“Just bring yourself. See you tomorrow night then.”
“Good night,” he said gently, and they hung up. She put on her nightgown after that, and brushed her teeth, thinking of him. She liked him, and felt an undeniable attraction to him, although he was entirely different from any other man who had appealed to her. She had gone out with a few conservative preppy guys when she was young. But in recent years, she had been drawn to artistic, creative men, which had always ended up in disaster. Maybe it was time for a change. She was still thinking about him when she slipped into bed next to Sir Winston, who rolled over with a groan and went on snoring more loudly than ever. It was a familiar sound that always lulled her to sleep. And as always, she slept straight through until her alarm went off at seven.
She put Sir Winston in the garden for a few minutes, took a shower, read the paper, had coffee, dressed, and left for work. And it was another endless day at Chic. She spent most of the day with Adrian, solving problems and going through photographs of several shoots they'd done the previous week. She couldn't wait to see the ones taken by Henryk Zeff. She already knew that they'd be great. Adrian was coming to dinner that night, and she didn't tell him John Anderson would be there. She knew that if she did, he'd make a comment, and wonder why she had invited him. She wasn't sure why herself. She still needed time to figure it out. And she didn't want to make a big deal of it. It might turn out to be one of those mild mutual attractions that went nowhere. Or more than likely, they'd just be friends, if that. They were so immensely different, the likelihood of anything coming of it seemed slim to none to her. They'd probably drive each other insane. They were better off as friends. She was still telling herself that when she went home that night, and found Jamal tossing a huge salad in the kitchen and making garlic bread. He had also made canapés. She tasted one of them when she came in. He was wearing hot pink capri pants, gold Indian sandals, and was bare-chested. Most of her friends were used to Jamal's exotic getups, and she thought they lent her evenings a festive air, although she wondered about his not wearing a shirt, and she mentioned it to him.
“Do you think it's a little too casual?” she asked, as she tried another of the hors d'oeuvres. They were great.
“It's too hot to wear anything,” he said, sticking the bread in the oven. She noticed on the kitchen clock that she had forty minutes to get dressed.
“Well, stick with the pants, Jamal. It's a good look.” He had worn a gold jewel-encrusted loincloth once, which even she had admitted was a bit much, or actually not quite enough in that case. “I love the sandals, by the way. Where'd you get them?” She had seen a pair like that once, but couldn't remember where.
“They're yours. I found them in the back of the closet. You never wear them. I thought I'd borrow them for tonight. Do you mind?” He looked artless and innocent as he asked, and she stared at them and laughed.
“I thought they looked familiar. Now that I think about it, I think they hurt. Keep them if you like them. They look better on you.” They had been Blahnik samples specially made for a shoot several years ago.
“Thank you,” he said sweetly, as he tested the salad dressing on a lettuce leaf, and she hurried upstairs.
Half an hour later, she was back downstairs wearing white silk pants and a gossamer-thin gold shirt, with huge hoop diamond earrings, high-heeled gold sandals, and her hair hanging down her back in a thick braid. She and Jamal looked almost like a matched set. He had put plates, napkins, and cutlery on the table in the garden, and there were candles and flowers everywhere. She tossed some big cozy cushions around in case people wanted to sit on the floor, and put some music on, just as the first guests came through the door. She had almost forgotten who she'd asked, and had glanced at a list upstairs. It was the usual unusual assortment, artists, writers, photographers, models, lawyers, doctors, the musicians who had come from Prague. There were a couple of Brazilians she'd met recently, two Italians, and a woman one of them brought who spoke French, and by sheer coincidence one of the musicians discovered that the woman also spoke Czech. She said her father had been French and her mother Czech. It was the perfect blend, and as Fiona looked around at the nearly two dozen people in her garden, she suddenly saw John wander through her living room in immaculate pressed jeans and a starched white shirt. He was wearing Hermès loafers without socks. He looked every bit as impeccable as he did in a suit, and he didn't have a hair out of place. And despite the lack of imagination he showed in his wardrobe, she liked his look. He looked manly and elegant, immaculate, and perfectly put together, and she found all of it remarkably attractive. And when he kissed her cheek, she liked the cologne he wore as well. And he commented on hers. It was the same scent she had worn for twenty years. She had it made for her in Paris, and it was a signature for her. Everyone who knew her recognized it, and people always commented on it. It was just warm enough and cool enough, with a slightly spicy scent. And she loved the fact that it was hers alone, and had no name. Adrian called it Fiona One, and she'd had cologne made for him as well. He was there that night too, and he was watching her when John walked in. She introduced them to each other, as Jamal offered John champagne. Fiona told him that Adrian was the most important editor at Chic.
“She flatters me instead of giving me a raise,” Adrian teased, taking John in. And like Fiona, he liked what he saw, he liked his style and self-confidence and quiet grace, and he could see that she liked it, too. She was standing close to John as the others milled around, and she introduced him to everyone in the group.
“This is quite a collection of people,” he said quietly in a moment's lull, after Adrian moved away to talk to one of the Czechs.
“It's a little weirder than usual, but it seemed like fun. I do more serious dinners in winter. In summer, it's fun to be a little crazier.” He nodded and seemed to agree, although he had never been to a dinner quite like this. Her house looked beautiful, and warm and welcoming, and there seemed to be a million tiny treasures everywhere, mostly things she had found on trips and brought home with her. He seemed to be looking for something, and then turned to her.
“Where's the power saw?”
“What power saw?”
“The guy snoring in your bed last night.”
“Sir Winston? He's upstairs. He hates guests. He thinks this is his house. Would you like to meet him?” She was pleased that he'd asked. It was a definite point for him.
“Will he object?” He looked mildly concerned.
“He'll be honored.” It was a good excuse to show John the rest of the house. The living room, dining room, and kitchen were on the main floor, and there was a cozy library on the second floor, and a guest room next to it. The colors she had chosen were all warm caramel and chocolate, with accents of white and a little red to spice it up. She seemed to favor suedes, silks, and fur. She had exquisite beige silk drapes trimmed in red. Her bedroom and dressing room were on the top floor, with a tiny office she used when she worked at home, which was rare. It was the perfect house for her. There had been a second bedroom on the top floor, which she had turned into a closet when she moved in.
When John was halfway up the stairs, he heard the loud snoring. And as they walked into her bedroom, which was all done in beige silk, even the walls, John saw him on the bed. Sir Winston was sleeping and never stirred. Fiona gently patted him, and he finally picked up his head with considerable effort and a groan and stared at them, and a moment later, he dropped his head back on the bed again with a sigh, and closed his eyes. He made no attempt to introduce himself to John. He seemed entirely indifferent to him, as John grinned.