“I don't have any spares.” She was still being cautious about him, but she had opened up a lot about the book. He could hear from her description of it how deeply she had delved into herself to do it and how painful it must have been. “I'll give you a copy of it when it comes out, if it ever does.”
“What's the new one about?” They spent another hour talking about that. And by then they were sharing profiteroles.
“How long are you here?” she asked, as she ate the last of the delicious chocolate confection, looking like a little kid. He knew how she loved chocolate, and she ate more when the waiter brought them the little chocolate-covered coffee beans they always served at the end of the meal.
“Just two days. I spent a few days in London, and I have business here tomorrow. I'm going home on Saturday. My offer for dinner still stands if I behaved myself at lunch to your satisfaction.” She smiled at what he said.
“You did okay,” she conceded. “I didn't want to come.”
“I know. I figured that out on the phone. I'm glad you did,” he said gently. “I'm sorry about what happened. I was a real shit.” She was amazed by his honesty. It vindicated her in a way.
“Yes, you were a shit. But I did a lot of stupid stuff too. The photographer having an orgy with his drug dealer in the living room was definitely a low point in my career. I'm sorry that happened, and a lot of other dumb things. You'll be happy to know I gave away most of my clothes when I moved. I don't know why I was so possessive about my closets. I think I was obsessed with my wardrobe. It's a lot simpler here. I brought almost nothing.” Although she had bought quite a bit, mostly at Didier Ludot. “My life is a lot simpler these days in a lot of ways. I want to keep it that way.” She sounded firm.
“Like what?” He was curious about her now. She seemed different somehow. Both more fragile and stronger, and deeper, and quieter. As though she had suffered a lot and come out the other end. Most of it thanks to him, he knew. But she had faced some old demons too, like her father's abandonment, her mother's death, the agonies of her childhood, and a stepfather who had raped her, although she had never told anyone except her therapist, not even John. It was all in the book. She had spent a number of years in therapy over the incident with her stepfather and made her peace with it long ago.
“I stripped a lot of deadwood out of my life,” she said simply. “People, clothes, objects, possessions. A lot of stuff I didn't care about, or didn't need, and thought I did. It makes life a lot simpler. And cleaner somehow.” And then she looked at him. “I'm sorry I did such a lousy job with your kids.”
“You didn't do anything wrong, Fiona. They were awful to you. I should have handled it better than I did. I didn't know what to do, so I ran.”
“I should have tried harder with them. I didn't know how either. I'm not very good with kids. It's a good thing I never had any of my own.”
“Do you regret that?”
“No, I don't. I think I would have been lousy at it. My own childhood was too screwed up. The only thing I regret is not making it work with you. It's probably the most glaring failure of my life. I was too wrapped up in a lot of meaningless bullshit, like my own importance, and how I wanted to do things, and my job. I guess I was riding high on a wave, and thought I was hot shit. And then I got cut down to size.” He liked the size she was now. In a lot of ways. But he had liked her then too. She had knocked him right off his feet, and still could with very little effort. But she was being careful not to do that. She had no concept of the effect she had on him. She was too busy resisting what she still felt for him.
“Do you miss your job?” He was curious about that.
“No, I don't. I think I had pretty much done it. It was time to move on. And Adrian is doing a fabulous job.” But so had she. “I had a good run. And now I love writing my books.” There was nothing she couldn't do, or so he thought.
“I'd love to see your apartment,” John said out of the blue as he paid the check, and Fiona looked up at him as though she had been struck by lightning.
“Why?” She looked terrified.
“Relax. Just curiosity. You have great taste. It's probably terrific, knowing you.”
“It's very small,” she said, looking guarded. She had let him in far enough. “But I like it. It suits me. I'm not even sure I want to move, but I think I do. I wish the owners would sell me the whole house. They live in Hong Kong and they're never here.” She was trying to get her realtor to look into it, and they had written them a letter, but she hadn't heard anything yet. The location was perfect and the house was adorable. She was willing to buy it if she could.
He had a car and driver outside, and the afternoon had gotten cold. She shivered in the wind despite her mink sweater, and he turned to her with a cautious smile. He had loved having lunch with her. And in some ways, she was glad she had. It had been nice to apologize to each other, and admit how wrong they had each been about some things. Maybe he was right, and they could be friends, although she wasn't entirely sure yet. She wanted to think about it.
“Can I give you a lift?” he offered, and she hesitated, and then nodded. She got in next to him and gave the driver her address.
He was impressed when he saw the building on the street. It was an imposing eighteenth-century hôtel particulier, but the real gem was in the courtyard behind it, where she lived. She explained it to him as she pointed to the rooftop. You could just barely see her house in the back. And then with a cautious look she asked him if he wanted to come up.
“Just for a minute. I have to get back to work,” she said precisely. And he nodded.
He followed her through the huge door in the front building, through which horse-drawn carriages had once passed, and walked into a courtyard that seemed magical to him. It was so typical of Fiona to have found it. And the house she lived in was as cute as she had said. She used her key and the code, turned off the alarm, and he followed her up the slightly crooked stairs, and a moment later they were in her apartment, and as he had suspected, it was lovely, and beautifully decorated. She had filled it with orchids, hung some paintings, and bought a few pieces of furniture herself. The entire effect was one of coziness and warmth, with her own inimitable brand of exotic chic. It was totally Fiona. She walked him up another flight of stairs to the studio with the roof garden where she worked, and he grinned broadly when he saw it.
“This is so you. I love it.” He would have loved to sit down and have a cup of tea, but she didn't invite him to. She seemed anxious for him to go. They had been together long enough. She needed to catch her breath. And sensing that, a moment later he left.
It took her hours to get back into her work. She was haunted by their lunch at Le Voltaire. And thinking of it kept distracting her. She kept hearing the things he had said. Walking along the Seine, and then later down the Faubourg St. Honoré, he was doing the same. He could see her face, hear her voice, and smell her perfume. She still dazzled him in just the way she once had, perhaps more so now that she seemed to have grown up. He liked who she had become, although at great price. But he felt less guilty now than he had before. He somehow felt as though they had both landed in a better place. And he loved the apartment where she lived.
He called her that night, but she didn't answer her phone. He suspected she was there, when he spoke to the machine. She was listening to him, and wondering why he had called. He thanked her for letting him come up to see her place. And the next day, wanting only to be polite, she called and thanked him for lunch.
“What about dinner tonight?” he suggested, as he had the day before, and she looked unhappy as she shook her head.
“I don't think it's a good idea.” She sounded stiff.