Second Chance (3 page)

“I'm sorry,” he said sympathetically, and she smiled.

“I'm not. I know it sounds awful to admit it, but I've never wanted them. I figure there are lots of people who'd make good parents, and I've never been sure I'd be one of them. I've never wanted to take that chance.” He wanted to say it wasn't too late, but thought it would be presumptuous to tell her that.

“You might surprise yourself. It's hard to warm up to the idea of children till you have your own. I was only lukewarm about it until Hilary was born. It was a lot better than I thought. I'm crazy about my girls. And they're very tolerant of me.” He hesitated for a moment and then went on. “We've been a lot closer since their mother died, although the girls are busy and have their own lives now. But we speak often, and get together when we can.” They also confided in him more than they used to, now that their mother was gone.

“How long ago was that? Your wife, I mean,” she asked carefully. She wondered if he was still in deep mourning or had adjusted to the loss. He didn't speak of his wife with awe and reverence, but with kindness and warmth, which led her to assume that he had made his peace with her death.

“It'll be two years in August. It seems like a long time sometimes, and only weeks ago at others. She was sick for a long time. Nearly three years. The girls and I had time to adjust, but it's always something of a shock. She was only forty-five when she died.”

“I'm sorry.” She didn't know what else to say, and thinking of it made her sad on his behalf.

“So am I.” He smiled wistfully at her. “She was a good person. She did everything she could to get us ready to take care of each other before she died. She taught me a lot, about grace under fire. I'm not sure I could have been as strong in her shoes. I'll always admire her for that. She even taught me how to cook.” He laughed at that, and lightened the moment, as Fiona smiled at him. She liked him a lot, far more than she had expected to. Suddenly this had nothing to do with
Chic,
or the new ad agency she'd hired.

“She sounds like a wonderful woman.” Fiona wanted to tell him that she thought he was a wonderful man. The vision of his dying wife teaching him to cook had touched her heart, and she suspected that his girls were nice kids too, if they were anything like him.

“She was terrific. And so are you. I'm enormously impressed by what you do, and the empire you run, Fiona. That's no small task. You must be constantly under pressure, with deadlines every month. I'd have an ulcer in a week.”

“You get used to it. I thrive on it. I think I love the adrenaline rush. I wouldn't know what to do without it. The deadlines keep me on track. You're not running a small empire either.” The agency was the third largest in the world, and he had run an even larger one before that. But moving to the agency he was at now had been a coup for him, it had a golden reputation, and had won a slew of creative awards. It had more prestige than the agency he'd been at previously, even if it was slightly smaller, though not much.

“I love the London office. I wouldn't have minded running it for a few years. Actually, they offered me that first, several years ago, but I couldn't ask Ann to move, she was too sick by then, and I wouldn't have wanted to leave the girls here, they didn't want to leave their schools. In the end, I got a bigger job later by turning them down. And this change came at just the right time. I was ready to move on and do something new. What about you, Fiona? Do you see yourself getting old and gray at
Chic,
or is there something you want to do after this?”

“You don't get old and gray at fashion magazines,” she said with a smile, “with few exceptions.” Her mentor and predecessor had stayed till she was seventy, but that was rare. “Most of the time, it's a finite tenure, and I have absolutely no idea what I'd do if I left. At this point, that's not a very appealing thought, and I hope I have a few years left at
Chic.
Maybe even a lot of years, if I'm lucky. But I've always wanted to write a book.”

“Fiction or nonfiction?” he asked with interest. They had finished their lunch by then, but neither of them wanted to leave and go back to work.

“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,” he 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.