“He's not going to hate it. You write beautifully, Fiona. And the story is solid.” She had read him passages, faxed him pages, and gone over the outline with him, in its many mutations, a million times.
“He'll hate it. I know he will,” she said, emptying a glass of wine. She got a little drunk as they sat there, which was rare for her. And by the next morning, she had convinced herself that the agent would reject it, and was steeling herself to stick the manuscript in a drawer somewhere. She was already concentrating on the new book.
The phone rang at Adrian's late that afternoon. Fiona usually let the machine pick it up, but for some reason she answered it, thinking it might be Adrian. They were trying to connect for dinner that night, although he was even busier than she had been when she had his job. The only difference was that he didn't give parties, and never let photographers or models stay with him. But he had admitted to her a year before, when she left, that he had hired Jamal. And Fiona had been happy to see him when she arrived. Adrian had put him in a uniform, black pants and a white shirt, with a little white jacket he wore and a tie on the rare times when Adrian entertained. And Adrian said Jamal wasn't nearly as happy with him, because he couldn't get castoffs from him, his shoes were too big. But Jamal seemed very happy in his new job.
“Hello?” Fiona said cautiously when she picked up the phone. The voice on the other end was unfamiliar. It wasn't Adrian, and she was sorry she had answered it. But much to her surprise, the voice asked for her. It was Andrew Page, the literary agent she had seen the day before.
He gave her the news fast and quick. He knew how anxious new authors were, and he told her almost instantly that he loved the book, it was one of the best first novels he had read in years. He thought she should do a little more editing, but not much, and he thought he already had a publisher for it. He was having lunch with a senior editor the next day on her behalf. If she was willing to sign with him, of course. He asked her to come in and sign a contract with him the next morning.
“Are you serious?” she almost screamed at him. “Are you kidding?”
“Of course I'm not kidding,” he laughed. For a woman of such power and capability, she was amazingly humble about her writing, and most other things, and he liked that about her. “It's a terrific book.”
“And you are a fabulous agent!” she said, laughing. They made an appointment for the next day, and she hung up, and two minutes later, she called Adrian on his cell phone. “Guess what?”
“Not that again.” He laughed at her. She loved making him guess whatever fantastic thing had just happened, just like a little kid. And she sounded like one on the phone. He knew it had to be good.
“Andrew Page loved my book! I'm signing with him tomorrow. And he's having lunch with a senior editor about it.” She sounded as if she had just given birth to twins, and in a way she had. She had also told him about the new book, and he was going to try and get her a two- or three-book contract. Publishers liked knowing it wasn't going to be a book from a onetime author. And that she clearly wasn't.
“Am I supposed to be surprised?” Adrian asked, sounding blasé. “I told you he'd love the book.” She had started on a whole new career. “Next, he's going to be selling it for a movie, and we'll all go to Hollywood for the premiere. And if you write the screenplay, I want to be your escort when you accept the Oscar.”
“I love you, and thank you for the vote of confidence, but you're nuts. Now you have to have dinner with me tonight so we can celebrate. Can you do it?” He was still trying to get out of a previous engagement, but he promised her he would. He wanted to take her out and fuss over her a bit. They agreed to meet at eight o'clock at La Goulue, which was still her favorite restaurant in New York.
And when she got in a cab to meet him, she was wearing the only slightly dressy dress she had brought with her. It was a little vintage black cocktail dress by Dior that she had bought at Didier Ludot in the Palais Royal. It looked spectacular on her. She was wearing her hair down, and it shone like burnished copper, and in honor of her new career as a soon-to-be author, she had even deigned to wear makeup. The dress was short and showed off her legs, and she was wearing astonishingly high Manolo Blahnik sandals with ankle straps that nearly made Jamal drool. She looked more than a little bit like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, except for the bright red hair.
The headwaiter at La Goulue was thrilled to see her, they spoke in French and he complained that he hadn't seen her in a year. She explained that she had moved to Paris, and as he led her to a corner table on the banquette, heads turned. Fiona looked more spectacular than ever. She was about to sit down, when a familiar face caught her eye. Ordinarily, she wouldn't have said hello to him, it seemed easier not to. But as he was only two tables away from hers, it was just too rude. It was John.
She stopped and smiled at him, but it was not a greeting of seduction, it was a bittersweet one in recognition of old times. She noticed that the woman with him was very respectable looking and very blond. She looked almost as though she could have been his late wife's twin. And she was the head of the local Junior League. They had been dating for six months, and had the comfortable air of people who knew each other well.
John looked more than a little startled for a moment, in fact he looked thunderstruck and uncomfortable, and then graciously stood up, acknowledged Fiona, and politely introduced her to his date. He looked supremely ill at ease as the two women shook hands.
“Elizabeth Williams, Fiona Monaghan.” The two women checked each other out, and there was instant recognition in the eyes of the blonde. She had obviously heard about Fiona, and she looked slightly discomfited by the long red hair and good legs. Fiona looked like a model, and ten years younger than she was. She was the kind of woman who would have made any other woman nervous, knowing the man she was involved with had slept with her, or worse yet been in love with her. But John had left her after all, not the reverse. So he was not carrying a torch for her, as far as Fiona was concerned.
“Nice to see you, John,” Fiona said pleasantly, after acknowledging the woman he was having dinner with. She hadn't paid much attention to her name. More than anything, she was a type, and exactly whom Fiona would have expected to see with John. She was precisely who and what Fiona had predicted he would end up with, and apparently he had. And he looked well. She suddenly wanted to tell him about her book and her new agent, but it seemed a little foolish doing so, so she refrained.
“How've you been?” he asked, as though they had been old tennis partners that had drifted out of sight in the last year, or as though the only contact they had ever had was through their work.
“Wonderful. I'm living in Paris,” she said, but even after not seeing him for a year, or being in his life for longer than that, she could feel her heart begin to pound. Much to her chagrin, even after all this time, the magic wasn't gone. She wasn't healed. But he clearly was. He knew she had left the magazine, and thought she had gone to Paris for a few months, he didn't realize she had actually moved. “I just sold my house,” and wrote a book! she nearly screamed. But she was demure and reserved. He nodded, and without saying more, she moved on and sat down. She hoped Adrian would come soon.
As luck would have it, it took him another half an hour to get there, and she was ready to have a nervous breakdown by the time he arrived, although she looked sophisticated, poised, and cool, as she made some notes on a pad, and never even glanced at John. She forced herself to look at ease and unconcerned.
“Did you see who's sitting there?” she whispered to Adrian through clenched teeth, as he sat across from her, with his back to John.