It was another hour before they were fully set up in the new location half a mile down the beach, and it was nearly sunset by then. They had just enough time for the last shot, and Henryk was busily shouting everyone into place. By then, his wife was asleep in the car with the twins. And Fiona realized she was exhausted as she watched the last of the shoot. It was after nine before they got everyone dressed and off the beach, all the camera equipment packed up, and the models into the limousines that Chic had hired for the day. The catering truck was already gone. Henryk and his wife and babies took off first. And Fiona was the last to leave. She had rented a Town Car for herself, and closed her eyes and put her head back against the seat as they drove away. It was nearly eleven when she got home. But from a technical standpoint, it had been a perfect day. She knew the shots would be great, and none of the problems would ever show.
But as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she felt a hundred years old. And she smiled when she found Sir Winston snoring loudly on her bed. She envied him the life he led. She was too tired to eat dinner, or even go downstairs to the kitchen for something to drink. She had an acute case of heartburn after drinking lemonade all day. And when her cell phone rang, she stared at it for a long moment, too tired to reach out and fish it out of her bag. She knew in another two rings it would go to voice mail, and she didn't care. And then at the last second, she realized it might be Henryk, with some dire problem after the shoot. Maybe they had an accident on the way back and lost all the film, or got kidnapped by a UFO.
“Yes?” she said in a flat, nearly unrecognizable voice. She was almost too tired to care.
“God, you sound dead. Are you okay?” It was John, and she didn't recognize his voice.
“I am dead. Who is this, and why are you calling me?” At least it wasn't Henryk. The voice was American, not British, and no one normally cared if she was dead or not. Not in a long time anyway.
“It's John. I'm sorry, Fiona, were you asleep?”
“Oh. Sorry. I was afraid it was something to do with the shoot. I was afraid they lost the film. I just got home.”
“You work too hard,” he said sympathetically. He genuinely felt sorry for her. She sounded as beat as she felt.
“I know. That's what they pay me for, I guess. How are you?” she asked as she stretched out on the bed, and closed her eyes. Sir Winston opened one eye, saw her lying there, rolled over on his back, and snored louder. She smiled at the familiar noise, he sounded like a 747 landing on her roof, and John heard it too.
“What's that noise?” She sounded like she had an electric power saw in her arms, which was close.
“Sir Winston.”
“Who's that?” John sounded startled.
“Don't tell him I called him that, but he's my dog.”
“Your dog sounds like that? My God, what is he, or what's wrong with him? He sounds like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre in THX.”
“It's part of his charm. He's an English bull. When I lived in an apartment, my downstairs neighbors kept complaining, they could hear him through my floor. They thought I was running heavy machinery, they refused to believe it was a dog till I invited them up one night when he was asleep.”
“You don't sleep with him, do you?” It was obvious to him she didn't. How could she with all that racket?
“Of course I do. He's my best friend. We've been together for fourteen years, he's the longest relationship I've ever had, and the best one,” she said proudly.
“Now there's a subject to explore sometime when you're not so tired. I actually called to see how you were after the shoot, and to see if you want to have dinner tomorrow night.” He was determined to see her again before she left for Paris, and she was constantly on his mind. She had been since he met her.
“What day is tomorrow?” she asked, opening her eyes. Her mind was blank. She was truly dead tired.
“The twenty-second. I know it's short notice, I've had a crazy week, and I had a client dinner I was ecstatic they canceled.” He spent most of his nights entertaining clients, and he was always thrilled to have a night to himself.
“Damn,” she suddenly remembered, “I can't. I'm sorry,” and then she decided to include him in her plans. He would be a bit of an odd man in the group, but she enjoyed that, as long as he didn't mind. “I'm having people in to dinner, it's always very informal here. And pretty last minute. I just organized it last week. I have some musician friends coming in from Prague, and a bunch of artists I haven't seen in ages. One of my editors from the magazine is coming, and I can't remember who else. I'm just doing pasta and a salad.”
“Don't tell me you cook too.” He sounded genuinely impressed, and she laughed.
“Not if I can help it. I have someone come in to do it.” This time Jamal and not the caterers was doing the dinner. She had told everyone that if the heat wasn't too unbearable, they would eat in her garden. On warm summer nights, that was relaxing and nice. And Jamal made fabulous pasta. He had wanted to do paella, but she didn't trust the shellfish in the heat, which seemed wise, so she had told him to make pasta. With enough wine on hand, no one seemed to care much about the food. “Would you like to come? Just wear jeans and a shirt, you don't have to wear a tie.” She couldn't imagine him without one.
“It sounds like fun. Do you entertain often?”
“When I have time. And sometimes even when I don't. I like seeing friends, and there always seems to be someone coming through town. Do you entertain, John?” She didn't have a sense yet for what his private life was like, only that he liked to travel with his children. He hadn't said much yet about the rest.
“Only for business, in restaurants. But it's more an obligation than a pleasure. I haven't given a dinner party since my wife died. She used to love entertaining.” She had that in common with Fiona, although their styles were vastly different. Ann Anderson had given proper little dinner parties for their friends in Greenwich. They had only moved into the city after she got sick, because it was easier for her to be close to the hospital for treatment. And she had been too sick by then to entertain. She had spent her last two years in their current apartment, which made it a sad place for him now, but he didn't say that to Fiona. “It's hard entertaining when you're single,” he said plaintively, and then felt foolish. She was single, and always had been, and it didn't seem to stop her. Nothing stopped Fiona from doing what she wanted. He liked that about her.
“You just have to be more casual about it. People don't expect as much from single people socially, so whatever you do for them seems terrific. Sometimes, the less you do, the more they like it.” Fiona did more than she admitted, but she made it look effortless and spontaneous, which was part of the magic she created when she entertained. “So will you come for dinner tomorrow?” She hoped he would, although the group she had invited was more eclectic than usual, and she wondered if he'd find them strange or too exotic.
“I'd love to. What time do you want me?” He sounded enthused.
“Eight o'clock. I'll be in meetings until seven. I'm going to have to run like hell to be here before the guests.” That wasn't unusual in her life either.
“Can I bring anything?” he offered, trying to be helpful, although he suspected she had everything arranged. Fiona was not someone to leave even the remotest detail to chance. She hadn't gotten where she was by being casual or vague.