the Ritz for the Chic magazine cocktail party, which Adrian had in total control. Everyone who was anyone was there. Fiona made the rounds greeting people and shaking hands. It was hours later when she and John left for the last of the Givenchy party, which was a spectacular event in a tent in the Luxembourg Garden. And at midnight they went to the Buddha Bar for a few minutes, because she'd promised to meet some people there. Then they stopped at the Hemingway Bar at the hotel for a last drink. John had brandy and she had mineral water, and she realized in amazement that it was two-thirty in the morning by the time they left the bar and went upstairs. Things always started late in Paris, and as a result, the nights got late.
“Is it always like this when you come to the couture shows?” he asked as they rode up in the elevator together. He hated to admit it, but he was exhausted. She led life at a pace that would have killed him in a week. It was a lot easier, he realized, going to an office and having sedate dinners out a couple of times a week. He couldn't even begin to think of all the things they had done and seen in two days. And she didn't even look tired as she fumbled in her bag for her key.
“Yes, it's always pretty hectic.” She smiled at him. “Do you want a day off tomorrow? I'm going to Chanel in the morning, and Gaultier in the afternoon.” As though that meant something to him. She might as well have been speaking Chinese. But he liked the sound of it on her lips.


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قديم 29-04-11, 02:51 PM   #14

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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“I wouldn't miss it for anything. I'm getting an education, or something like that.” And then suddenly he wondered if it was awkward for her to be seen constantly with him. That possibility hadn't even occurred to him. This wasn't a pleasure cruise for her after all, it was a business trip. “Would you rather go alone, Fiona?” He looked worried, and she smiled at him, leaning against the doorway of her suite. They felt like old friends now, and she was astonishingly at ease with him.
“I'd rather go with you,” she said honestly. “You make it more fun for me. It's almost like doing something new.” It was a nice thing to say to him, and without saying a word, he gently touched her cheek.
“I like being with you too.” Even more than he had dreamed. It had been a memorable two days with her, and without thinking, he leaned slowly toward her, and the next thing he knew, he was holding her and kissing her in the doorway of her suite. They stood there for a long time, and the thought crossed John's mind that Adrian might happen by on the way to his room. But he didn't want to force his way into Fiona's room. So they stood there kissing, and holding each other, until she spoke in a soft, smoky voice, and whispered in his ear.
“Would you like to come in?”
“I thought you'd never ask,” he whispered back, and she giggled, as they walked into the living room and closed the door softly behind them. And for a moment they both felt like two naughty kids who had given their parents the slip.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked, as she stepped out of her shoes, and stood in front of him in bare feet. She had taken off her suit jacket at the bar, and was wearing a peach satin camisole that was slipping enticingly off one shoulder. All he could think of was Fiona, the last thing he wanted was a drink. “No, my love, I don't want a drink,” he said as he took her in his arms again, and a moment later the satin camisole had slid obligingly to her waist, and all he could feel was the delicious silk of her skin.
She took his hand then, and he followed her into her bedroom. The bed was turned down impeccably, as though it were waiting for a royal couple, and as he kissed her again, he flicked off the light, and followed her to her bed. And in the darkness, his clothes disappeared as quickly as hers did, and a moment later they were in bed, lying in each other's arms for a long time, and savoring the moment, and then, as though a tidal wave had hit them, passion overwhelmed them both. It was a long, delicious night that neither of them had hoped for, or dreamed of, but if either of them had ever had a dream, the night they spent together would have been it.



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قديم 29-04-11, 02:51 PM   #15

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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Chapter 6





Fiona attempted to look respectable and solemn as they left for Chanel the next morning. John was wearing a gray suit, a white shirt, and a midnight blue tie and looked as though he were going to a business meeting. And as if to compensate for her follies of the night before, Fiona wore a serious black Chanel suit, with a short skirt. But all she managed to achieve was to look sexier than ever. At least he thought so, as he wrapped his arms around her, and held her tightly against him as the elevator at the Ritz made its way to the Cambon lobby, and Fiona giggled.
“You're in good spirits this morning,” he teased her. They both were. With good reason. It had been a remarkable night for both of them.
“I was just thinking of the cameras in the elevator. We could really give them something to look at,” she said with another giggle, but by then the doors had opened, and there was a Japanese family waiting to get in. John followed Fiona out and straightened his tie.
They both felt as though the entire world could see what had happened the night before. It seemed so obvious to them. “Is my skirt too short?” she asked, looking worried, as one of the security men let them out through the ordinarily locked Cambon door. They opened it only for her, because then it was just a short walk across the street to Chanel. Otherwise they would have had to go all the way around the Place Vendôme, which made no sense.
“I think your skirt should be shorter,” John said in an undertone as they reached Chanel. There were crowds of people outside, waiting to get in, and the usual group of paparazzi and legitimate photographers. The House of Chanel was small, and the group that attended the couture show was select and elite. The moment they saw Fiona, they made a path for her in the crowd and let her in. She took John by the arm, and he walked in beside her, as photographers snapped pictures of both of them. “Is that all right?” he asked softly, he didn't want to create a problem for her. She was well-known after all, and he didn't know if she minded being photographed with a man. But she smiled at the camera, and then up at him.
“It's fine. You look terrific,” she said, and then walked sedately up the stairs, and a moment later they took their seats.
Unlike the other shows, Chanel started punctually, and the clothes were respectable and terrific. They played Mozart as the models made their way sedately down the designated path through the seats. Every aspect of the show was about elegance and tradition. It was like visiting a grande dame for tea. Karl Lagerfeld had designed a collection that knocked everyone off their feet. The wedding gown at the end was every bit as spectacular as Adrian had told her it would be. The velvet gown with the ermine cape caused everyone to catch their breath, and Lagerfeld himself got a standing ovation when he appeared. Fiona knew the press would go wild with the photographs, and she could hardly wait to print them in Chic. The wedding dress was absolutely exquisite, as the whole collection had been.
“It's a shame it has to be a wedding dress,” John said, as they wended their way through the crowd on the way out. Fiona had stopped for a moment to say hello to Karl, and she had introduced John to him. “It would look incredible on you.” Fiona couldn't help laughing as she smiled at him.
“Thank you for the compliment, and I haven't seen the prices yet, but roughly speaking, that dress probably costs about as much as a small summer cottage. And they don't give dresses like that to editors for free.”
“Too bad, it would be great on you,” he said sincerely.
They were still laughing and chatting when they were let back into the hotel by the security, and had lunch in the garden. After that they hurried to Gaultier with Adrian. Gaultier was his favorite show, and exactly his cup of tea. The entire collection was red this year, including the fur coats, and the theme of the whole collection was Chinese. It was extremely dramatic, but Fiona was less enthused.
The last collection they went to late that afternoon was Valentino's, and it was as elegant as Chanel had been. And as always, Valentino had done a lot with red too. For once even Fiona was tired when they got back to the hotel. She had a million notes and photographs to go through, but she was going to do that in the morning, after John left. For their last night, they had agreed to have dinner at a simple restaurant on a Bateau Mouche and wanted to walk around the Left Bank afterward. And the day after John left, she was going to St. Tropez. Adrian was planning to head back to New York when she did. He had a lot to do. The aftermath of the Paris couture shows always kept them busy for weeks. It was rare for her, but Fiona had decided to go on vacation for two full weeks. She hadn't taken that much time off in years, but felt she needed it.
“You look tired, do you want a cup of tea?” John asked solicitously. She nodded gratefully, happy to collapse on the couch for a while as she went through her messages. The night before had been short, and they hadn't gotten much sleep. He ordered tea for himself too, and they sat relaxing on the couch, talking about the three shows they'd seen that day, and she congratulated him for seeing every important show in couture week. “Thanks to you. I wouldn't even know how to describe it to anyone. It was incredible, Fiona.” And then he leaned over and kissed her. “And so are you.” He hadn't been this happy in years, and had never known anyone like her. She was magical and exciting and fascinating and mysterious all at once. She was like a beautiful animal in the wild, running free, but so unforgettably beautiful and enticing when she stopped to look at you. He was head over heels in love with her and had only known her for a matter of weeks. Fiona was astounded by it, and it amazed him too. She was just as crazy about him. But she was afraid it was just a phenomenon of Paris, and the excitement of the trip. She was afraid that once they got home, it would break the spell, and she said as much to him as they drank their tea.
“Don't be so cynical, Fiona,” he chided her. “Don't you think you can fall in love at our age? People do it all the time. People a lot older than we are. Why shouldn't this be real?”
“What if it isn't?” she said, looking worried. She wanted it to be. More than she had wanted anything in years. She had never known anyone like him either. Strong, solid, sensible, warm, affectionate, intelligent, kind, reasonable, and he seemed perfectly able to tolerate the occasional insanity of her career, even during couture week. He liked Adrian, who was a mainstay in her life. She was not entirely certain of the future of the relationship between him and Sir Winston, but that could be worked on. The rest seemed perfect, although she knew nothing was, and this couldn't be. But it sure looked it. He seemed to be everything she had ever wanted all rolled into one human being. Her dream prince, and he was not only handsome but distinguished and sexy, and very intelligent too. They had chemistry galore.
“Don't be such a scaredy-cat,” he said confidently. He also wanted her to meet his children. He was sure his girls were going to love her, if only because he did.
“I'm going to miss you when I go to St. Tropez,” she said, nibbling a cookie. Now she was sorry that she was going. It was going to be boring and lonely without him. And she had gotten a message the day before that the friends who were meeting her with their boat were stuck in Sardinia, due to bad weather and rough seas, and they had decided to stay there. So she was going to be on her own at the Hotel Byblos in St. Tropez.
“We could do something about that, if you want to. But I don't want to intrude on your vacation, Fiona. You need it. And you'll only be gone for two weeks.” It seemed like an eternity to him too.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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قديم 29-04-11, 02:52 PM   #16

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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“What did you have in mind?” she asked with interest.
“It sounds a little crazy, but if you'd like, I can reshuffle some meetings. At this time of year, almost everyone is on vacation. And my girls are busy. If you want, I could come with you. But if you'd rather not, I understand perfectly. I can keep busy for the next two weeks.” But she was already beaming at him.
“Would you do that? Could you?” It was a crazy thing to do, she knew, but she didn't care. She was loving being with him, and she wanted to go to St. Tropez with him, if he could arrange it.
“I could, would, and would love to. Does it sound good to you too?”
“It sounds terrific,” she assured him.
He called his secretary half an hour later, while Fiona showered and dressed for the evening. She emerged wearing beige silk slacks and a little beige silk sweater that you could almost see through, but not quite. She always managed to look elegant and sexy, and she was wearing little red silk mules for their informal evening on the Bateau Mouche.
“Could she do it?” Fiona asked, like a kid waiting for Christmas, referring to his change of plans, and he laughed at the question.
“I didn't give her a choice, I told her she had to. It's a little crazy, but what the hell, Fiona, you only live once. Who knows when we'll get the chance to do this again, we're both so damn busy. You've already got the time off, the least I can do is arrange my schedule to suit you.” He was smiling at her, sitting on the bed in the bedroom of her suite, and she put her arms around him, grateful to have found him, and to be with him.
“You are truly amazing.” But it was he who thought she was.
An hour later they were on the Bateau Mouche eating steak and pommes frites for dinner, and drifting along the Seine, looking at the lights and monuments of Paris. It was a corny, touristy thing to do, but the idea had appealed to both of them, and they were delighted they'd done it. They were talking about their plans for St. Tropez, and John wanted to call a boat broker he knew to see if he could get a charter for a day or two. It sounded incredibly romantic to Fiona, and in the meantime, they had her room at the Byblos, which would be fun too. She felt as though she were dreaming every time she looked at him.
They walked around the Left Bank afterward, had a glass of wine on the terrace of the Deux Magots, and he bought her a silly little painting from a street artist, as a souvenir of their first days together in Paris. And at midnight they went back to the hotel, nearly raced to her room, and made love for hours. So much so that she overslept in the morning, and didn't wake until Adrian pounded on her door to say good-bye. He was leaving for the airport. His work in Paris was done.
“I thought you were supposed to be working,” he said in an accusing tone, but she knew he didn't mean it.
“I am… I mean I will… I was exhausted,” she apologized.
“So am I. I've been working my ass off since six, and you're still sleeping at ten-thirty. When I grow up, I want your job.” As he said it, he saw a pair of men's shoes, neatly sitting under the coffee table, and Adrian beamed at her. “Unless your feet have grown, or you're cross-dressing, I assume that means you're no longer a virgin.”
“Mind your own business,” she said softly. She had closed the door to the bedroom, and John was still asleep. They hadn't gone to sleep until four in the morning, but it had been well worth it.
“How much will you give me not to tell Sir Winston?” Adrian said conspiratorially.
“My entire fortune.”
“And your turquoise bracelet? I can have it remade to fit me,” he said wickedly.
“The hell you will. Go ahead and tell him.”
“I may just have to do that. Are you still going to St. Tropez?” He had never seen her look like that, and he absolutely loved it. All he wanted was for her to be happy. He had liked John since the moment he met him. He thought he was terrific for her. As far as he was concerned, they were both lucky, and she deserved it. In all the years Adrian had known her, Fiona had never had a man in her life he approved of. Especially not the married architect from London. Adrian had loathed him. And he thought the conductor who wanted to marry her was silly. John was the only man he'd ever seen her with who he thought was worthy of her.
“Yes, I'm still going to St. Tropez,” she said innocently, but Adrian knew her better.
“Is he going with you?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, grinning mischievously.
“You naughty children! Well, enjoy it,” he said, hugging her. “Call me if you need to tell me anything, and FedEx me everything before you leave.” She had a lot of work to do that day before she started her vacation, and she intended to do it. In love or not, Fiona was a woman who met her deadlines. And nothing was going to change that.
“I promise. Fly safely…. I love you,” she said, and hugged him again, and he left in a flourish of bags, and his straw hat, and red alligator briefcase to match his sandals.
“I love you too. Say hi to John for me. Tell him I'll handle Sir Winston.” And with a last wave, he disappeared into the elevator as she hung out the door of the suite, and then closed the door softly. She didn't want to wake John, but he was stirring anyway when she slipped back into bed beside him.
“Who was that?” he asked sleepily, throwing an arm around her, and turning toward her. She loved the way he looked in the morning.
“Adrian. He just left. He tried to blackmail me, and said he's going to tell Sir Winston. He wants my turquoise bracelet. I told him to forget it.”
“He knows?” John opened an eye and looked at her cautiously. “You told him?”
“He saw your shoes under the table.”
“Oh. How much does he want not to tell the dog?”
“He's not a dog.”
“Sorry, I forgot…. Come here, you gorgeous thing, you…” he said, pulling her closer, and the day began as the night before had ended.



Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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قديم 29-04-11, 02:53 PM   #17

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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افتراضي

Chapter 7





Fiona got all her work done and sent it to Adrian before they left for St. Tropez, and John managed to find a hundred-and-forty-foot sailboat for them to charter. The broker had promised she was a beauty, and they departed for St. Tropez in high spirits. John had left a message for both his girls that he was staying in France for another two weeks, but both had been out when he called them.
As soon as they got to Nice, Fiona had a limousine waiting for them to drive them to St. Tropez and the Hotel Byblos. She had an adorable suite there. The boat was meeting them the next morning.
They spent an hour on the beach that afternoon, and then wandered through the shops, and stopped at a café. That night, she took him to her favorite bistro. It was as noisy and crowded as she had warned him it would be, and after walking for a while, they went back to the hotel, and were content to fall into bed in each other's arms. They fell asleep this time almost as soon as their heads hit the pillow. It had been a long week, full of passion, people, and excitement, and they were both thrilled to be on vacation alone.
The next morning when they saw the boat, they were both awestruck by her beauty. They spent the day sailing her with a crew of nine, spent the night in the port in Monte Carlo, and had a quiet romantic dinner on the aft deck, drinking champagne and reveling in the joy of being together in glorious surroundings.
“How did this happen?” Fiona asked him in amazement. “Did I miss something? When did I die and go to heaven? How did I get this lucky?” She had never even dreamed of finding anyone like him. And he felt exactly as she did. Fiona was magic.
“Maybe we both deserve this,” he said simply, and believed it.
“That's too simple. I feel like I won the lottery.”
“We both did,” he corrected.
For the next two weeks their time together was idyllic, beyond hopes and dreams and wishes.
They had the boat only for the first week, and made good use of it, and their time together after that was a little more prosaic. But they enjoyed that too, and had a good time in St. Tropez going to the beach and trying out new restaurants. The vacation ended all too quickly. It seemed like only minutes later that they were back in the airport in Nice, flying to Paris, and then flying home to New York together. For once, Fiona wasn't even excited about seeing Sir Winston. And on the flight home, they discussed how to handle the rest of the summer.
John had already explained that his girls were away until Labor Day, his housekeeper was off visiting family, and his dog was at the kennel for the summer. She needed a lot of attention, and he couldn't take care of her properly with his housekeeper in North Dakota. And after spending Labor Day weekend with him, both his girls were going back to college, although he saw them regularly throughout the school year. Courtenay came home often for weekends since she was only in Princeton. Hilary did her best to come home from Brown once a month, except when she had exams. He said she was a very serious student. She wanted to be an oceanographer, and was doing an internship that summer at a lab in Long Beach, California. John had said a million times that he was certain Fiona was going to love them. There was no question in his mind that they would fall in love with her, just as he had. That part was easy. He was a little less sure of Fiona's reaction to them, since she had never had children of her own. But they weren't babies, they were women. So Fiona should be perfectly at ease with them, he told himself, and he was sure they would become the best of friends. His girls needed adult female companionship, since both of them missed their mother so much. Fiona had already said that she was going to go shopping with them. She didn't know much about kids and young people, but shopping was one thing she was good at, and she thought it would be an easy way to get to know his girls.
“So what are we going to do when we go home?” Fiona asked as they sat in the first-class lounge at Charles de Gaulle, waiting for their flight to New York.
“About what? I was thinking that maybe we could find a house in the Hamptons to rent for the weekends.” There might be one available that no one wanted, and they both loved the beach and getting out of town. Failing that, he could always charter another boat, which appealed to both of them as well. The possibilities were infinite, but she had another plan in mind. They had gone straight from dating and first blush to wanting to be together all the time. He had already said as much to her himself in St. Tropez.
“Do you want to stay at my place with me until your housekeeper comes home?” Fiona asked. He had thought of it himself, but didn't want to be presumptuous and suggest it to her.
“How do you think Sir Winston would feel about it? Do you think we should ask him first?”
“Don't worry. I'll negotiate the deal with him. How do you feel about it?”
“I think it's an excellent idea. My place is hard to take care of without Mrs. Westerman. And I have no one else to do the cleaning. There's a service that comes in once a week, but that's about it. Your place runs a little more smoothly, with Jamal, and it's easier for you with the dog… sorry… your son, I mean, Sir Winston.”
“That's better,” she said with a grin. She liked the arrangement very much—and then suddenly thought of her closets in a panic. She didn't have an inch of spare closet space, and she was going to have to find some for him fast. She was wondering if he would mind going down a flight of stairs to the guest room. She had her fur coats and ski clothes there, but she could probably squeeze out some space for him. Maybe. Or… maybe her office closet, but there was no hanging space… the bathroom closet… it was full of her nightgowns and robes and beach clothes, and some old evening gowns. She'd have to work out something. He was a consummate good sport. He had been on the trip, whenever anything went wrong, although very little had. But he was unfailingly polite and easygoing, and she loved that about him. He didn't seem to have a temper, and had a happy disposition.
They went straight to her house that night. Jamal had left it immaculate for her, and filled the house with flowers. And the refrigerator was full of everything she liked to eat. There was even a bottle of champagne, which she opened to share with John, and they toasted each other, standing in the living room. She had never been as happy in her life. Sir Winston was coming home the next day, she could hardly wait to see him.
The next morning John cooked breakfast for her. He made a cheese omelette and English muffins, and they left the house at the same time for their respective offices. Jamal arrived just as they went out, and he stared at Fiona in surprise. Men had spent the night from time to time over the years, and the conductor had lived with her, but he hadn't seen anyone at the house in the morning in a very long time. He didn't know if this was a temporary fling for her, or someone who was going to stick around. Her next words to him spelled it out.
“This is Mr. Anderson, Jamal. I need a key for him,” she said offhandedly, she had an important meeting at the office and was in a hurry. “Just make a copy and leave it on my desk.” She reminded him that he had to be there when they brought Sir Winston home at four o'clock, and with that she and John hailed cabs simultaneously, kissed in the middle of the street, and left for their respective workdays.
They had promised to meet at her place that night. He was going to his apartment first to pick up some stuff. It was as easy as that. Presto magic, she was living with a man in her house. For the summer at least.
Until his daughters and housekeeper came back. Once the girls left for school again, she assumed he would move back in with her again, as long as they both liked it. And she hoped they would. She hoped so with all her heart. She wanted this to work, more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. She was seriously in love with him, and thought him an extraordinary man. And she knew he felt the same way about her. Blind luck.
“How was St. Tropez?” Adrian asked with a knowing grin as she came through the door with an armful of papers and files and magazines she'd brought back from Paris. They had a lot to talk about.
“Fabulous.” She beamed at him, he could see it in her eyes. She had never looked as relaxed.
“And where is he now?”
“At his office.”
“Where was he last night?” Adrian teased. He was like a brother to her, and she didn't mind. She had few secrets from him, if any.
“None of your business.”
“I thought so. Have you told Sir Winston yet?”
“We're breaking the news to him tonight.”
“Call the vet and get Valium for him. This could be hard.”
“I know.” And then she lowered her voice. “I have a serious problem, and I don't know what to do about it.”
He looked instantly worried for her. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”
“It could be. Adrian, I need closet space. I don't have room for so much as a hankie in my closets.”
“Is he moving in?” Adrian looked impressed. This was quick. But that's how things happened sometimes. And this had.
“Sort of. For the summer. Till his housekeeper gets back. I swear, if he brings over so much as a pair of pajamas, I'm screwed. I looked in every closet last night. My fur coats are in the guest room, my summer stuff's upstairs. My evening gowns, nightgowns, office clothes—hell, Adrian, I have more stuff than a store. I don't have room for a guy.”
“You'd better find some fast. Guys don't like digging their boxers out of your pantyhose drawer, or fighting through your evening gowns to dress for work. If he doesn't cross-dress, you have a serious problem.”
“He doesn't.”
“You're screwed. Sell your clothes.”
“Don't be ridiculous. You have to figure something out.”
“I have to figure something out? Do I look like the closet police? He's not moving in with me, he's moving in with you.”
“What would you do? You have as much junk as I do.”
“How about renting one of those nice trailers and parking it on the sidewalk for your clothes?” He was vastly amused by her dilemma, but they both knew it was a nice one to have.
“You're not funny.”
“No, but you are. Just toss all your stuff out of one closet, and maybe dump it in the guest room, or put it on rolling racks, and push it around the house.”
“Great idea.” She looked relieved. “Do me a favor, go to Gracious Home at lunchtime and buy me a bunch of racks. Have someone take them to the house. I'll tell Jamal to set them up in the guest room, and I'll just empty a closet for him tonight.”
“Perfect. See, people make a huge mistake. They think the challenge in relationships comes from sex or money. That's absolutely not true. It comes from closets. I had to ask my last lover to move out. It was him or my Blahniks. I felt terrible about it, but in the end, I was more attached to my shoes.” She knew him better than that, and also knew that his last lover had cheated on him, and Adrian had been heartbroken and thrown him out and cried for weeks. He was a decent guy, and the boyfriend hadn't been. He had damn near broken Adrian's heart.
“You're a genius. Just get me the racks. I'll try and get home early and start emptying a closet for him. I feel so stupid to have so much stuff.”
“You'd feel dumber in our line of work if you were badly dressed. Let's be real here.”
“All right, so we're shallow, terribly spoiled people. And you're right. Maybe I'll rent an apartment for my clothes and just switch seasons. That way I'll only need half the closets.”
“See if the relationship works first. How is it, by the way? I assume it must be okay if you're letting him move in with you.”
“He's not moving in,” she corrected him. “He is staying with me for the summer.”
“Sorry, ‘staying with you.’ Things must be pretty good. No one has ‘stayed with you’ in years.” Adrian reminded her of what she knew already.
“I figured no one ever would again. I thought it was me and Sir Winston for eternity, or as long as we both shall live.”
“One of you is going to live longer than the other in that relationship. And considering Sir Winston's age and heart problems, I hope it's you.” She nodded, sobered by the comment. She liked to believe that Sir Winston would live forever. Adrian figured she'd be lucky if she got another year or two out of him, if that. He had already had a couple of close calls. He just hoped, for Fiona's sake, that sharing her with a two-legged admirer wouldn't push Sir Winston over the edge.
Having solved her most pressing problems of the hour, Adrian and Fiona got to work. He brought her up to date on all the follow-up from Paris. She had a general staff meeting set for eleven o'clock, which, as it turned out, went till two. She spent the rest of the afternoon catching up, looking at shots of the couture, and checking on schedules and details for shoots. They were insanely busy. They had just closed October and were starting on November. And in another month they were going to be up to their ears in Christmas, which was always a big issue. And Fiona was disappointed to discover that two of her favorite junior editors had quit while she was away and had already left. Adrian had hired replacements for them while she was gone.
She was startled to realize there was a major shoot scheduled for later that week with Brigitte Lacombe. And an even more complicated one with Mario Testino over the weekend. It was going to be a totally insane week. Welcome home.
But in spite of everything happening, she managed to leave the office by six o'clock and almost flew home. Adrian had sent someone out for the racks for her, and Jamal had set them up in the guest room, although she didn't discover until they collapsed twice with all her evening gowns on them that he had set them up wrong. He had been holding the diagram upside down.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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قديم 29-04-11, 02:54 PM   #18

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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افتراضي

And he helped her get them right.
“You must really like this guy,” Jamal commented, as she picked all her evening gowns up off the floor for the third time and put them on the rack. She had taken all of two minutes to kiss and hug Sir Winston, and he had given her the cold shoulder. He did not like going to “camp,” and whenever he did, he took it out on her for weeks afterward. She was in the doghouse. And he was stretched out on her bed, snoring loudly.
“He's a great guy,” she said about John, as she added some of her beach clothes to the rack, and about a dozen nightgowns. By the time she was through, she had made space in about a third of one closet for him to hang suits, and there was room for about four or five pairs of shoes on the floor. And she had freed up two drawers. It didn't look like much, but it had taken her two hours to do it. John had called at seven and explained that he had gotten held up at the office, he hadn't gotten to the apartment yet, and hoped to be home by nine. And if she wanted him to, he would bring pizza and wine. She said it was okay, she would make them a salad and an omelette, which he said sounded good to him. She smiled to herself as she hung up, it felt wonderful being domestic with him.
Jamal had left by then, and she scouted through her closets again, looking for things to remove. She finally managed to part with a couple of ski parkas she rarely used, and the big down coat she wore when it snowed. They took up a lot of room, but translated into closet space, she suspected it would give him room for only two or three more suits. Closet space seemed to be harder to find than gold. And she would rather dig the gold out of her teeth than give up a whole closet to him. That was asking a lot, no matter how much she loved him.
She sat down on the bed next to Sir Winston then, and he looked at her, moaned, and turned around with his back to her. She got the point and went to take a shower before John got home. Everything was different suddenly. Now, instead of lying on the bed at night, looking a mess, and eating tuna fish out of a can, or eating a banana and a rice cake, she had to look decent, maybe even sexy and glamorous, and provide a meal for both of them. But it was fun. And it was only for the summer. It was like playing house. She put on a pale pink silk caftan and gold sandals, and she set the table and made salad. She was planning to do the omelette when he got home.
When he did, at nearly ten o'clock finally, he looked exhausted. Worse than she had when she got home. He was carrying armloads of clothes, which he dragged out of a cab, with two shopping bags full of belts, ties, underwear, and socks. He looked as if he were moving in, and for a fraction of a second, her heart gave a flutter. And then she instantly remembered how lucky she was and how much she loved him. When he kissed her, it reminded her, and he dropped all his belongings on the floor of the front hall. After he kissed her, he looked around expectantly and asked, “Where's the dog?… sorry… the boy… the man… your friend… you know, Sir Winston?” He had to remember to get it right. Every time he said the d-word, she looked like she'd been slapped. She was a little sensitive on the subject— and apparently, so was the dog.
“He's mad at me. He went to bed.”
“Our bed?… Your bed?” She nodded, and he smiled and kissed her again. He was a good sport, but it was after all Sir Winston's house. He got there first.
“You must be starving. I made a salad. Do you want an omelette now?”
“To be honest, I'm not even hungry. I made a cup of soup at the apartment. Mrs. Westerman left all the cupboards empty. It looks like no one lives there.”
“No one does for now.” Fiona smiled proudly, thinking of the closet space she had cleared for him. She hoped he would be pleased.
“You know what I'd love, I'd love to take a shower and just relax. You don't have to cook anything for me.” She wasn't hungry either, so she put the place mats and cutlery away and left the salad in the fridge. She grabbed a banana and helped him carry his things upstairs. He had also brought his shoeshine kit, and his Water Pik. He was diligent about his teeth and flossed for ages at night.
When they got upstairs, they dumped all his clothes on the bed. It was only when she heard the snoring underneath them that she realized they had covered Sir Winston, and she quickly took them off.
He raised his head, glared at them, laid his head down again, and snored louder. He sounded like a power drill as he droned on, and Fiona smiled.
“Does that mean he approves, or not?” John asked, looking down at him in bemusement. He had never heard anything but a machine sound like that. “Did you tell him about us?”
“More or less. I think we just did.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much.”
“Good,” he said, looking relieved. He was too tired to negotiate with a dog. It had been a hellish day, and they had new problems on two accounts. Nothing insoluble, but it had eaten up his day and worn him out. He was dead, and all he wanted was a shower and bed. He walked into the bathroom, while Fiona hung up his clothes, and when he came back out twenty minutes later, he felt human again, and clean, and all his things were put away.
Fiona showed him his two drawers. He felt like a kid at camp, or his first day in boarding school, learning where his locker was. Everything was unfamiliar here, but he didn't mind. All he wanted was to be with her. And then she showed him where she had hung his suits and shirts. They were nicely squeezed in to the left of hers, without a centimeter of spare room, but they fit. He stared at them for a moment, wondering why she hadn't made more room, but decided not to say anything. There was some sort of gown with feathers on it draped over one of his dark suits.
“Not a lot of room, is there,” he commented, and she hated to admit it, but the closet seemed to have shrunk since that afternoon. She had been so proud of the space she'd made for him, and now it didn't seem like enough. She promised herself to study the problem again the next day. She needed more racks. But John was too tired to care. He turned on the TV, and lay on the bed, as Sir Winston lifted his head, looked at him in despair, and appeared to collapse deeper into the bed. But at least he didn't growl. John wasn't sure he could sleep with the noise he made, but he was willing to try, and he was so tired that night, it actually didn't bother him. He fell asleep with the television on, and Fiona in his arms. That was all he wanted. And when he awoke the next morning, Fiona had orange juice and coffee waiting for him, handed him the newspaper, and made him scrambled eggs. The dog was already outside.
All was well in their little world. Their first night had gone well. Fiona was enormously relieved as she left for work. And John sent her roses that afternoon. Adrian raised an eyebrow when he saw them on her desk.
“The dog didn't drive him insane?”
“Apparently not. We slept like triplets in the womb. And I made him breakfast this morning,” she said proudly.
“When was the last time you did that?”
“On Mother's Day when I was twelve.” Adrian knew she hated doing anything other than dressing and leaving for work in the morning.
“Sweet Jesus,” Adrian said, rolling his eyes toward heaven, looking like a boy at a revival meeting, “it must be love!”


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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قديم 29-04-11, 02:57 PM   #19

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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?  التسِجيلٌ » Jul 2010
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افتراضي

Chapter 8





John proved to be as remarkable as Fiona hoped he would be. He was even understanding about it when she told him she had to stay in town and work her first weekend home. She had the Testino shoot to oversee, and she absolutely had to be there. John said he had plenty of work to do, and he even dropped by the shoot to see how it was going. He found it fascinating, and he cooked dinner for her when she got home. It was well over a hundred degrees, and she had been standing on the sidewalk in the blazing heat all day. And after they took a bath together, he gave her a massage.
“How did I ever get this lucky?” she said with a happy groan as he kneaded her aching back.
“We're both lucky,” he said happily. He was so pleased to be living with her, and to have companionship again. He enjoyed the slightly zany aspects of her life. It was all new to him. “I took Sir Winston for a walk tonight, after it cooled off,” he said quietly. “We had a long talk. He said he forgives me for the intrusion. Apparently, the only thing that bothers him is that he's afraid I'm going to take over his closet.” He was razzing her, and she moaned. She hadn't had a minute to do anything about it all week. John had pointed out to her that his suits were crushed, and he had to press a shirt himself one morning before work. His clothes were being devoured by hers.
“I'm sorry. I totally forgot. I swear, I'll take more stuff out of my closet tomorrow.” But the racks in the guest room were already full. She was going to have to dump her things on the bed. It was a small price to pay. And the following day, true to her word, she did. She took out all her leather skirts and pants, and laid them gingerly on the guest room bed. It at least gave him room for some more suits and shirts. He seemed to have a lot. She was just glad it wasn't winter. There would have been absolutely no room at all for his coats.
The following weekend they went out to the Hamptons, and much to her delight, for the entire month of August, he chartered a boat. It wasn't as big as the one they'd had in St. Tropez, but it was a beautiful sailboat nonetheless, and they had a great time with it. Adrian even sailed on it with them one weekend. And between the boat, their work, and meeting a few of each other's friends, the summer seemed to speed by, and was a great success. Sir Winston got used to John. Jamal said he was a true gentleman, and by the end of August, Fiona had conceded nearly half a closet. By then they were working on the December issue, and the entire office seemed to be nuts. It was that time of year. Christmas in August for her.
And as planned months before, John left to meet his daughters in San Francisco for the Labor Day weekend. Hilary had finished her internship by then, and Courtenay had successfully completed her job at camp. John had told Fiona that he was going to tell the girls about her over the weekend. Their mother had been gone for more than two years, and John had no doubt that the girls would be happy for him. Both Mrs. Westerman and his dog were due home over the weekend. The summer was over. The dog had actually been Ann's. Fiona had fantasies about the two dogs meeting, and falling instantly in love. And she was both nervous and excited about meeting the girls. She had volunteered to pick them all up at the airport on Monday night. John thought it a terrific plan.
He wanted the four of them to have dinner that week, so Fiona could get to know the girls before they went back to college. They were going to be in town for only a few days. And after that he and Fiona had to figure out what they were going to do about their living arrangements. She didn't really have room for him, although he was happy staying with her, but her closets were a nightmare, and she couldn't seem to find space for him. But he also felt a little odd bringing her into the apartment where he had lived with Ann.
And he wasn't sure how the girls would feel about it either. It still seemed a little delicate to him. And Fiona said it made her feel odd as well. They hadn't figured that out yet, and they had talked about the possibility of commuting between their two homes, although it created a problem for Fiona with her dog. She didn't want to uproot him, nor leave him alone all night at her house. Sooner or later she knew they would figure it out.
The main thing was that they were happy and got along, better than she ever had with anyone. Adrian was thrilled for them. And in the end, Fiona decided to spend the Labor Day weekend in town, instead of going to Martha's Vineyard, as she did every year. They had been away every weekend, and with John in California for the weekend, she had some things she wanted to fix and put away at her house. She had been relentlessly busy all month, and it was going to be nice to just stay home and chill out. She and Adrian went to a movie one night. And the next night she took her old mentor to dinner. It was nice to have some free time on her hands. She had less of it now that she was unofficially living with John. They were together all the time, and kept to themselves like two lovebirds. Even Adrian complained he never saw her anymore. But it was to be expected now that she was living with a man. How times had changed.
Her first indication that things were not going entirely according to plan in San Francisco was when John called, sounding somewhat nervous, and told her that she didn't need to pick them up at the airport. They would just take a cab home, and he would see her the next day.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, with a rock in her stomach. Her instinct told her that it was.
“Not at all,” he said calmly. “The girls just want a little more time with their dad, and they'll be tired after the flight. They both want to meet you when they're fresh.” Fresh? It seemed an odd choice of words, they weren't flying in from Tokyo after all, but Fiona didn't argue with him. She mentioned it to Adrian when she saw him for brunch the next day. They sat in her garden going over layouts, and she mentioned the conversation to him.
“They probably didn't expect him to find a serious partner so soon. Neither did I.” Adrian smiled at her.
“Soon? I haven't had a date in two years,” Fiona exclaimed with feeling.
“I know. I know. I think we all just expect our friends to hang around forever, with nothing else to do. It's always a shock when they find someone and disappear.”
“I haven't disappeared,” she reassured him, and gave him a hug.
“I know that. But his kids may not be as mature as I am. Besides, you're a woman, so they might see you as a threat. And it confirms to them that their mother's gone for good. People have denial about things like that, especially kids.”
“How do you know so much?” She could see his point.
“I don't. I'm just guessing. See what he says when he comes back.”
But when she met John on Tuesday morning for breakfast, he didn't say much. And he looked strained. She asked him how the trip was and he said, “Great,” but she wasn't convinced. He kissed her, but he didn't even look happy to see her. More than anything, he looked nervous and stressed. He said that he wanted her to come to the apartment for dinner. He was staying there that week, and the girls were going back to college over the weekend. He was driving Courtenay to Princeton on Saturday, and setting her up in the dorm. Hilary was moving into a house with friends.
“And how is Mrs. Westerman?” Fiona asked benignly, and John glanced at her with a look of terror when she asked.
“She's fine,” he said vaguely, and changed the subject, and when Fiona got to the office, she looked scared when she saw her friend.
“Something's wrong,” she said to Adrian. “I think he fell out of love with me over the weekend. He looks crazed.”
“Maybe something happened with his kids. Give him a chance, Fiona. He'll tell you about it when things calm down. Is he moving back in with you after they go back to school?”
“He didn't say.” She was nearly panicked, but trying to stay calm. But she had never seen him as weird as he was that day.
“You'd better start clearing out your closets. You don't want him getting comfortable at home again. Or do you?” Adrian asked pointedly, and she shook her head, looking grief-stricken. She was terrified that she had already lost him, but it couldn't have happened that fast. It didn't make sense to her.
“No, I don't,” she answered. “I want him to come back.”
“Then just relax, and give him space. He'll be okay. He loves you, Fiona. That doesn't change overnight.”
“He fell in love with me overnight, maybe he'll fall out of love with me just as fast.”
“You have to adjust and compromise. You both need time to grow into this. Besides, you two have been living in never-never land all summer. Now his kids are back. You're in real time. You have to adapt to that, at least until the kids leave again. See how it goes.”
“I'm having dinner with them tonight,” Fiona said, sounding terrified. He had never seen her look like that in all the years they had been friends. Fiona was never afraid of anything, and surely not two young girls. She had never even been afraid of men. But that was also because she never cared if she lost them.
Until now, she had always been just as happy to be alone. Until John. Now she cared. And she had more to lose.
“What time are you meeting them?”
“Seven-thirty. At his place. His housekeeper is cooking dinner. I've never been to his apartment. He hasn't gone back all summer, except to pick up clothes, and I never bothered to go with him. But he didn't invite me to either. Now I wish I'd gone. New place. New people. New ball game. Shit, Adrian, I'm scared.”
“Relax. You'll be fine.” He couldn't believe it. The woman who terrified half the magazine industry, if not all of it, was scared witless of a housekeeper and two girls.
“I've never even seen his dog.”
“For chrissake, Fiona, if he can put up with yours, you ought to be able to make friends with a pit bull. Give them all a chance. Take a Valium or something. You'll be fine.”
They never had a chance to talk about it again for the rest of the afternoon. They were insanely busy, had endless meetings, and a thousand unexpected crises and problems cropped up. At least she spoke to John twice between meetings, and he sounded more normal again. She admitted to him that she was nervous about dinner, and he reassured her and told her he loved her. After that, she was less worried. It was just the newness of it all, and she had never had to meet anyone's kids, nor cared so much. She was sitting in a meeting with Adrian and four other editors at the end of the day, when he suddenly looked at her. And this time he looked panicked as he glanced at his watch.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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أنْت يـَـــا اللَّـه 【 تَكْفِينِي 】ツ

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قديم 29-04-11, 02:57 PM   #20

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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افتراضي

“What time are you supposed to be there?”
“Seven-thirty. Why?” Fiona looked blank, with three pencils stuck in her hair.
“It's ten after eight. Get your ass out of here.”
“Oh, shit!” She looked as panicked as he did, as the other editors watched them, not knowing what it was about. “I wanted to go home and change.”
“Forget it. Wash your face, and put on lipstick in the cab. You look fine. Go! Go!” He shooed her out of the meeting, and she left at a dead run, apologizing vaguely, and called John on her cell phone from a cab. It was eight twenty-five by then. She was nearly an hour late, and she apologized profusely, and said she had lost track of the time in a meeting about a serious crisis that had come up about the December issue. He told her not to worry about it, but he sounded strained and annoyed. And when she got to the apartment, she saw why.
The apartment itself was large and handsomely decorated, but everything about it seemed cold and uptight. And on literally every surface there were framed photographs of his late wife. The living room looked like a shrine to her, and there was an enormous portrait of her on one wall, and on either side of it were portraits of the two girls. They had had them done just before she died. She was a pretty woman, and she had the look of a debutante who had grown up to be head of the Junior League. Even in the photographs it was easy to see that she had none of Fiona's panache and style, nor was she as beautiful. But she had the saintly look of the perfect wife. She was the kind of woman who normally bored Fiona to tears, but she instantly forced those thoughts from her mind, and entered the apartment apologizing profusely, and explaining about the meeting again. She was nearly in tears. John kissed her gently on the cheek and gave her a hug.
“It's okay,” he whispered, “I understand. The girls are just a little upset about their mother.”
“Why?” Fiona looked blank. Her mind wasn't working, she was too upset about being late to understand what he was saying. Why were they upset about their mother? She had been dead for two years.
“Because they think my being with you is a betrayal of her,” John explained hurriedly before they entered the living room. “They feel like I didn't love her, because I want to be with someone else.”
“She's been gone for two years,” Fiona whispered back.
“I know. They need time to adjust.” And she was an hour late. That didn't help. She felt sorry for him suddenly. He looked like he'd had a rough few days. And he had.
As Fiona walked across the living room, she saw two stern-looking young women sitting rigidly on the couch. They looked as though they had been forced there at gunpoint, and they nearly had. She'd seen happier-looking people in hostage situations, and they glared at her without remorse. Neither of them said a word.
Fiona walked over to the older-looking one of the two, who she assumed was Hilary, and stuck out her hand. “Hello, Hilary, I'm Fiona. It's nice to meet you,” she said politely, trying to sound both warm and unthreatening. And the girl glared at her and did not extend her hand.
“I'm Courtenay. And I think what you're both doing is disgusting.” It was certainly one way to start a conversation. Fiona didn't know what to say in response, and was frozen on the spot, while John looked as though he were about to faint or throw up.
“I'm sorry you feel that way,” Fiona said calmly, finding her tongue finally. “I understand. This must be hard for both of you. But I'm not trying to take your father away from you. We just like spending time together. He's not going anywhere.”
“That's not true. He already has. He's been living with you all summer. The doorman said he only came here to pick up clothes.” Fiona learned later that Mrs. Westerman had checked, and told the girls. The little dear.
“We spent some time together, and he's probably lonely here without you,” Fiona said, glancing at the other sister then. John looked crushed by the exchange, and as if he were about to burst into tears. He hadn't expected this reaction from his children, he was sorely disappointed in them, and deeply hurt. He had been loyal and faithful to their mother and her memory, he had done everything he could to save her, and stood by her till the end. And he had been there for his daughters, without reservation, ever since. Now they were begrudging him any kind of happiness with another woman, and had vowed to hate Fiona on sight, which they did. Beyond reason. “It's nice to meet you, Hilary,” Fiona continued, as she stood awkwardly in their living room, and no one asked her to sit down. John was standing next to her, looking devastated. He'd been going through this since San Francisco, and it had been totally unexpected. And relentless. He had no idea what to do with them, or how to turn it around. He was mortified that they had been rude to Fiona. He had told them that he expected them to at least be polite. He had also told them that Fiona was a wonderful woman, and it wasn't her fault that their mother had died. Nor his. But they had said they hated him and Fiona anyway, and cried all weekend. And so had he. Now he was running out of patience, and getting angry at them for being so unreasonable. Hilary was ignoring Fiona entirely. She was the prettier of the two, although they were almost identical and looked like twins. Both were blue-eyed blondes like their mother, but they had a look of John about them too.
“You both seem to have forgotten your manners,” he said sternly. “There's no reason to punish Fiona for going out with me. I've been faithful to your mother's memory for two years. Fiona has nothing to do with this. She's a free woman and she has every right to go out with me, and I have every right to be with her, if I choose.”
But before either of them could comment, a stern, spare, angry-looking older woman walked into the living room. She was wearing a navy dress with an apron over it, sensible black orthopedic shoes, and her hair was pulled back so tightly in a bun, she nearly looked like Olive Oyl, with none of the charm. She looked like an angry cartoon. Fiona had to fight an overwhelming urge to say “Mrs. Westerman, I presume,” but fortunately she didn't. Instead, John made the introduction for her, and Mrs. Westerman refused to acknowledge her, she just looked straight at him.
“Dinner's been ready for an hour and a half. Are you going to eat?” she said sternly to him. It was nine o'clock by then, and Fiona apologized to her as well for being late, and the older woman refused to even look at her, as she turned on her heel and stomped back into the kitchen. She clearly was on the side of the two girls, and the late Mrs. Anderson. Fiona couldn't help wondering if John's late wife would have been this unreasonable. It was hard to believe the level of hostility she was getting from them, harder still to understand.
John waited for the girls to stand up, and followed them into the dining room. It was definitely not going to be an easy dinner, and Fiona felt desperately sorry for him. He was doing all he could to keep the ship afloat. But she felt as though they were having dinner on the Titanic, and were going down fast.
The girls took their places, as John motioned Fiona to a seat next to him, with a look of grief-stricken apology, and she smiled at him to reassure him. Somehow she knew they were going to get through it, whatever it took, and afterward they could talk about it with compassion and humor. She was determined to be there for him, and was trying to give him all the strength she could. And as she looked at him lovingly, Mrs. Westerman walked into the dining room and slammed dinner on the table. The roast beef was dry and charred beyond all recognition, and the potatoes around it had been burned to a crisp. The vegetable, whateve it had once been, was unrecognizable, and literally nothing on the table was edible. Instead of slowing dinner down when Fiona was late, or taking things off the stove, Mrs. Westerman had just let everything keep cooking, to prove the point, and register her own disapproval of her employer's alleged treason. She had pledged her allegiance to the girls when they came home from San Francisco the night before and told her what had happened over the summer while they were all gone, and she was outraged and said that everything their father was doing, whatever it was, was a sin. And she didn't want to work for a sinner. She had told the girls she might quit over it, which had frightened them even more. She had told John the same thing when he got home from the office that night. Like the girls, she was punishing him.
Fiona knew she had been with the family since Hilary was born, twenty-one years, and she was going to do everything she could to make life difficult for him. It was not only unfair, it was sick.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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