Second Chance - Danielle Steel

[Dalyia]

“What do you say we order a pizza?” Fiona said, trying to lighten the mood, but both girls glared at her, as Mrs. Westerman slammed a door in the kitchen, and could be heard banging cupboards loudly throughout the meal.
“I'm not hungry anyway,” Hilary said, and stood up, as Courtenay instantly followed suit. Without another word to their father, or her, both girls marched to their rooms. Fiona sat and looked at John sympathetically, and reached out to touch his hand, but he looked as though he had been beaten, and could barely look at her. He was not only heartbroken at the way they had treated him, but deeply ashamed at having exposed Fiona to that scene.
“I'm so sorry, sweetheart,” Fiona said to him.
“So am I,” he said in a hoarse voice, rough with tears. “I can't believe they behaved that way, and I'm sorry about dinner too. Mrs. Westerman was extremely loyal to Ann, which was wonderful, but that's no reason to do this to you. I'm sorry I put you through it.”
“I'm sorry I was late. That didn't make things any easier. I totally lost track of time.”
“It wouldn't have made any difference. They've been like this since I told them on Saturday. I thought they would be so happy for us, and for me. I was shocked, and I thought they'd get over it by the next day, but they didn't, they just got worse.” She was suddenly afraid that it might mean the end of the relationship, she looked frightened when she looked at him, and he saw it too. He was a decent man, and his heart went out to her. He got up from where he was sitting, and went to put his arms around her to reassure her, just as Mrs. Westerman opened the kitchen door, and let Fifi, the family Pekingese, into the room. She had been the late Mrs. Anderson's beloved pet, and had been Mrs. Westerman's charge ever since. Fifi paused in the doorway, growling as she looked at them, and seeing Fiona and John with their arms around each other, it was hard to say if she thought Fiona was attacking him, but without pausing for breath, she flew straight out of the kitchen like a heat-seeking missile, and landed at Fiona's feet. And before either of them knew what had happened, she had sunk her teeth with full force into Fiona's ankle. It had surprised her more than anything, but the dog absolutely refused to let go, as Fiona clutched John, and he poured a pitcher of water onto the dog, and then yanked her away from Fiona and threw her toward the kitchen. The dog left yelping, and soaked, as Mrs.
Westerman screamed that he had tried to kill the dog, and ran shrieking into the kitchen in tears with the dog in her arms, and no apology to Fiona, who was bleeding profusely from a nasty little wound.
John put a wet napkin on it, and sat her down. Fiona was shaking, and felt utterly ridiculous for the mess she was making. But her ankle wouldn't stop bleeding, as John put pressure on the wound, and then looked at her miserably as he helped her hobble into the kitchen, and shouted a warning to Mrs. Westerman to lock up the dog. But she had already retreated to her room with Fifi. They could hear the dog barking furiously through the door. All John wanted to do was get the hell out, and go home with Fiona, but he knew he had to stay till the girls went back to school at least. He had never been through anything like this. He studied her ankle, as she sat on the kitchen counter, with her foot in the sink, and he looked at her with embarrassment and grief.
“I hate to say it, Fiona, but I think you need stitches.”
“Don't worry about it,” she said calmly, wanting to make the horror of the evening better for him, “these things happen.”
“Only in horror movies,” he said grimly. He tied a kitchen towel around her leg, helped her off the counter, and walked her out of the apartment gingerly, as they both watched the blood stain the towel quickly. It had already soaked through by the time they hailed a cab, and blood was dripping down her foot as John carried her into the hospital and deposited her in the emergency room with a look of disbelief.
When the doctor on duty examined her finally, he said it was a deep wound, and she needed stitches. He administered a local anesthetic and sewed her up, gave her a tetanus shot, since she hadn't had one in years, and then gave her antibiotics and painkillers to take home with her. She was looking a little green around the gills by then. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, and it had been a rough evening. She got dizzy on the way out, and had to sit down for a minute.
“I'm sorry I'm such a wimp,” she apologized, “it's really nothing.” She tried to make light of it for him, but she was feeling awful. The anesthetic was wearing off, her ankle was killing her, and the little beast had bitten as hard as it could, nearly as hard as his daughters. The dog was their alter ego—and Mrs. Westerman's as well.
“Nothing? My daughters were horrible, the housekeeper was unthinkable, and my dog attacked you, and you just had eight stitches and a tetanus shot. What the hell do you mean, nothing?” He was furious, and didn't know who to take it out on. “I'm taking you home,” he said miserably, and told her to stay where she was till he found a cab. He was back five minutes later, and carried her out, and when he got her home, he undressed her, put her to bed, gave her her medicine, and propped her foot up on a pillow. He went downstairs to get them both something to eat and make her a cup of tea, and when he came upstairs with a tray, she already looked better, and he made a decision. He told her he had, and she looked terrified as she waited to hear it. After a night like that, he could only have come to a single conclusion, that having Fiona in his life was just too difficult for him. She sat stoically while he gathered his thoughts and looked at the woman he had fallen in love with in Paris, or even before that. It had been love at first sight for him.
“Fiona, if you'll have me, I'd like to move in with you this weekend, after I take Courtenay back to Princeton. Hilary is leaving Friday night for Brown. I'm not staying in the apartment with that woman. There's no reason for me to be there. I want to be here with you.” He looked down at the sleeping bulldog, who had barely stirred when they got home, and smiled. “And Sir Winston. The girls will just have to get used to it. I'll go home when they come for holidays or weekends. And eventually, I hope you'll come with me. We'll get you shin guards and a stun gun to use on Mrs. Westerman and the dog. Will you have me?” he asked almost humbly, and she burst into tears. She had been so sure he was about to tell her it was over, and she didn't want to lose him. She was just so sorry that his daughters hated her. The housekeeper was another story, and the dog was a little beast. But she was truly upset about his children.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” she asked, looking worried.
“Yes, I am,” he said firmly. He had no qualms about it. And he had never been as angry at his children, or as disappointed.
She couldn't stop crying as she looked at him, and he took her in his arms again. She had had a hell of an evening. “I'd love you to move in with me,” she said, still unable to stop crying as he held her. It was as much the shock of what had happened as the relief that he didn't want to leave her.
“Then why are you crying?” he said gently.
“Because I'll have to make more room in my closets,” she said, and laughed through her tears, and he joined her.

[Dalyia]

Chapter 9





Fiona was sitting at her desk the next day when Adrian came in to see her, after a meeting. She was looking at photographs on a light box behind her desk, and swiveled around as he came in.
“So how was it?” He had been dying of curiosity all night, and hadn't had time to stop in to see her all morning, and the one time he did, there were people with her.
“It was interesting,” she said obliquely.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, the housekeeper hated me and probably tried to poison me, but she burned the dinner so totally that I never got to eat it. The girls said they hated me, and haven't spoken to their father since Saturday when he told them. They refused to talk to me, told us we were disgusting, and stomped off to their rooms since there was nothing to eat anyway. And then the dog attacked me.” But at least she smiled at him when she said it. She hadn't lost her sense of humor.
“You're exaggerating, I hope. About the dog at least. Seriously, how bad was it? Did the kids lighten up eventually?”
“No. And I wasn't kidding about the dog either. I had eight stitches.”
“Are you serious?” He looked thunderstruck, and with that she lifted her leg onto the desk and rested it there, it was heavily bandaged and an impressive sight.
“I had a tetanus shot, and I'm on antibiotics. The only good news is that he was so upset, I thought he was going to end it with me. Instead, he's moving in this weekend.” She looked delighted as Adrian stared at her leg in disbelief.
“Oh God, what are you going to do about your closets?”
“I'll have to figure out something. Maybe I'll turn the dining room into a giant closet. Or tent the garden. God knows, but I'll have to do something. At least he still wants me. Jesus, Adrian. The kids were beyond awful. They were monsters, to him mostly, but they were awful to me too. And the housekeeper is right out of Rebecca, or some equally scary movie. I thought she was going to kill me. Instead, she had the dog do it. Thank God they don't have a pit bull.”
“What was it?” He looked worried. Even with her amusing recital of it, it was a pretty ugly story. And his daughters sounded like real bitches.
“A Pekingese, thank God. The damn thing wouldn't get its teeth out of my leg. John had to pour water on it.”
“Holy shit, Fiona, this is awful!” He was laughing because she made it sound so funny, but she had been scared.
“It was pretty bad,” she admitted ruefully. “I guess I won't be going there for Thanksgiving.”
“You can have turkey with me. My dogs love you.” He had two beautiful Hungarian sheepdogs, and they adored her. They nearly killed her with kisses whenever they saw her.
“I don't know what John is going to do. Maybe time will take care of it. His daughters are really going to be a problem. Or at least they are for the moment. They think he's betraying the memory of their mother.”
“That's ridiculous. You said she's been gone for two years. What do they expect? He's a young man. He can't bury himself with her.”
“I know. But they don't see it that way. I guess they want him to themselves, but they're not even there. They're away at college.”
“They'll get over it. At least he's not letting it sway him, or turn him against you.”
“On the contrary, when we got back from the hospital, he told me he wanted to move in with me. And that's a little scary too. That's pretty quick. We've only been together for two and a half months. I would have waited a lot longer, but on the other hand I like living with him. And I've gotten used to him. I missed him all weekend.”
“Can he stand your crazy life? Jamal, the dog, the groupies, me, all the people who hang around you, the shoots till all hours, the deadlines, all the nutcases you collect? He seems pretty conservative. Make sure you give him space and don't drive him crazy. You can't live like you did when you were alone, Fiona. You're going to have to make adjustments for him, especially if he's really living with you and not just ‘staying with you,’ as you put it.”
“He's held up so far. And he's not giving up his apartment, he can always stay there for a day or two for a breather, if he needs one,” she said practically, but Adrian shook his head in disapproval.
“Don't push him till he needs a breather. I know how you are. You like doing things your way. It's your house and your life and your dog. I'm the same way, and I've made the same mistake in every relationship I've had. I forget to compromise and adjust, and sooner or later it drives them right out the door. You'd better think about it, Fiona.” It was a sobering warning, and she suspected he was right.
“I know, I know,” she said with a smile. “It's hard to do sometimes. I'm set in my ways.”
“That's no excuse. We can all make adjustments.
And it would be stupid to lose him. I think this time it would really matter to you.” He was right, and she knew it.
“Yes, it would. I don't want to lose him. But I sure don't know what to do about his daughters.”
“Let him handle it. They're his problem. You're not married to him.” And then something occurred to him, and Adrian looked at her more closely. “Are you thinking of marrying him?”
“No. Why should I? I don't want kids. I don't need to be married. I told him that in the beginning.”
“Did he believe you?”
“I think so,” she said, looking pensive.
“What if he needs to be married? He may be more respectable than you are,” Adrian said wisely.
“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But for now at least, it's not an option,” she said firmly.
“Why not?”
“I'd have to give up too many closets. Besides, his kids would kill me.”
“That's a possibility, from the sound of it. Anyway, if you change your mind, warn me. If you ever tell me you're getting married, I might keel over from the shock. I want to be sitting down when you tell me.”
“Don't worry,” she said confidently, “I'm not going to. I may have mellowed. But I'm not crazy.”
“Why is it that I don't believe you?” Adrian said as he shook his head in disbelief over the story she had told him, and left her office.
And as promised, John moved in on Sunday. He took Courtenay to Princeton on Saturday, and Hilary flew back to Rhode Island on Friday night. Two hours after he got back from New Jersey he was at Fiona's house, with half a dozen suitcases, and a bunch of suits over his arm. And three banker's boxes full of files and papers. He said he could bring the rest later. This time she had spent hours making more space for him. It still wasn't enough, considering what he'd brought, but it was an improvement. By Sunday night they were a happy couple, officially living together. His daughters were back in school. Mrs. Westerman had the apartment to herself, and Fifi ruled the roost. And in Fiona's house, she and John were comfortable and happy. Sir Winston even wagged his stubby little tail when he saw him. The transition had been surprisingly easy. Another chapter in their life had begun. Everything seemed to be moving very quickly.
Everything continued to go smoothly until Thanksgiving. Inevitably, the issue of the holidays came up, and John and his daughters got in a huge battle over whether or not Fiona would be allowed to join them. Both girls threatened not to come home if she was there. In deference to their family, Fiona insisted on bowing out, and after endless battles with his girls that got him nowhere, John reluctantly agreed to it. She was planning to have Thanksgiving at Adrian's with a large group of his friends, and she told John honestly that she preferred it. She couldn't think of anything more depressing than spending the holiday among people who didn't want her there. And even if John did, his daughters didn't. Not to mention Mrs. Westerman and Fifi. It was a stupid situation, but the best they could do at the moment. And John was deeply grateful for her understanding.
She had a good time with Adrian and their friends. And John had a solemn, lonely Thanksgiving with his two daughters, and the stern-faced housekeeper grimly serving dinner. The meal was anything but happy. And as he and Ann had both been only children, and had lost their parents when they were young, they had no other relatives to share it with them. The holiday only served to make the girls miss their mother more acutely. It was dismal. And at the end of the silent meal, John confronted them and told them that he was tired of their punishing him not only for their mother's death, but also for his relationship with Fiona.
“I'm not going to let you do this,” he said sternly, as both girls cried and told him they didn't want him to forget their mother.
“How can you even say that?” he said, looking offended. “I loved her. I still do. I always will. I could never forget her or the happy times we shared. But that doesn't mean I have to be alone for the rest of my life, to remember her better. You two are gone now, you're in college. I'm alone here. And I want to be with Fiona. She's a wonderful woman.”
“No, she's not,” Hilary spat at him. “She's never even been married or had children.”
“That doesn't make her a bad person. Maybe she didn't find the right man.”
“She was too busy working,” Courtenay added, as though they knew her, which they didn't. They had made every effort possible not to.
“That's no reason to punish her. Or me. And that's what you've both been doing. That's not fair to me.”
“Are you going to marry her?” Hilary asked, looking panicked. Fiona had been designated as the enemy, and they were determined to hate her, for no rational reason. They had never given her a chance, and they didn't intend to. But he had no intention of letting them run his life.
“I don't know,” their father said honestly. “I don't think she wants to get married. She likes her life the way it is. And maybe she's right. After the way you two have behaved, why would she want a family like us, or stepchildren like you? She's better off single.” They both looked faintly embarrassed. Hilary had admitted to one of her roommates the week before how rotten they'd been to her, and she was actually proud of it. Her sister was equally determined.
“We don't want her as a stepmother,” Hilary concluded.
“You could do a lot worse,” John said firmly. “A lot worse. She's a good woman. And it's not up to you. It's up to me. You're not children. You're nineteen and twenty-one. You don't get to act like this forever. If you want to, it's your business. But I'm not going to let you ruin my life.”
“We won't come home for holidays if you marry her,” Courtenay said petulantly, sounding like a five-year-old and not a sophomore at Princeton.
“I'm sorry to hear that. You might find yourself in slightly different circumstances,” he said, threatening them subtly, and they both got the message.

[Dalyia]

“Would you cut us off?” They were checking how far they could go, and as far as he was concerned, they had gone far enough. In fact, way too far.
“I wouldn't test those limits if I were you. I'd be very disappointed in you if you continued to behave this way, if Fiona and I got married.” What he said to them that night sent them scurrying back to the kitchen after dinner, for a consultation with Mrs. Westerman. It sounded like he was going to marry Fiona, from everything he'd said.
“We'd have her out of here in six months if he did,” Mrs. Westerman said confidently as the two girls listened. It sounded like a good plan to them. They liked the idea of getting rid of her in six months. At least they wouldn't be stuck with her forever, and they'd have their father to themselves again. It was all they wanted. If their mother wasn't alive, they didn't want anyone else to take her place. Ever.
“What if he fired you?” Courtenay asked, looking nervous. Other than their father, she was all they had now, and she knew it.
“Let him. I'd go back to North Dakota, and you could come and stay with me whenever you wanted.” She had some money saved, and she had inherited a small house there. He couldn't do anything to her. She had lost respect for him now anyway. She thought what he was doing with that woman just wasn't Christian.
“We don't want you to go away,” Hilary said unhappily. “We want you to stay forever.” But Mrs. Westerman herself knew that one day she would retire and go home. One of these days the girls would be grown up and married. They were already in college. It wouldn't be long now. And if she kept him from marrying that woman, at least she would have done her duty by the late Mrs. Anderson. She had made her that promise after she died, that she would keep him from defiling her memory, or doing anything foolish. She owed her that much. And she was going to do whatever it took to protect her. Ann Anderson had been such a good woman. And that other woman, the one he was chasing after and sleeping with and making a fool of himself with, well, whoever and whatever he thought she was, as far as Mrs. Westerman was concerned, she was no one. And as long as Rebecca Westerman was alive, Fiona would never get him. It was a solemn vow she had made and would keep no matter what.

[Dalyia]

Chapter 10





In spite of the strain between John and his daughters, things were remarkably peaceful between him and Fiona. Their adjustment to living together full time seemed effortless, and she tried to keep the chaos in her life down to a dull roar, so she didn't upset him. She tried to get Jamal to dress more respectably, and not run around the house vacuuming in harem pants and loincloths. And when people dropped by, as they had for years, she suggested that they call her first in future.
She staged no shoots in the house, didn't let it out as a backdrop, as she had before, and no longer allowed photographers from out of town to stay there. She was, if nothing else, trying to be respectful of John. He led a different life than hers, and she couldn't be quite as free and easy as she had been while living by herself. She had taken Adrian's advice, and she wanted John to be happy. The only place where she drew the line was over Sir Winston. She wouldn't have made any changes about the dog. He still slept on her bed, and was as spoiled as any child. But fortunately John had come to love him and found him funny. And she only had a tiny scar on her ankle, courtesy of Fifi. She had never gone to his apartment again. She found it depressing anyway. He only went there when one of his daughters came to town for the weekend, which was seldom. They were busy at school. And they never mentioned Fiona, nor did he. But he still thought it was a miserable situation, and wanted to change it. He just didn't know how to convince them, or win them over. Mrs. Westerman kept the embers hot and the fires burning, whenever she spoke to them. She reminded them that their first loyalty had to be to their mother. It was a vendetta Mrs. Westerman was hellbent on pursuing. And after her years of kindness and loyalty to them, and the girls' attachment to her, John didn't have the heart to send her back to North Dakota, although he would have liked to. And since the dog had been Ann's, he didn't have the heart to do anything about her either.
He was planning to stay at the apartment with the girls for a week over Christmas. After that, Hilary and Courtenay were going skiing in Vermont with friends, and he and Fiona were going to the Caribbean over New Year's. They were going to St. Bart's, and stopping in Miami on the way home. He had an important new client in Miami, and she wanted to look around South Beach for the magazine. They were planning to be gone for two weeks. He had already promised to spend Christmas Eve with Fiona, and Christmas Day with his daughters. It was a hell of a way to live, but he had no choice for the moment. It was a tenuous peace between two camps, but nothing was perfect. His life with Fiona was as close as he'd ever gotten to real happiness. He was truly happy with her. And Adrian said he had never seen her look better. Work was going well for both of them, and in spite of the awkwardness of it, they even managed Christmas.
The Christmas Eve he spent with Fiona was peaceful and perfect, and after she went to bed, he went back to the apartment, and was there when his daughters woke up in the morning. He missed Fiona all night, but for the moment, it was a sacrifice he was willing to make for his children. Much to his chagrin, they never thanked him once for it. He and Mrs. Westerman maintained a cool distance. She looked at him now as though he were the incarnation of the devil.
But at least he and the girls enjoyed a nice Christmas Day. They loved the gifts he had gotten for them, and had each gone to a lot of trouble to find something meaningful for him. But their Christmases were always tainted now by the absence of their mother. And late that night, after they had gone out with friends, he slipped out to visit Fiona. Whenever he wasn't with her, he really missed her. She was already asleep in bed with Sir Winston when he got there. Selfishly, he couldn't resist waking her, and making love to her.
And then he left again, to go back to the apartment he stayed at with his daughters. But Fiona's house was home now. He knew he couldn't live this way for much longer. It was a divided life, and the running back and forth seemed so pointless. He had thought about it a lot recently, and he could only think of one solution. What he didn't know was how Fiona would feel about it.
The day after Christmas the girls left for Vermont, and that night he and Fiona flew to St. Martin, and then caught a puddle-jumper to St. Bart's. They stayed in a lovely old French hotel, and it was wonderful being there, with the heat and the sun and the good weather. It was yet another perfect vacation, and it only served to strengthen his resolve, and give him courage. He didn't want to rock the boat, but he also wanted to know that the boat was his now. He no longer wanted to simply charter. And on New Year's Eve, as he toasted her, she saw something odd in his eyes and suddenly got worried.
“Are you okay?” she asked with a look of concern. They had lain on the beach all day, and had made love that night before they went out to dinner.
“Very much so. I have something I want to ask you.” She couldn't imagine what it was, and thought he was teasing her about something. He had a mischievous sense of humor, just as she did.
“You want to know if I love you or Sir Winston more, I'll bet. You know, that just isn't a fair question. He and I have been together longer. But I love you nearly as much. And given time, who knows, I could grow to love you almost as much as I love Sir Winston,” she teased him.
“Will you marry me, Fiona?”
She could see in his eyes that he meant it. Her mouth opened and shut silently, and she stared at him in obvious consternation. “Oh, shit. You mean that, don't you?”
“Yes, I do. That's not exactly the response I expected.” He looked worried and somber.
“Why did you do that? Why did you ask me?” She looked upset, and so did he now. “I told you in the beginning, I don't need to be married. Things are fine the way they are. And if I married you, your daughters would put a contract out on me. And your housekeeper would sic the Hound of the Baskervilles on me. I don't need the aggravation. And neither do you,” she said, looking unhappy. This was not the answer he had hoped for.
“This is none of their business. This is about us. Mrs. Westerman is an employee. And my daughters are going to have to accept that I have a right to be happy and have my own life. They have theirs now. Never mind them. What about you? What do you want? Do you want me?” He couldn't have put it more simply, and that touched her.
“Of course I do. But I already have you, don't I? Do we need papers to prove it?”
“Maybe we do. I think I do,” he said honestly. “I don't like just camping out at your house, feeling like a guest, trying to find an empty closet. Besides, I figure I'll never get a decent closet in that house unless I build one, and it's rude to do that in someone else's house. It's a serious problem.” But as far as Fiona was concerned, so was marriage. Very serious. More serious than she had ever wanted.
“If I let you build a closet, do you still need to get married?” He could see that she looked frightened.
“Why are you so afraid of marriage?” He had never understood it. But she was phobic about it.
“If you get married, people leave each other, and die. They hurt and disappoint each other. They walk out. If all you do is live together, they just get bored with each other at some point, but they don't do as much damage on the way out.” It was all about the father who had abandoned them, he knew, but it was even deeper than that now. She didn't want to be owned, or to risk losing someone she loved. She wanted to hang on lightly. Marriage seemed too tight a grip to her, and she was afraid of being strangled. Even the situation with his daughters would be worse if they got married, and become more important. Now it was his problem, married it would be hers as well. This way she could sympathize with him, and just ignore it. If she married him, she'd have to own it.
“I like being married,” he said honestly. “I like what it means. It means I believe in you and will love you forever.”
“There is no forever,” she said softly. His late wife had proven that to him. People had been proving that to her all her life. There was no forever. There was only now. And they already had that. She didn't want to believe in forever, with anyone, it would only hurt her in the end.
“Yes, there is, Fiona. Or close enough. I want to be with you forever.”
“You mean that now,” she said quietly, “and you think there is. But one day if you get mad at me or fed up, you'll walk out. And if you do, it's simpler this way.”
“Don't you have more faith in me than that?” he asked sadly.
“In you maybe, but not in life. Life doesn't give you forever. It just doesn't.”
“I've never walked out on anyone in my life. And I'm not going to walk out on you. I'm not that kind of person,” he said gently.
“That's what you say now. But who knows what you'd say later. I like it better this way.” She just couldn't do it. And she couldn't see a reason to. Why spoil a good thing with the risk of marriage? It was way too scary. But she didn't want to hurt his feelings either, and she was flattered that he had asked her.
“I don't want to be a guest in your house forever. I want to own something with you, to share a life with you.” He didn't want to say it to her, and he didn't want to frighten her even more, but he would even have liked to have children with her. But he knew how she felt about that. All he wanted now was to be married to her, they could see about the rest later. He didn't want to frighten her even more than she was. There was terror in her eyes. “Will you think about it?”
“Why?”
“Because I love you. And I want to be married to you.”
“It's such a silly thing to do. Some guy saying words over us isn't going to make us love each other more, or wearing a ring that you give me. I already love you.” He had a ring in his pocket for her, but he didn't want to tell her, or scare her off completely. He had never known another woman like her, but that was why he loved her.
“It's the promise. The commitment. It's a way of saying to the world that I believe in you, and you believe in me, and we're proud of each other.”
“I am proud of you. I don't need to be married to you to be proud of you.”
“Maybe I do.” He didn't say more about it after that, and they made love when they went back to their room that night. Afterward, he fell asleep next to her, and she lay in bed thinking about what he had said, trying to imagine what it would be like being married to him. And for once, for some strange reason, it felt comfortable, instead of scary. And then she thought of what Adrian had said to her, about compromise, and maybe if it meant that much to him, and truly made no difference to her, it was something worth doing. She lay in bed and thought about it all night, and she fell asleep finally when the sun came up, and in the morning, she felt strangely peaceful.

[Dalyia]

He was lying next to her, looking at her when she woke up, and she smiled at him. She had never loved anyone as she loved him, and maybe he was right. She didn't need the paperwork, but maybe it was the right thing to do, to stand beside him and let the world know how much she loved him. But more than anything, she knew it was a way of saying to him the one thing she had never said to anyone, and sworn she never would, it was a way of saying “I trust you.” That was the core of it for her. She had loved a few men in her life, but she had never trusted anyone, and she did him. Maybe now it was time to prove it.
“You remember that thing you asked me last night,” she said in a whisper as she lay next to him.
“Mmmm… yeah…” He smiled at her. “I think I remember.” He was expecting another one of her speeches about why she didn't need marriage. “What about it?”
“I think I'd like to do it.” She said it so softly, he almost didn't hear it.
“Are you serious?” he whispered back. He had no idea what had made her agree finally. He was stunned.
“Yeah. I think so. Maybe it's not such a bad idea. Just one time. With you. Generally speaking, it's against my principles, but for you, I was thinking of making an exception.”
“That'll do.” He was beaming at her. She only had to be brave about it once. That was generally the best way. One time only. “Will you really marry me, Fiona?” After everything she'd said to try and talk him out of it, he hardly dared to believe it.
“Yes, I think so. Unless I come to my senses.”
“Maybe we should do it soon, before you do that.”
“When were you thinking?”
“Whenever you want.” He wanted to make it as easy and painless as possible for her.
“Maybe in a few weeks, after we get home. Just the two of us. And maybe Sir Winston.”
“Do I have to marry the dog too?”
“Absolutely.” She looked as though she meant it, and he wasn't about to argue with her. He was much too excited, and much too happy. “Are you going to tell your children before we do it?” She looked understandably worried.
“I don't think so. They're not going to want to be there. I'd rather tell them after. What do you think?”
“I'd like that better. We can have a party afterward or something. But I think when we actually do ‘the deed,’ ” she hated to even say the word, “it should be private.”
“Name the day, and I'll be there,” he said, and held her close to him, and then he got out of bed, fished the ring out of his pocket, and slipped it on her finger. She lay in bed staring at it in wonder and amazement, and then tears slid slowly down her cheeks as she looked at him. She had finally dared, and finally trusted him enough to do it. Or she was going to, anyway. All she could do then was lie in bed and hold him, knowing how much she loved him. She felt as though she had come home finally, to someone she was truly safe with. She knew that she could trust this man with her heart, and her life, without question.

[Dalyia]

Chapter 11





Their wedding day was as simple and as easy as they could possibly have made it. One day after work, they went to get the license. Then Fiona made an appointment with a minister she knew, and on a Saturday afternoon in January, she and John went to a little church she had always liked in the Village. They took a cab downtown, and she brought Sir Winston with her. It was not the kind of wedding John would have planned, but it was exactly what Fiona wanted. She came downstairs wearing a white suit, and a fur coat she seldom wore, and she wore her hair sleek and straight and long. She had never looked as beautiful as when they exchanged their vows in the tiny church, and he put a simple gold ring on her finger. And as she looked up at him, she actually believed, finally, that she belonged to him forever, and he belonged to her. She had never realized how much this would mean to her. To Fiona, it was a promise never to be broken, and she knew that to John it was just as powerful, which was why she had married him. It was a solemn vow they both believed in. And when they went home that afternoon, they just sat there for a while and drank champagne, and then she started to giggle.
“I can't believe I did it,” she said in disbelief.
“Neither can I. I'm so glad you did. We did,” he corrected. They decided not to call his children till the next morning. They didn't want to do anything to spoil it.
They spent the night in bed, holding each other, and made love, and everything around them seemed to be quiet and peaceful. And when they woke up in the morning, it was snowing and the entire world was covered in a beautiful white blanket.
They made breakfast and walked the dog, and John looked at her with amusement.
“By the way, what's your name now? Just so I know when I introduce you.”
“What do you think? Does Fiona Anderson sound too weird? Fiona Monaghan-Anderson sounds too pretentious. I'll tell you what, I'll try Anderson for a few weeks, and if I like it, I'll stick with it.”
“That sounds sensible. I have to admit, I hope you like it.”
“We could trade names,” she said, feeling giddy.
After they got back to the house, she called Adrian, and John went upstairs to call his daughters. Both calls were predictable. Adrian was beside himself, he was so thrilled, and both girls were nasty to their father. He knew they had hoped to stop him by their antics, and they were horrified to find they hadn't. But there was nothing they could do to him now. He had married Fiona, and he hoped they would make their peace with it, but even if they didn't, it wouldn't change anything. Fiona didn't ask a lot of questions about it after he had talked to them. She hadn't expected them to react any differently. Adrian had asked her if she was still going to Paris for the January couture shows.
“Of course I am. I didn't quit my job, I just got married,” she said. It had only taken her forty-two years to do it. It was utterly amazing.
But they barely had time to celebrate it. Fiona said that they had taken the honeymoon before the wedding, when they went to the Caribbean. She left for Paris ten days later for the spring/summer couture shows. And right after she got back, they had the ready-to-wear shows during fashion week. Hell week, as she called it. She was working constantly, and scarcely saw John at all for the first month they were married. They didn't even have time to plan a party. And now when his daughters came home, he told them that they could either stay with him at Fiona's, or he and Fiona would both come home, but he was no longer willing to come home alone to see them.
And much to Fiona's horror, the girls reluctantly accepted the idea that she would come with him, and John actually begged her to stay at his apartment for the weekend. She knew how important it was to him. It was one of those hideous sacrifices Adrian had spoken of, which made all the difference, so she agreed to do it. And it was almost as unpleasant as she had expected.
The girls hardly spoke to her, and when they did, they were supercilious and bitchy, but at least they tolerated her being there, which was an improvement. Mrs. Westerman damn near poisoned her with a curry so spicy it nearly killed her, and much to John's horror and disbelief, she “accidentally” let Fifi out of the kitchen, and the dog made a beeline straight to Fiona's left leg this time, and took a chunk out of her left ankle, instead of the right one. This time she only needed four stitches. Adrian looked at her in total astonishment when he saw her on Monday morning.
“Again? Are you insane? When are they going to put that dog down?”
“I thought John was going to kill the housekeeper. He screamed so loud that both girls were crying, and she threatened to quit. I may have to get a stun gun the next time the girls come to visit.”
“I hope they don't come often. Did he fire the housekeeper?”
“He can't. The girls love her.”
“Fiona, she's trying to kill you.”
“I know. Death by fatal curry. I still have heartburn from it. Thank God the dog is too short to go for my throat, otherwise she would. I just have to make the best of it. I love him.”
“You don't have to love the dog, his housekeeper, and his children.”
“That's a much bigger challenge,” she confessed, and John was once again mortally embarrassed. It had been a pretty ghastly weekend, and he had been having a lot of stress at the office. Fiona had been busier than she'd been in months. The whole magazine seemed to be going crazy. People had quit, the format had changed, the new ad campaign was causing problems and had to be redesigned, which was yet another of John's problems, as well as hers. A photographer had sued the magazine. A supermodel had OD'd on a shoot and damn near died, and attracted a huge amount of negative publicity. Fiona was coming home at ten o'clock every night, and traveling more than she ever had. She made three trips to Paris in one month, and the following month she got stuck in Berlin for two weeks, and then had to fly right back out to Rome for an important meeting with Valentino. John complained that he never saw her, and he was right.
“I know, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I don't know what's happened. I can't seem to get things calmed down. Every time I solve one problem, I get hit with another.” But his office was no calmer than hers was. The agency was changing hands again, and it was causing him huge problems. And in April, one of his daughters told him she was pregnant, and had an abortion. She blamed him, and said that if he hadn't married Fiona, she wouldn't have been so freaked out, and wouldn't have been careless with the boy she slept with. It was ridiculous to blame him, but John somehow felt guilty and blamed himself, and indirectly, when he had too much to drink one night, he blamed Fiona, which shocked her.
“Do you really believe that? That Hilary's abortion is my fault, and the pregnancy?” Fiona stared at him in disbelief.
“I don't know what to believe. We upset the hell out of them. And dammit, Fiona, I never see you.” He was most unhappy about that.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I feel like I'm living with a flight attendant. You come here to change clothes and pack another suitcase. And take off again. And I'm stuck here with your fucking dog and that half-naked lunatic who runs around in a gold lamé Speedo when I come home from the office. I need a little more sanity around here than I'm getting. I need to come home to a normal house, with all the stresses I have at the office.”
“Then you should have married a normal person,” she snapped back at him. The things he had said to her had been hurtful.
“I thought I did. I can't live with all this chaos.”
“What chaos?” She hardly entertained anymore. Her salons had dwindled down to nothing, because she didn't want to upset him. And she promised to tell Jamal to keep his clothes on. She had told him that before, but whenever she wasn't around, he did what he wanted. But there was no harm in it, and he was a sweet man.
Adrian noticed how furious she looked when she came to work one morning, and she told him about it. She and John had just had yet another argument about Jamal.
“I told you you'd need to compromise. Buy Jamal a uniform, and tell him he has to wear it.”
“What difference does it make? Who cares what he wears when he vacuums?”
“John does,” Adrian said sternly. “And what did you do about the closets?”
“I haven't had time to do anything. I've been on airplanes for three months. I haven't had a break, Adrian, and you know it.”
“Well, you'd better do something. You don't want to lose him.”
“I'm not going to lose him,” she said confidently. “We're married.”
“Since when did that give anyone a guarantee?”
“Well, it's supposed to,” she said, looking stubborn. “That's what the vows are supposed to mean, isn't it?”
“Sure, if you marry a saint. With humans, the warranty may run out. Fiona, people get impatient.” He tried to warn her.
“Okay, okay, I'll give him a closet. What does he need a closet for anyway? He left most of his clothes at the apartment. Along with his wife's, and that portrait of her I hate. We had an argument about it the other day. He wants to bring it to my house, so the girls feel at home there. For chrissake, why in God's name would I want to live with his wife's portrait?”
“Compromise, compromise, compromise!” Adrian wagged a finger at her. “He has a point. It might make his kids like you better. You can put it in their bedroom. You don't have to see it.”
“I'm not turning my house into a shrine to his late wife. I can't live like that either.”
“The first year is always the hardest,” Adrian said calmly, but that was because he wasn't the one compromising. But neither was Fiona. She wanted to keep everything as it had been, and every time John moved something, or changed something, she had a fit when she came home from the office. And she told Jamal not to let John change anything. So they had a huge fight when she was in L.A., supervising a shoot of Madonna. John had been putting some of his books in the library, and Jamal wouldn't let him. John had called her in L.A. and threatened to move out if she didn't call Jamal off. It was the first time he had done that, and she was frightened and told Jamal to let him do whatever he wanted. Jamal had argued with her on the phone, that she had told him not to let John change anything, and she nearly got hysterical screaming at him, and told him to just do what she told him and not make more problems. Jamal called her in tears that night and threatened to quit, and she begged him not to. She wanted familiar people, places, and things around her. And suddenly everything was changing. She had two stepdaughters she couldn't stand, and a man who wanted to make his mark in her life, and had a right to. But after a lifetime of doing things her way, and controlling her environment, she felt every change he wanted to make like an assault on her person. Even seeing his books in her library unnerved her slightly. He had put some of hers on a top shelf, to make room for his own.
It was as though they were constantly at each other's throats these days, arguing and shouting and accusing. Mrs. Westerman had threatened to quit, John was thinking of selling the apartment, and his daughters were outraged. And if he did sell it, Fiona knew his daughters would come to stay at her place. And whatever happened, she was not willing to take the dog. She had threatened to put it down if he brought it to her house, and he had said something about it to Hilary and Courtenay, and now they hated her more. It was an endless vicious circle of misunderstandings and misquotes, and raw nerves, and constantly stressful situations, for all concerned.
In April, things took a dramatic turn for the worse, when John told her he was organizing a dinner party for a new client. He wanted to do it at Le Cirque, in a private room, and asked Fiona to help. His secretary wasn't good at that sort of thing, and it seemed reasonable to him to ask Fiona to give him a hand. All he wanted her to do was book the room, choose the menu, order the flowers, and help him with the seating. He had to invite several people from the agency, and at least one member of the creative staff, and it was a somewhat awkward group. He knew the client fairly well, but had never met his wife, and he trusted Fiona's judgment about the details, and how to seat the party. The client was an extremely dour man from the Midwest, and about as far from Fiona's world as you could get.
The first thing Fiona did was insist they have it at her house. She said it would have a more personal touch, and be considerably less stuffy. She insisted it would put everyone at ease, rather than doing it at a restaurant, which seemed more impersonal to her, although they both loved Le Cirque.
“I always do business dinners here for the magazine,” she insisted, and John said he was uneasy about it.
“The people you entertain for the magazine are a lot different. You've never seen anyone more uptight than this guy. And I know nothing about his wife.”
“Trust me. I know what I'm doing,” she said confidently, determined to redeem herself for the stress of the past months. “I'll treat them like visiting dignitaries. I'll get my caterer to do it. If you want, we can do fabulous French food like Le Cirque.”
“What about Jamal?” he asked nervously. “This guy was the head of the Republican Party in Michigan before he moved here. I don't think he'd understand a house man in harem pants, and I don't want him to think we're weird.”
“He has a uniform. I'll make him wear it. I promise. I'll threaten his life,” she reassured him, and meant it. She had bought him a proper butler's uniform after she'd married John, anticipating an evening such as this, and she had wanted to be prepared. He'd never worn it yet, but she knew it fit him. She had made him try it on, and had had it tailored for him. She called the caterers the next day, the florist, ordered fancy French food for the menu, and exquisite wines. She was going to serve Haut-Brion, Cristal, Cheval Blanc, and Château d'Yquem for dessert. She was determined to make up for all past sins that night, and was absolutely certain everything would go fine. She was leaving nothing to chance.
The day of the dinner party, she had a major crisis at the magazine, and two of her best editors threatened to quit over a layout that hadn't gone well and Fiona had been forced to pull. She had World War III in the office, her secretary announced that she was pregnant, and threw up all day. And Adrian was out with the flu. She had a massive headache herself by midafternoon, which was threatening to become a migraine. As soon as she got home, she took a pill she found in her medicine cabinet in an unmarked bottle that someone had given her in Europe. It was relatively mild and had worked before. Everything was in control. And half an hour before the dinner party, the caterers had everything in order, Jamal was wearing his uniform, the table looked beautiful, and the crystal and glass shone. And when John checked it all out before the guests arrived, he looked relieved and pleased. The table looked like a layout in a magazine. It was perfect, and the food smelled delicious.
The guest of honor and his wife arrived right on time, in fact they were five minutes early, which Fiona found slightly unnerving. She was just zipping up a plain black dress when the doorbell rang, and John hurried downstairs. She put on high-heeled black satin pumps, and a pair of big coral earrings. She looked so simple and respectable, she barely recognized herself, as she glanced in the mirror and went down to join their guests. She still had the headache, but was feeling better since she'd taken the pill, and she smiled warmly at John's client, when John introduced her first to Matthew Madison, and then to his extremely uptight wife. Neither of them looked as though they had cracked a smile in years. The rest of the guests took a little of the stiffness out of it as they arrived one by one. There were to be ten guests in all, and with Fiona and John, it made twelve.
Jamal passed the first plate of hors d'oeuvres, and everything went fine, just as Fiona felt her headache returning with a vengeance. John's obvious concern over the evening didn't help, and she felt stressed just watching him. He wanted everything to be perfect, and it was. Fiona decided not to take another pill for her headache. She quietly asked Jamal for a glass of champagne instead. And by the time she finished the glass, it seemed to help. She went to put some music on to add some atmosphere, and smiled to herself. She hadn't given a dinner party as proper and restrained as this in years. Or ever. She liked things livelier and more fun, and definitely more exotic. But she wanted to do everything just the way John had asked her to, and she had.
It was when Jamal passed the hors d'oeuvres the second time that she saw John signal her and point to him, and she couldn't understand what he was saying. He was frowning at her ferociously, and then glancing at Jamal's feet. And then she saw that along with his black trousers with the satin stripe down the side, and the proper black tux jacket, white shirt, and bow tie he had worn, he had added a pair of gold and rhinestone high heels after the party began. She recognized them immediately, they were hers. She followed him into the kitchen and told him he had to take them off.

[Dalyia]

“Why aren't you wearing proper shoes?” she chided him as they stood whispering in the kitchen, and he looked at her innocently and shrugged.
“They hurt.”
“So do those. I get blisters every time I wear them. Jamal, you have to take them off. John is having a fit.”
“I hate men's shoes, they're so ugly,” he said, looking unhappy.
“I don't care. Tonight is important. Change your shoes.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
“I threw them away.”
“Where?”
“In the garbage.” She pulled the top off the garbage can, and there they were, with oyster shells, two empty cans of caviar, and half a tomato aspic that had gone wrong lying on them. There was no way he could wear the shoes. She was about to suggest John's, but his feet were nearly four sizes larger than Jamal's.
“Go upstairs and get a pair of my flats at least. Black ones!” she urged, as he ran up the back stairs, still wearing her gold high heels. She had another quick glass of champagne then, and went back out to John and his extremely boring guests. And as she walked into the living room, she tripped, and the contents of her third glass of champagne flew across the room and landed on Sally Madison's dress, as Fiona gasped.
“Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Sammy… I mean Sarry… Sally…” John noticed instantly that she was slurring, and he had never seen her drunk before, so he couldn't imagine what was wrong, as Fiona hurried back to the kitchen to get a towel and some soda water to get the champagne off the woman's dress.
The evening went downhill swiftly after that. Jamal returned wearing different shoes, as he'd been told, but instead of black, he had chosen shocking pink alligator flats. It wasn't what Fiona had had in mind, and everyone in the room noticed it as he passed the hors d'oeuvres. And by the time they sat down to dinner, Fiona was so drunk she could hardly stand up. The seemingly harmless headache pill and the champagne had turned out to be a lethal mix. She had to go upstairs and lie down before dessert. The food was good and the wine was excellent, but Jamal had clearly shocked the Madisons and continued to do so as he served the meal, and chatted amiably with the guests. And John wanted to assure them he was going to send his wife to Betty Ford. John was ready to kill her by the time the guests left.
He was absolutely furious when he went upstairs and found her sprawled on their bed still in her dress, and she woke almost as soon as he walked in.
“Oh my God, I have the most god-awful headache,” she said with a groan as she rolled over, looked up at him, and put both her hands on her head.
“Why the hell did you do that?” he asked her in a fury. She had never seen him as angry, and hoped she never would again. “How could you get drunk at a dinner as important as that? For chrissake, Fiona, you acted like a candidate for AA.”
“I had a headache, I took some stupid pill before dinner. I think the champagne made it kick in. It never did that before.” But she'd never added champagne to it before either.
“What was it?” He glared at her angrily. “Heroin? And what was Jamal doing? Smoking crack when he got dressed? What the hell was he doing in those shoes?”
“The gold ones or the pink ones?” She was trying to focus on what John was saying, but she was still very drunk from the pill and the champagne, and five minutes later, in spite of her best efforts to pay attention to what he was saying, she went back to sleep.
She had a massive hangover the next day, and she couldn't remember anything about the dinner, but over breakfast, in icy tones, John filled her in. He didn't speak to her after that for a week. He got the account anyway, much to his amazement, but he called Madison the next day and apologized for his wife's behavior, and hoped she hadn't done any permanent damage to Sally's dress with the spilled champagne. Matthew Madison was surprisingly understanding about it, and John explained that Fiona had made the unfortunate mistake of taking a headache pill and drinking champagne. It was the kind of excuse anyone would make, he realized, for an alcoholic wife. And there was no question, as April drifted into May, that the evening had taken a toll on them. John was still upset about it, although Fiona had apologized a thousand times. Of all times for Fiona to have combined alcohol and medication, that was not the night for it, as far as John was concerned.
And in May, during an important shoot that lasted a week, a world-famous photographer got thrown out of his hotel for arguing with the manager, and bringing five call girls to his room at one time, which had upset the other guests. Fiona had no choice, she felt, but to bring him to her house, and settle him in her guest room, which meant that all the rolling racks of her clothes found their way into the living room. There was utter chaos in the house when John came home from the office, and found the photographer, two hookers, and a drug dealer who sold him cocaine, in the living room, having sex. Fiona was still at work. John went absolutely berserk, justifiably, and threw them all out. He was shaking with rage when he called Fiona in the office. She didn't blame him, and she was upset too, but the photographer was one of the most important she dealt with, and she didn't want him to quit, which he did the next day, and flew back to Paris. She had no idea how to fill the gap in the July issue. She was sitting in her office in tears over it when Adrian walked in, and she shouted at him.
“If you tell me to compromise one more time, I'm going to kill you. That idiot Pierre St. Martin had an orgy in my living room last night, and John threw him out. He just quit and destroyed the whole goddamn July issue. And three weeks ago, I got drunk on champagne and a French headache pill at a business dinner I gave for John at the house. We're driving each other insane. His wife's portrait is in my living room, his children hate me, and it's my fault his daughter had an abortion. And what the hell am I going to do with the July issue? That sonofabitch quit and left me holding the bag when John threw his ass out in the street, and I don't blame him. He was screwing his drug dealer and two hookers when John came home from the office. I would have gone nuts too. And he still hasn't forgiven me for getting drunk at his dinner. I had a migraine. And Jamal wore my gold Blahnik shoes with the six-inch heels from last season.” It was a litany of woes.
“Oh my God. Fiona, he's going to kill you if he has to put up with shit like that. Your life is out of control.”
“I know. I love him, but I can't deal with his children, and he wants me to love them. They're nasty rotten spoiled brats, and I hate them.”
“But they're his nasty rotten spoiled brats, and he does love them,” Adrian interrupted. “And now they're yours too, and love them or not, you have to put up with them because you love him. And don't take any more photographers into the house, for God's sake.”
“Now you tell me,” she said miserably as she blew her nose.
“Maybe you should get rid of Jamal too, and hire a normal maid.”
“I can't. He's been with me forever. That wouldn't be fair.”
“It's not fair to expect John to live with your half-naked house man running all over the house in gold lamé shorts and your shoes. It's embarrassing for him. What if he brings someone home from the office?” She worried about it, which was why she'd bought him the uniform, but she knew Jamal needed her, and he was so loyal and kindhearted. It seemed so mean to fire him. She couldn't see why John couldn't accept him too. “You're not making this easy for John, Fiona,” Adrian chided her as she sat back in her chair and sighed.
“He's not making it easy for me either. He knew what my life was like before he married me. He lived with me, for chrissake.”
“Yes, but it's different once you're married. It's his house now too.”
“He still has his apartment. Why doesn't he take people there if he doesn't want them to see Jamal?”
Although she had suggested he give the business dinner at her house, which had seemed like a good idea. It would have been if she hadn't gotten a migraine, taken the pill, and gotten drunk as a result.
“Why should he go to his place? I thought you told me he wanted to sell the apartment.”
“He does, and he wants the girls to stay with us, which means I'll lose my guest room, and I'll have those monsters right in my house with their killer dog.”
“For God's sake, Fiona, it's only a Chihuahua or something. What is it?” He looked distracted. This was upsetting him too.
“It's a Pekingese. And why are you always on his side?”
“I'm not,” Adrian said calmly. “I'm on yours, because I know you love him. And if you don't do something about all this, you'll lose him. I don't want that to happen to you.”
“This was exactly what I was afraid of, and why I never got married. I don't want to have to give up me, in order to be his.”
“You don't. Jamal isn't you. You have to give up some of the trimmings. You don't have to give up you.”
“And what does he give up?”
“At this rate, his sanity, to live with you. Look at it from his side. He wants to make his kids feel comfortable with you. He doesn't want to lose his kids for you. You have some goofy house man running around half naked, no matter how sweet he is, which embarrasses John. You have a smelly old dog snoring on his bed every night. You have a job that keeps you running around the world constantly. You have weird friends like me. And you bring in some French lunatic who brings hookers and a drug dealer into his house, and screws them in plain sight in the living room. How sane would you be if someone dragged you into all that and expected you to live with it? Frankly, I love you, but I'd go insane if I lived with you.”
“Okay, okay, I'll clean it up. But the portrait in the living room is a bit much, don't you think?”
“Not if it makes his kids feel at home. Win them over first, you can always move the portrait to their room later.”
“I don't want them to have a room.”
“You married a man with kids. They have to have a room. You have to give in somewhere,” Adrian said relentlessly. He wanted this to work for her, and he was getting worried. So was she.
“This is hard for me,” she said as she blew her nose again. It was suddenly all so stressful, for both of them.
“It's just as hard for him. Give him something. You'll lose him if you don't.” They both knew she didn't want that, but she didn't want to change anything either. She wanted him to get used to all of it.
And she wanted his kids to disappear, and they weren't going to do that. If she wanted him, she had to welcome them into her home, no matter how rude they were to her. “No more photographers in the house,” Adrian warned her. “Promise me that at least. And buy Jamal a decent pair of men's shoes.” She didn't bother telling Adrian she had and he'd thrown them away because he thought they were ugly.
“Okay, I promise.” That was the easy part. The rest was a lot harder, and she was still mulling it over when she went home that night, and found a note from John. He had gone to his apartment for a few days to get some peace. She called him there, and Mrs. Westerman answered. She said he was out, and Fiona didn't believe her. She called his cell phone, and it was on voice mail. She felt as if he had shut her out, and she felt panicked. Maybe Adrian was right and she had to make some changes quickly.
But she felt as though the fates were conspiring against her. They had an emergency on a shoot in London two days later, and they insisted she had to come over. It was a story on the royal family. She had no choice. She had to go. And this time she was gone for two weeks. She only got to speak to John twice while she was away. He always seemed to be too busy to talk to her, and his cell phone was always on voice mail. When she came back, he was still in his apartment. He said he didn't want to stay at her place while she was away. His girls had been on a break from school, and they'd been at home with him. And in another two weeks, they would both be on vacation for the summer. He startled Fiona by saying that he was going on vacation alone with them. They were going back to the ranch in Montana where he had always taken them with Ann. They were going when she would be in Paris for the haute couture.
“I thought you'd come with me,” she said, looking disappointed and feeling frightened.
“I need to spend some time with them,” he said quietly. And then he ripped her heart out with what he said next. “Fiona, this isn't working. Our lives are too different. You live with constant chaos and insanity and turmoil. Photographers doing drugs and screwing hookers in your house is just the tip of the iceberg,” he said sternly. But it had also been the last straw for him, especially after the business dinner with her drunk, and Jamal in her gold shoes, followed by the pink ones. It all seemed unimportant and frivolous, but it was too much for him.
“That's not fair. That only happened once,” she said plaintively.
“That's once too often. I can't have people like that around my kids. What if the girls had been there when that fool was having an orgy in our living room? What if they'd walked in?”
“If the girls were around, I wouldn't have let him stay there. He's one of the most important photographers I work with, and I didn't want to lose the shoot.” But she had anyway. And now she was losing him.
“And Jamal is a nice boy. But I don't want him around the girls either. There are a lot of strange characters in your life, and you like that. It's part of your world. But I can't live with all that craziness in my home. I never know who's going to be there when I walk in. The only one who never is anymore is you. You've been gone almost constantly since we got married.” He was beginning to feel she was doing it on purpose to avoid him.
“I've had a lot of problems at the magazine,” she said unhappily.
“So have I at the agency. But I don't take it out on you.”
“Yes, you do. This has been a hard time for both of us.”
“Harder than you know,” he said sadly. “I don't even have a place to hang my suits.”
“I'll give you more closets. We can buy a bigger house if you want. Mine is too small for two people.” And certainly for four, if the girls were moving in too. God forbid.
“There isn't room in your life for two people. Or maybe it's just too weird.”
“If you wanted someone so proper and uptight, why did you marry me?” she said, as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Because I love you. I did then. And I still do. But I can't live with you. And it's not fair to expect you to change it. This is how you want to live. I was wrong to push you into marriage. I see that now. You've been right to stay free for all these years. You knew what you were doing. I didn't. I guess I wanted to be a part of it. It was exciting. But I realize now it's too exciting for me.”
“What are you saying?” She was horrified and heartbroken. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. He had told her it was forever. And she had trusted him.
“I'm saying that I want a divorce. I'm getting a divorce. I already talked to my lawyer. And I've talked about it with the girls for the last two weeks.”
“You talked about it with them before you talked about it with me?” She looked like a child who had been abandoned on the street, which was what he was about to do to her. Except that she wasn't a child, she was a woman. And he had a right to leave.

[Dalyia]

“I'll fire Jamal. You can have all my closets. I'll throw away my clothes. Your kids can move in. And I'll never let another photographer stay here again.” She was pleading with him. She didn't want to lose him. The thought of losing him made her feel desperate and sick.
“It would never work. And the bottom line is that I don't want to lose my kids. I will if I stay with you.” Even if they'd been horrible to her, they were still his children, and he loved them. More than he loved her. And under Mrs. Westerman's ever evil influence they had been pressuring him, and blackmailing him emotionally to leave her. And with everything so difficult between him and Fiona it provided fertile ground for the forces against them to dig their heels in. It had worked. They had finally won him over. Fiona had to go.
“They don't have a right to do this. And neither do you.” She was sobbing. She couldn't believe what had happened. Even in her anguish, she knew that some of it was her fault. Maybe even a lot of it. But some of it was his. And he had made a deal with his kids. In the end, they had won. She was going to lose the one man she had really loved. Adrian was right. She hadn't compromised enough. She had felt so safe that she had ignored all the warnings. And now he was going to divorce her, in order to please his kids. But she had made more than her share of mistakes too.
He never came back to her house. The first set of papers arrived two weeks later. The whole affair had lasted eleven months from beginning to end. Almost a year. Not quite. Just long enough to really love him, and have it cost her soul when he left. They had been married for nearly six months. They would be divorced by Christmas. It was all unthinkable. He had promised. He had loved her. They were married. It meant nothing. Marriage was the one thing she had never wanted. And now it was all she wanted. It was all a cruel trick.
Two weeks after she got the papers notifying her that he had filed the papers, she left for Paris for the haute couture.
As he always did, Adrian came with her. He kept her company this time, instead of John. He dragged her from place to place. She was like a ghost. She was so out of it, you could almost see right through her. And Adrian was desperately worried about her. It was as though Fiona, the woman he had known and loved and laughed with and worked with, had entirely disappeared.

[Dalyia]

Chapter 12





Fiona did not go to the Hamptons all summer. She stayed at home, nursed her wounds, sat home alone at night, went to the office, and cried often. It was as though all the life had gone out of her, all the joy and excitement and passion. She felt as though she were in a dark tunnel, lost in the darkness. Everything she had hoped for and loved and trusted had been taken from her. And every time she saw Jamal cavorting through the house, she berated herself again for the mistakes she'd made. Right or wrong, she entirely blamed herself. John had shown her all she had ever wanted, and never let herself hope for, and when she failed to understand, he took it all away again. Nothing in her life had ever hurt so much, not even when her mother died, or she lost men later on. The loss of the marriage she had shared with John was the death of hope for her. She was like a naughty child who had been punished. For her poor judgment and foolish ways, she had been given an adult sentence, and put to death, or so she felt. She didn't deserve either the punishment he meted out to her, nor the abuse she heaped on herself afterward, and nothing anyone could do or say made it right for her again. As she dragged through the summer toward September, she could barely work. And on the Labor Day weekend, in crushing heat, disaster struck again. Sir Winston had a heart attack and was on life support for two weeks.
She visited him twice daily, before and after work, stroked his face, kissed his paws, and just sat quietly beside him. And finally, with a snore and a peaceful look at her, he closed his eyes one afternoon and went quietly to sleep for good. It was a peaceful death. And yet one more blow to her. He had been a beloved faithful friend.
Two days later, they had a major meeting with their ad agency, and there was no way she could avoid it. She discussed it with Adrian beforehand, and he said she absolutely had to go, no matter how hard it was for her. She hadn't heard a word from John all summer. When he ended it, he did so for good. The clock was running, and the divorce would be final in three months. After such a short marriage, it shouldn't have been the deathblow it was to her, but even Adrian knew now that it was.
She had opened places in herself to him that had never seen light and air and love before, and had never known human touch. And when he shut the door on them, and on her, he created wounds that she had been trying to shield herself from all her life. Worse yet, he had reopened every wound she'd ever had, while creating more. It was a blow of total devastation, and there was no way she could sit through a meeting with him. On the morning it was scheduled to happen, she picked up the phone to call in sick, and then thought better of it. Adrian was right. If only out of self-respect and dignity, she had to go. And what was worse, she wanted to see him, and did.
John Anderson strode into the meeting, looking tanned and handsome and athletic. He was wearing a dark blue pin-striped suit, a crisp white shirt that fit him to perfection, one of his classic navy blue Hermès ties with tiny red dots, and a white handkerchief in his pocket. He looked like a million dollars. And Fiona felt like two cents.
To all who saw her in the meeting, she looked competent, quiet, as elegant as ever. She was every inch in command and control, and she was pleasant and polite when she addressed him. But no one had any idea what it cost her just to be there, or to chat with him for a few minutes on the way out.
“You're looking well, Fiona,” he said politely. But when she looked at him, she saw that there was a self-protective wall all around him, and a shield of ice just behind his eyes. He was not letting her in again, and no one who saw them could have guessed that they'd been married, or that either or both of them were still in love. They both maintained an entirely professional demeanor, although he did notice how thin she'd gotten, and how pale she was. She was wearing a narrow black linen Yohji Yamamoto dress that accentuated her extreme slimness, and her face was the color of snow when they spoke. “Did you get away at all this summer?” She didn't look it, and if she had, she must have been hiding under a rock. Her skin looked almost translucent it was so white.
“I've been working on this ad campaign,” she said, looking distracted, “and we always close the December book in August. I've been pretty much working all month,” and in fact, since he left, she felt as dry as a bone, creatively, and hadn't come up with a decent idea in months. She felt washed up, and was. “How are the girls?”
“Terrific. Hilary is a senior, and Courtenay is doing her junior year abroad. She's in Florence, so I'll be going over to see her whenever I can.” They spoke like two old acquaintances who hadn't met in a long time, instead of two people who had been married and in love. He had completely shut her out. And a moment later, they both moved on.
Adrian had been watching, and spoke to her in a quiet voice as they left the room side by side. “How was it?” he asked, looking worried.
“How was what?” she asked, pretending not to know what he was talking about.
“I saw you talking to John.”
“It was fine,” she said, turning away to speak to someone else, and then she went back to her office, and successfully avoided him for the rest of the afternoon. Every time Adrian came to her office to discuss something, she pretended to be busy or on the phone. She couldn't speak to anyone, not even him. She was distraught.
It took another month after that for her to make up her mind, after several small disasters in the office, which were a warning signal to her that she could no longer handle not only her life but her job. On all fronts, and in all venues of her life, she was barely hanging on. She didn't even have Sir Winston to go home to at night. She had no one, and nothing, and the funny, crazy, zany free-spirited life she had once loved no longer held any appeal to her. She hated going to work every day, and even more than that she hated coming home.
She handed in her resignation to Chic magazine on the first of October, and she knew it was time. She gave them a month's notice, which wasn't long, and in a private letter to the head of the board, she strongly recommended Adrian for her job. She said that she was resigning due to health and personal reasons, and had made a decision to take a year or two off, and move abroad, which wasn't entirely a lie. She was so deeply depressed that she could no longer function, and she had decided to rent her house, and move to Paris for a few months. When she felt better, she wanted to try and write a book.
Adrian stormed into her office the moment it was announced. “You didn't tell me!” he said, looking hurt and heartbroken. “Fiona, what have you done?”
“I had to do it,” she said quietly. “I can't do my job anymore. I think I've lost it. It just doesn't mean anything. I don't give a damn about the people, the parties, the look, or the clothes. I don't care if I never go to a single couture show again, in fact I hope I don't.”
“You could have at least told me before you did it. We could have talked about it. Why didn't you take six months off?” But they both knew that she couldn't do that in her job. She couldn't leave the magazine without a rudder, in fact when she went away for a week, all hell broke loose, and everything got out of control. Two days later he learned that she had recommended him for her job. It was the right decision, and a wise recommendation, and within two weeks of her resignation, Adrian was named editor-in-chief of Chic magazine, and they told her that within another week, when the dust had settled, she was free to go. Everything had moved very fast.
She left her office quietly, without a glance over her shoulder. There were tears in her eyes when she walked out, carrying a box of books and a single plant her mentor had given her years before. Adrian was crying openly as he took the box from her. They both knew that the waters closed rapidly over old editors, and they were soon forgotten, but there was no denying that Fiona Monaghan had made her mark, and she had trained him well. They had wanted to give her a party when she left, but she had declined it. She just wasn't in the mood. Five minutes after she left her office, Adrian put her in a cab and handed her the box he'd been carrying for her.
“I love you,” she whispered as she smiled sadly, and their eyes met and held.
“You're the best friend I ever had.” There were tears in his eyes.
“You too. See you tomorrow.” He was coming to the house in the morning to help her pack. She had already rented her house, and was sending all her furniture to storage. She was taking almost nothing to Paris. She had rented a small room at the Ritz, at a discount they'd offered her, till she found an apartment. Thanks to wise investments over the years, she was in good shape, and wouldn't have to work for a long time. She was going to find an apartment and, if she felt up to it, write a book. Maybe in the spring. Before that she was going to take long walks, sleep a lot, and try to heal. The good news was that she would never have to see John Anderson again. She was going to miss the magazine, she knew, but not nearly as much as she missed him. And she had to forget them both. They were part of the past. The future was unknown and didn't look hopeful to her. And the present was intolerably painful.
Adrian came, as promised, the next morning. It took them all day to empty her closets into wardrobe boxes. She was amazed at what she found there, and at the mountain of once-meaningful out-of-date treasures she gave away.
“You could start a fashion museum with all this stuff,” Adrian said as he dumped another armload on the pile she was giving to Goodwill.
“If I'd done this while John was here, he could have had more than half the closets,” she said ruefully. There was almost nothing left in the closets that had once been crammed full.
“Forget about it,” Adrian said wisely. “It wasn't about closets. It was about a lot of things. Your lifestyles were too different. He'd been married all his life, you never had been. He had kids, you didn't. His kids hated you, his housekeeper hated you, his dog tried to kill you. Twice. And the people you hung out with drove him insane.” They both knew, as had John eventually, that although he loved her and found her fabulous and exciting, she had been like a hot chili pepper stuck in his windpipe, and a mouthful of wasabi that made his eyes water in terror most of the time. Adrian firmly believed that John had loved her. He had just bitten off more than he could chew. He needed someone a lot more bland than Fiona Monaghan would ever be. But it nonetheless broke Adrian's heart that John had left her so suddenly. It seemed terribly unfair to him. She didn't deserve that, no matter how chaotic her life was.
“Did you tell him about Sir Winston?” Adrian asked, curious, as he dropped fifty pairs of old Manolos into one of the boxes for Goodwill. The heels were too high even for Jamal. The flat ones she was giving to him. She didn't want to encourage him to wear high heels.
“I didn't think it was any of his business,” she said in answer to Adrian's question about the dog. “I didn't want to sound pathetic. ‘thanks for divorcing me, oh and by the way, my dog died too.’ ” She had paid five thousand dollars to bury him in a pet cemetery, and for a heart-shaped black granite tombstone, which she had never seen. She couldn't bear to go out and visit him.
Adrian came back to help her again on Sunday. And she spent the rest of the following week disposing of her things. In honor of her own sense of the ridiculous, she left for Paris on Halloween.
Adrian took her to the airport, and they stood looking at each other for a long moment before she went through security.
“Be good to yourself. Stop beating yourself up. Things happen for a reason.” Yeah. Her father leaving. Her mother dying. John divorcing her. Sir Winston dying. Giving up a job that had once meant everything to her. Now none of it meant anything. “And call me. I worry about you.”
“Do a good job,” she said with tears in her eyes as she left him. She knew he would. He was every bit as good an editor as she, and he had a lot more life in him than she did at this point. “Make me proud of you.” She was anyway.
“I love you,” he said, with tears rolling down his cheeks. Their faces were awash with tears as they kissed, both his and hers. “Knock ‘em dead in Paris. I'll see you in January, or before if I can get away.” January seemed like an eternity to both of them. The haute couture shows were nearly three months away. And the big problem for her was that she had been knocked dead in New York, far too effectively. She felt as though they should be putting her on the flight in a body bag, not a seat. She had never felt as awful in her life.
“Take care,” she whispered, as she put her head down and walked away, blinded by tears. He stood there for as long as he could see her, with tears rolling down his cheeks.

[Dalyia]

Chapter 13





The room Fiona had rented at the Ritz was small and almost womblike for her, and had a view of the winter sky. She sat staring up at it sometimes, missing everyone and everything, John, Adrian, her job, her house, New York, Sir Winston, even Jamal. In a matter of months, she had lost everything, and now she was here, not sure what to do next. The winter in Paris was rainy and gray, but it suited her mood, and she was glad she was there. She didn't need to talk to anyone, or see anyone. In fact, she didn't want to. She was steeped in her own solitude and grief.
In mid-December, the divorce papers reached her in Paris. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing did. She spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in her room. She went to mass at Sacré Coeur and a choir of nuns sang so exquisitely, she felt as though she had died and gone to heaven. She sat listening to them, with tears running down her cheeks.
And that night, when she went back to the hotel, she started to write. It wasn't the book she had thought she would do. It was a book about a little girl, with a childhood like hers, and it followed her into womanhood, the mistakes she made, and the healing she pursued. It was a catharsis of sorts writing it, and things came clearer to her as she did. It was so much easier to see it now, the paths she had chosen, the men she had feared, those she had chosen instead, her determination, her career. The things she had used as substitutes for real relationships, the job that had meant so much to her that it had obscured all else, the sacrifices she'd been willing to make, the children she'd never had. The pursuit of perfection, and driving herself. Even the dog who had become a substitute child. And the compromises she hadn't made for John, because she had been too afraid to make room for him, not in her closets but in her heart. Because if she had given him everything, which she had anyway, she would have lost too much if she lost him, which she had. It was all there in the story, page after page, as December oozed into January. She was deep into it when Adrian arrived, and he thought she looked better, although still too thin and so pale she was almost gray. But she didn't leave her room for days. She was writing furiously. And he was still in Paris when the realtor called to say she had an apartment for her. In the Seventh Arrondissement, on the Boulevard de La Tour Maubourg. She called Adrian, who was staying at the Ritz too, as usual, and he promised to come and see it with her after the Gaultier show. She had been carefully avoiding all the people from the fashion world. She had nothing to say to them anymore.
She sneaked out of the hotel with him, wearing dark glasses with her hair pulled back, and a coat with a hood. It was pouring rain. But even in the rain, the apartment was beautiful. The house it was in was behind another building, on a cobbled courtyard, with a small meticulously kept garden. A couple who now lived in Hong Kong owned the house and were never there. They didn't have the heart to sell it and it was easy to see why. The apartment occupied the top floor and the attic, and it had a roof garden. It was just big enough for her and no one else. And there was a studio in the attic where she could write. She rented it on the spot, and they said she could move in right away. It was simply furnished with some antiques and a big canopied bed. It had lovely moldings and three-hundred-year-old wood floors. She could see herself there for a long time, and so could Adrian.
“It looks like Mimi's garret in La Bohème. And you're beginning to look like her too,” Adrian said with concern, but he was pleased for her. He could see her being happy there, and she told him about the book. She had no idea when she would finish it. She hoped it would be by spring at the rate she was going. But it didn't matter how long it took. She didn't even know if she would publish it, but writing it was doing her good.
As she signed the lease the next day, and wrote a check, she realized that it would have been her first wedding anniversary. She didn't know if it was some kind of omen, or an unhappy coincidence, and she went back to the Ritz after that and got drunk on champagne with Adrian in her room. He was still worried about her, with good reason. She was drifting loose, and the more she drank, the more she talked about John that night, about forgiving him for what he'd done, and running out on her, that she understood and it was all right, and it didn't matter, and he'd been right, she'd been terrible to him. But not as terrible as she'd been to herself since, Adrian realized. She was still blaming herself, and he wondered if she missed her job, although she said she didn't, but he wasn't sure if he believed her. Her life seemed so empty to him now, so unpopulated except for the characters in her book. And more than anything, he knew, she needed to forgive herself, and he wondered if she ever would, or if she would be haunted forever by the ghosts of what could have been. It still broke his heart to see her that way. And it made him furious with John for leaving her. Their life may have been chaotic, but she was a hell of a good woman. Adrian thought John had been a fool for leaving her, and running out of patience so soon.
Adrian hated to leave her, when he left Paris at the end of the week. She was moving into her apartment the next day, but he couldn't stay to help her. He had meetings in New York he had to get back to, one of them with John Anderson. Chic was having trouble with the agency, but he didn't tell Fiona that. It wasn't easy stepping into her shoes, and it was a challenge for him. He admired her more each day as he juggled a thousand balls in the air and prayed he could manage them. He had asked Fiona's advice on several things, and was impressed as always by her clear head, her fine mind, her infallible judgment, and her extraordinary taste. She was a remarkable woman, and he was sure the book would be good. She was putting her heart and soul into it. As Adrian flew out of Charles de Gaulle, he thought of her, as he always did, and prayed she would be safe. She seemed so vulnerable and so frail, and yet so strong at the same time. He admired her courage even more than he did her style.
As Adrian flew back to the States, Fiona was moving into the apartment on the Boulevard de La Tour Maubourg. The rooms were drafty, and the sky was gray, and she found a small leak in the kitchen, but the place was clean. It came with linens and dishes, and pots and pans. There were two bedrooms and two bathrooms, a tiny living room, a cozy kitchen where she could entertain friends, and the studio upstairs, which would be filled with sunlight on a good day. It was all she needed. For the first few days she missed the Ritz and the familiar faces there, the night maid who always checked on her, the telephone operator who recognized her voice, the doorman who tipped his hat to her, the baby-faced bellboys in the round blue caps who looked like little boys and carried packages to her, and the concierges who took care of all her minor secretarial needs. She never went anywhere, so she didn't need reservations, but they got things for her, mailed her letters and packages, had pages xeroxed, bought books she needed for research, and were always pleasant when she stopped at the desk to talk to them.
It was lonely in the apartment at first. She had no one to talk to. She couldn't order something to eat at any hour, but in some ways it was good for her. She had to get dressed and go out, even if it was only in jeans and an old sweater. There was a bistro around the corner where she ate once in a while, or had coffee, and a grocery store a few blocks away where she stocked up on food. Sometimes she holed up in the apartment until she ran out of cigarettes and food. She had started smoking again, which didn't help her weight. She was wasting away and her clothes hung on her, but all she wore anyway were sweatshirts and old sweaters and jeans. She felt very French when she smoked, sitting at some sidewalk café, reading the latest pages of her manuscript. And most of the time she was pleased.
It rained a lot in Paris that winter, and continued to do so as winter wended into spring. In April, when the sun finally came out, she took long walks along the quais. She stood looking at the Seine one day, and remembered her dinner with John on the Bateau Mouche. It was nearly two years ago, and she felt as though she had lived an entire lifetime since. The life she had lived then had vanished into thin air. The people, the job at Chic, even Sir Winston. And John of course. He seemed the furthest away of all, and was.
By May she was feeling better, and the book was going well. She smiled sometimes when she read the pages, and even laughed out loud sitting in her studio all by herself. She had led a solitary life in Paris for more than six months, but she realized now that it had done her good. She felt more like herself again when Adrian came back in June, and he was relieved to see her looking so well. She had gained a little weight, and was smoking like a chimney, but her color was good. She had cut her hair a little, her green eyes were bright and animated, and she looked great, even to him. He always had a critical eye about her, and she was still his dearest friend, even though she was living so far away. He liked what she told him about the book.
She was willing to go to Le Voltaire with him this time, and she was fine about it when they ran into another magazine editor. She had nothing to hide now. She no longer looked defeated and was doing well. And in answer to the question “What are you doing now?” she answered with a smile that she was writing a book.
“Oh God, not a roman à clef, I hope,” the editor said, looking panicked, and Fiona laughed.