“I know,” John said sadly, in response to Fiona saying she'd been hurt. “I feel very guilty about it.” As well he should.
“That's appropriate.” She didn't tell him that Adrian thought so too.
“I just didn't know how to deal with your life. We were so different. Too different.” He tried to explain, and she cut him off. She didn't want to hear it again. It was all done.
“I think we've covered all that. How's your friend?”
“What friend?” He was drawing a blank.
“The Junior League lady I saw you with at La Goulue.”
He sounded stunned. “How did you know she's with the Junior League? Do you know each other?” Elizabeth hadn't said they did, and he sounded surprised.
“No. She just looks it. It's written all over her. She looks like Ann.”
“Yes, she does.” And then he laughed and decided to be honest with her. It was a small step toward friendship, which was what he had told himself he wanted when he called her. “To tell the truth, she bores me.”
“Oh. I'm sorry.” Fiona hated herself for it, but she was glad to hear it. “She's nice looking.”
“So are you. You looked fabulous at La Goulue. Paris agrees with you. What are you doing here?”
“Writing. Novels. I finished a book this summer, and I just started another. It's fun. I like it. I was in New York to find an agent.”
“And did you?” He was interested. Everything about her had always intrigued him. He still thought she was amazing, and this proved it. She had given up one of the most successful careers in New York, moved to Paris, and started another. And he was sure, knowing her, that her book would be a best-seller.
“I signed with Andrew Page.”
“That's impressive. Has he sold anything yet?”
“No, but I got my first rejection. So I guess now I'm officially a writer.” She suspected there would be lots more of them, but Andrew seemed confident that he could sell her work, so she wasn't worried.
“Why don't we talk about it at lunch? If we stay on the phone long enough, there won't be anything left to say.” She wasn't sure there was anyway. “Will you meet me at Le Voltaire, or somewhere else if you prefer?” He sounded more confident than he felt, and she was annoyed. Why was he calling her? What was the point? It was over. And she didn't need or want his friendship. She hesitated for a long time as she mulled it over, and he got worried. “Come on, Fiona. Please. I miss talking to you. I'm not going to hurt you.” He didn't have to. He already had. Far too much. She thought she had forgiven him, but now she was beginning to wonder.
“I can't stay long,” she said finally, and he exhaled slowly at his end. “I have to get back to work. It's hard to start again once I'm interrupted.”
“It's Thanksgiving. We can order turkey or chicken or something. Or profiteroles.” He had remembered her fatal weakness for them. There was a lot he remembered about her. Most of it good. It was only rarely now that he remembered the bad. And it no longer seemed quite so important. A lot of it seemed silly to him. Like the closets. The crazy people she knew and loved. And Jamal, running around in sarongs and her gold sandals. “What time will you meet me?”
“One o'clock,” she said in a flat voice, feeling foolish for letting him talk her into it. There was something very persuasive about him. And she had always loved his voice.
“Should I pick you up? I'm at the Crillon, and I have a car.” She didn't, but it was none of his business. She could walk from where she was.
“I'll meet you there.”
“I'll have the concierge reserve a table. Thanks for coming to lunch. It'll be good to see you.” He still had the vision of her he had had ever since he'd seen her at La Goulue. And Elizabeth had mentioned her several times. She was a fearsome opponent, and a tough act to follow.
Fiona stood staring at herself in the mirror after she hung up. She was sorry she had agreed to meet him. She was tired, her hair was dirty, and she had dark circles under her eyes from writing into the wee hours. But no matter how she looked, she didn't want to see him, she told herself, and then groaned, as she realized she did. She flew into action then, washed her hair, took a bath, shaved her legs for no particular reason, and dug through her closet for a decent dress. In the end, she settled on black leather pants, a white T-shirt, and a mink sweater that Adrian loved. She had gotten the sweater at Didier Ludot too, it was the most famous vintage store in Paris, and she shopped there regularly, and had bought a collection of vintage Hermès bags. She pulled out one of them, a large red crocodile Kelly bag, and pulled out flats to match.
By the time she got to Le Voltaire, she was a nervous wreck. She didn't know why she'd agreed to meet him. She had worn her hair in a single long braid down her back. She had no idea how beautiful she looked when she walked in, slightly breathless, with a halo of soft hair that had gotten loose and framed her face, and the big green eyes he still thought of often. The black leather pants molded her body and reminded him of everything he'd missed. All he could think of now, as he looked at her, was what a fool he had been.
“Sorry I'm late,” she apologized. “I walked.”
“You're not,” he reassured her. “Where do you live?” he asked as the maître d' led them to the corner booth that she and Adrian loved. John had gotten her number from information, but he didn't have her address.
“In the Seventh,” she said vaguely. “I found a great apartment. Now I'm looking to buy a house.”
“You're staying?” he asked with a look of interest. She nodded as they sat down. And then he looked across the table at her and smiled. She looked as beautiful as he remembered, but more vulnerable and more accessible than she had in New York. She looked more glamorous there in her sexy black cocktail dress. Here she somehow looked younger and more real. “So how does Sir Winston like Paris?” he asked with a gentle smile, as Fiona looked away.
“He died a year ago,” she said bluntly, and picked up the menu to distract herself so she didn't cry.
“Oh my God.” John looked crushed. He wanted to ask her what had happened, but he didn't dare. “I'm so sorry. I know how much he meant to you.” She had had him for fifteen years when he died. “Did you get another dog?”
“Nope,” she said simply, looking at him again. “I get too attached. It's not a good idea.” He sensed correctly that she was referring to him too. Their brief marriage had cost her a great deal, even more than it had him. He could see it in her eyes. The pain he still saw there went straight to his heart.
“You should get a French bulldog. It would suit you.”
“I don't want one. No more dogs. Besides, they're too much work.” She tried to sound hard about it, but only succeeded in sounding sad. And he continued to have the impression they were really talking about him. “So what are we going to eat?”
“Do they have a Thanksgiving menu?” he teased her, but he still felt terrible about the dog. Sir Winston must have died shortly after he left her. And he knew it must have been a terrible blow added to his own.
They settled on the shaved mushroom salad she always had, and she was torn between liver and blood sausage as he made a terrible face and she laughed.
“That's a hell of a thing to eat on Thanksgiving. You should at least have some kind of bird.” In the end she decided on veal, and he had the steak tartare. They agreed to share pommes frites, which he knew were delicious there. And then he asked her about her book.
They talked about it for an hour, and it sounded fascinating to him. “May I borrow a manuscript? I'd really love to read it.”