“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.”