Second Chance

by Danielle Steel

  “Maybe both. A nonfiction about the fashion world, such as it is. And maybe after that, a novel in the same vein. I loved to write short stories as a kid, and I always wanted to turn them into a book. It would be fun to try, although I'm not sure I could.” It was hard for him to imagine anything she couldn't do, if she set her mind to it. And he could easily envision her writing a book. She was bright and clever and quick, and told some very funny stories about the business. He suspected that she could write something that would be fun to read.

  “Do you see yourself doing something after advertising, or instead of?” She was curious about him, just as he was about her. And they were obviously laying the groundwork for some kind of bond that transcended work. Maybe just knowing more about each other, to give depth and character to the contact they were going to have for Chic.

  “Honestly? No. I've never done anything other than advertising. Maybe golf? I don't know. I'm not sure there's life after work.”

  “We all feel that. Most of the time, I just figure I'll die at my desk. Not for a long time, I hope,” she said, feeling awkward, as she remembered his wife's untimely death. “I don't have time to do much more than work.”

  “At least you get to do it in fun places. Paris and St. Tropez don't sound like hardship posts to me.”

  “They're not.” She grinned broadly. “And I've just been invited to spend a few days on a friend's boat when I go to St. Tropez.”

  “Now I'm really jealous,” he said, as he paid the check. He knew she had to get back to the office, and he did too.

  “Maybe you should come and check it out. Let me know if you want tickets to the shows.”

  “When are they?” he inquired with interest. He had never even remotely thought of going to Paris for the couture shows, it would definitely be a first for him if he went. Although it was unlikely he could. He was very busy.

  “The last week of June, and first few days of July. They're a lot of fun, particularly if you know people. But even if you don't, they're pretty spectacular to watch.”

  “I have a meeting in London on July first. If it looks like I can shake loose for a day or two at either end, I'll let you know.” They were walking back to the car by then, and felt as though they had been sucked up in a vacuum as they hurried from the deli to the car.

  “Thank you for lunch, by the way,” she said as she slid in beside him, and five minutes later they were back at her office building, and she turned to smile at him again before she got out. “This was fun. Thanks, John. I feel like a human being again, going back to work. My staff will thank you for it. Most of the time I skip lunch.”

  “We'll have to do something about that, it's not healthy. But I do the same thing,” he confessed with a grin. “I enjoyed it too. Let's do it again soon,” he said as she got out and smiled at him. And then she hurried into the building as he drove off, thinking about her. Fiona Monaghan was a remarkable woman, beautiful, intelligent, exciting, elegant, and in her own inimitable way, scary as hell. But as he thought about her as he went back to his office, he wasn't scared. John Anderson was seriously intrigued. She was the first woman he'd met in two years who seemed worth more than a second glance. And that she was.

  Chapter 2

  The week after she met John Anderson, Fiona spent two days at an important shoot. Six of the world's most important supermodels were in it, four major designers were represented, and the photographs were shot by Henryk Zeff. He flew in from London for the shoot, with four assistants, his nineteen-year-old wife, and their six-month-old twins. The shoot was fabulous, and Fiona was sure the photographs would be extraordinary, and inevitably the entire week turned into a zoo. The models were difficult and demanding, one of them used cocaine for most of the shoot, two of them were lovers and had a humongous fight on the set, and the most famous and essential of them was so anorexic, she fainted after eating literally nothing for the first three days they worked. She said she was “fasting,” and the paramedics who came to revive her suspected that she was suffering from mono too. They shot some of the photographs on the beach, wearing fur coats, and the blazing sun and relentless heat were nearly enough to kill them all. Fiona stood watching them up to her hips in the water, it was the only relief, as she fanned herself with a huge straw hat. Her cell phone rang late that afternoon, for the ninety-second time. Every other time it had been her office with some new crisis. They were deep into the September issue by then. The shoot they were doing was for October, but this was the only time Zeff had been able to give them, he was solidly booked for the rest of the summer. And this time when the phone rang, it wasn't Fiona's office. It was John Anderson.

  “Hi, how are you?” He sounded relaxed and cheerful, despite a long, aggravating day at his end. But he wasn't one to complain, particularly not to someone he didn't know well. He had been fighting all afternoon to keep a major account, which was threatening to walk. He had saved it finally, but felt as though he had spent the entire day giving blood. “Is this a bad time?” Fiona chuckled at the question.

  One of the models had just passed out from the heat, and another one had just thrown a bottle of Evian at Henryk Zeff for taking her out of a shot. “No, not at all. Perfect time,” Fiona said, laughing. If she'd had a gun, she would have shot them all. “My models are dropping like flies and having tantrums, one of them just threw something at the photographer, we're all about to keel over from sunstroke and heat prostration, and the photographer's twelve-year-old wife is nursing twins, both of whom have heat rash and haven't stopped crying all week. Just another ordinary day at Chic.” He laughed at her description, but to Fiona, it was all too real, even if hard for him to imagine. She was used to this. It was daily fare for her. “How was your day?”

  “It's sounding a lot better now that I've heard yours. I've been running the Paris peace talks here since seven A.M. But I think we won. I just had a crazy idea and thought I'd give you a call. I was wondering if you wanted to have a hamburger with me on your way home.” This time she guffawed.

  “I'd love to, except that I'm standing here up to my ass in the Atlantic in two-hundred-degree heat, somewhere on a beach on Long Island, in some godforsaken town with nothing but a bowling alley and a diner, and at this rate, we'll be here till tomorrow morning. Otherwise I'd have loved it. Thanks for asking.”

  “We'll do it some other time. What time are you planning to wrap up?”

  “After sunset, whenever that is. I think this is supposed to be the longest day of the year. I knew that by about noon, after two of the models slapped each other, and one of them threw up from the heat.”

  “I'm glad I don't have your job. Is it always like that?”

  “No. Usually, it's worse. Zeff runs a pretty tight ship. He doesn't put up with a lot. He keeps threatening to walk out and expects me to make everyone behave. Good luck on that.”

  “Do you always go to the shoots?” He understood little about her job, and had somehow assumed that she sat at a desk, writing about clothes. It was considerably more complicated than that, although she did a lot of writing too, and checking over everyone else's work, for content and style. Fiona ran Chic with an iron hand. She worried about the budget and was the most fiscally responsible editor-in-chief they'd ever had. In spite of their vast expenses, the magazine had been in the black for years and turned a handsome profit, in great part thanks to her, and the quality of her product.

  “I only go to shoots when I have to. Most of the time, the younger editors take care of that. But if it's dicey enough, or liable to be, I go. This one is. And Zeff is a major star, so are the girls here.”

  “Are they modeling bikinis?” he asked innocently, and she laughed even harder.

  “No. Fur.”

  “Oh, shit.” He couldn't even imagine it in this heat.

  “Precisely. We keep having to ice the girls down after they take them off. So far no one has died of the heat, so I guess we're still ahead.”

  “I hope you're not wearing fur too,” h
e teased.

  “Nope. I'm standing here in the water, in a bikini. And the photographer's wife has been walking around naked all day, holding her babies.”

  “It all sounds very exotic.” Beautiful women wandering around naked or wearing fur on a beach. It was an interesting vision, as he imagined Fiona standing in the ocean in a bikini talking to him on her cell phone. “Not exactly like my workday. But I guess it sounds like fun too.”

  “Sometimes it is,” she conceded as Henryk Zeff started waving his arms at her in a panic. He wanted to move for their last shot, and all but one of the girls objected, and pleaded exhaustion from the heat. He wanted Fiona to negotiate it for him, which of course she would. “Looks like I've got to go, the Indians are about to kill the chief. I'm not sure who I feel sorrier for, him or them or me. I'll call you back,” she said, sounding distracted. “Probably tomorrow.” It was already seven-fifteen, she realized, as she glanced at her watch, and she was surprised he was still in the office.

  “I'll call you,” he said calmly, but she was already gone, as he sat pensively at his desk. Her life seemed light-years from his, although the art department in the agency was certainly not unfamiliar with a life like hers. But John rarely dealt with them and never went on shoots. He was far too busy soliciting new accounts, and keeping the existing ones happy, and overseeing vast amounts of money being spent on ad campaigns. The details of how those campaigns were put together were someone else's problem and not his. But he was undeniably intrigued by Fiona's world. It sounded fascinating and exotic to him, although Fiona would have disagreed with him, as she helped the assistants pack Henryk's equipment, while his wife had a tantrum, and he argued with her, and both babies cried. The models were languishing under umbrellas, drinking warm lemonade from a huge container, and threatening to quit, trying to negotiate hardship pay, and calling their agencies on their cell phones. They said no one had told them how long the shoot would be, or that it would involve fur. One of the models had already threatened to walk out on principle, and said she was going to report them to PETA, who would surely demonstrate in front of the magazine, as they had before, if they featured fur too prominently.

  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 st
yles 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.

  “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.