Danielle Steel - Second Chance

She was willing to go to Le Voltaire with him this time, and she was fine about it when they ran into another magazine editor. She had nothing to hide now. She no longer looked defeated and was doing well. And in answer to the question “What are you doing now?” she answered with a smile that she was writing a book.

“Oh God, not a roman à clef, I hope,” the editor said, looking panicked, and Fiona laughed.

“I couldn't do that to my friends. I'm writing a novel, and there's nothing about the fashion industry in it, or the publishing world. Your secrets are safe with me.” The editor in question rolled her eyes and looked relieved. And then Fiona turned to Adrian with a grin after the woman left. “Writing a book about fashion would bore the hell out of me.” They both laughed, and splurged on a gigantic plate of profiteroles for both of them for dessert. He was relieved to see her eating well, although she had smoked intermittently throughout the meal.

“What about getting another dog one of these days?” Adrian had been meaning to suggest it to her for a long time, but he had been waiting for the wound of losing Sir Winston to heal. It had been long enough now for him to risk suggesting it to her, but she lit another cigarette and shook her head.

“Remember me? I'm back to my old self again. No responsibilities, no attachments, no encumbrances. I don't want to own anything, love anyone, or get too attached to people, places, or things. It's a rule that seems to work well for me.” It told him that she was still wounded, and perhaps always would be. And the wound John had left, for however short a time he had been in her life, had been the worst of all. But Adrian had the sense that she had at least begun to forgive herself, for whatever mistakes she'd made, and whatever she had been unable to give him. In her months of solitude, she had fought hard for deeper insights into herself. For the first time since she had left the magazine and moved to Paris, Adrian felt she had done the right thing. She was deeper and wiser, and more profound than she had been. Her life was less frivolous, there were no strange house men running around in harem pants. She was less fashionable, and less interested in fashion and the clothes she wore. She seemed less perfectionistic, and not as hard on herself. She seemed a lot more relaxed and more philosophical in many ways, and she said she enjoyed cleaning the apartment herself. But the one thing that worried him was that she was leading a lonely life, and she had isolated herself. At forty-four, she was still too young to shut herself out of the world. She said she had no interest in dating, and she didn't want a social life. All she wanted was to finish her book. She had set a goal to complete it by the end of the summer, and then she was going to come to New York briefly to find an agent, to sell it for her. She was staying in Paris for the summer so she could work, seemed to have no interest in going to the South of France, and almost recoiled when Adrian asked her if she was going to St. Tropez. It was obvious that he had hit a nerve. There were a lot of places she didn't want to go, or be anymore. She said she had no interest in them. But they both knew they just hurt too much.

He lingered for a few days after the couture shows to visit with her, and when he left Paris in early July, she got back to work. But it had been a nice interlude for her, seeing Adrian. They talked on the phone frequently, but it was better being face-to-face, and they had lunch at Le Voltaire almost every day. She cooked dinner for him in her apartment once, and they sat on her terrace eating cheese and drinking wine. He had to admit, she hadn't chosen a bad life, and in a way he envied her. Still, he was having a ball in her old job, and had made a number of dramatic changes since she left.

“Maybe I'll come to Paris and write a book when I grow up,” he said as he stretched his legs. He was wearing a fabulous pair of new Manolo python shoes.

“You should write the one I didn't write,” Fiona said with a smile. “About the fashion world. You know more secrets than I do.” Everyone confided in Adrian, and he was as silent as a tomb. She always knew her own secrets were safe with him.

“They'd all put contracts out on me. Although if they haven't yet, maybe they never will.” He liked her idea, but in his life, it was still years away. He was in the same place she had been at his age.

Once he was gone, her book started to pick up speed, and she rarely took a break from it after that. She got up at dawn, made coffee, lit a cigarette, and sat down to work. And most of the time, she didn't look up from her computer till noon. She ate some fruit, stretched, and got back to work. She sat there day and night for two months. Paris was deserted in the summer, even the tourists seemed to go somewhere else, to Brittany or the South, or Italy or Spain. And she never left her apartment, except to buy food.

It was a brilliantly sunny day at the end of August when she wrote a sentence, and sat staring at it with tears in her eyes, realizing what had just happened. She had finished the book.

“Oh my God,” she said softly, and then gave a wild whoop of glee and started laughing and crying. “Oh my God… I did it!!” She sat staring at it, and read the line over and over and over again. She had done it. The book she had put her heart and soul into was complete. It had taken her almost exactly eight months.

She called Adrian, it was morning for him, and he had just come to work. As soon as he heard it was Fiona, he picked up the phone.

“You can have your job back now,” he said, sounding exasperated. “They're driving me nuts. Three of my best editors just quit.”

“You'll find others. They're all replaceable, including me. Guess what?” she said, chortling with excitement.

“You're pregnant. It's the immaculate conception. Or you've met a cute boy. You're moving back to New York, please God, and you want to work for me.”

“Not on your life. None of the above. I just finished the book!” Her excitement flew right through the phone.

“Holy SHIT! I don't believe it! Already? You're a genius!” He was excited for her. He knew how much it meant to her. And as always, he was proud of her. They were each the brother and sister the other had never had. “Are you coming home now?” he asked hopefully.

“This is home now. But I'll come to New York in a few weeks. I want to talk to some agents. I have to clean up the manuscript first. I want to make some changes and corrections.” And in the end, it took longer than she thought.

It was October before she was ready to come to New York. She had three agents to see, and she was going to stay with Adrian. She still had tenants at her place, and she had decided to sell her house. She was going to put it on the market while she was in town, and she was going to offer it to her tenants first. If they could make a deal, it would save them both real estate agents’ fees, which might be good for both of them, and they loved the house. She had made a decision not to come back to New York to live. She was happy in Paris, and she had nothing in New York anymore. Except Adrian, and he didn't mind coming to Paris to see her. And as soon as she got back, she was going to start another book. She had already started the outline, and she worked on it some more on the plane.

Fiona met Adrian at the magazine, and it felt strange to her, like visiting a childhood home where other people now lived. And it was even stranger, visiting her house. They had painted the rooms other colors, and filled it with furniture she thought was hideous, but it was theirs now, and no longer hers. And they were thrilled at the prospect of buying it. They settled on a mutually agreeable price within two days, avoided the agents’ fees, and the trip had been worthwhile if only for that.

She and Adrian spent nights in his apartment, and she went to meet the literary agents she'd lined up. She strongly disliked two of them, but the third one she saw seemed just right. He was intelligent and ambitious, interesting to talk to, knew his business backward and forward, and was roughly her own age. She told him what the book was about, and he liked it. She left a manuscript with him, and she felt as though she were leaving her baby with strangers. She was a nervous wreck when she went back to Adrian's apartment that night. She had stayed with the agent for hours, and Adrian had dinner waiting for her. He knew how stressful it was for her meeting with agents about her book.

“What if he hates it?” she said, looking anxious. She had worn a white turtleneck and gray slacks, with gray satin loafers and her signature turquoise bracelet on her wrist. She hadn't even noticed it, but the agent had been very taken with her. All Fiona cared about was her book. She hadn't even worn makeup, she rarely did anymore, but her skin was so exquisite, and her eyes so huge, that Adrian thought she was actually prettier that way.

“He's not going to hate it. You write beautifully, Fiona. And the story is solid.” She had read him passages, faxed him pages, and gone over the outline with him, in its many mutations, a million times.

“He'll hate it. I know he will,” she said, emptying a glass of wine. She got a little drunk as they sat there, which was rare for her. And by the next morning, she had convinced herself that the agent would reject it, and was steeling herself to stick the manuscript in a drawer somewhere. She was already concentrating on the new book.

The phone rang at Adrian's late that afternoon. Fiona usually let the machine pick it up, but for some reason she answered it, thinking it might be Adrian. They were trying to connect for dinner that night, although he was even busier than she had been when she had his job. The only difference was that he didn't give parties, and never let photographers or models stay with him. But he had admitted to her a year before, when she left, that he had hired Jamal. And Fiona had been happy to see him when she arrived. Adrian had put him in a uniform, black pants and a white shirt, with a little white jacket he wore and a tie on the rare times when Adrian entertained. And Adrian said Jamal wasn't nearly as happy with him, because he couldn't get castoffs from him, his shoes were too big. But Jamal seemed very happy in his new job.

“Hello?” Fiona said cautiously when she picked up the phone. The voice on the other end was unfamiliar. It wasn't Adrian, and she was sorry she had answered it. But much to her surprise, the voice asked for her. It was Andrew Page, the literary agent she had seen the day before.

He gave her the news fast and quick. He knew how anxious new authors were, and he told her almost instantly that he loved the book, it was one of the best first novels he had read in years. He thought she should do a little more editing, but not much, and he thought he already had a publisher for it. He was having lunch with a senior editor the next day on her behalf. If she was willing to sign with him, of course. He asked her to come in and sign a contract with him the next morning.

“Are you serious?” she almost screamed at him. “Are you kidding?”

“Of course I'm not kidding,” he laughed. For a woman of such power and capability, she was amazingly humble about her writing, and most other things, and he liked that about her. “It's a terrific book.”

“And you are a fabulous agent!” she said, laughing. They made an appointment for the next day, and she hung up, and two minutes later, she called Adrian on his cell phone. “Guess what?”

“Not that again.” He laughed at her. She loved making him guess whatever fantastic thing had just happened, just like a little kid. And she sounded like one on the phone. He knew it had to be good.

“Andrew Page loved my book! I'm signing with him tomorrow. And he's having lunch with a senior editor about it.” She sounded as if she had just given birth to twins, and in a way she had. She had also told him about the new book, and he was going to try and get her a two- or three-book contract. Publishers liked knowing it wasn't going to be a book from a onetime author. And that she clearly wasn't.

“Am I supposed to be surprised?” Adrian asked, sounding blasé. “I told you he'd love the book.” She had started on a whole new career. “Next, he's going to be selling it for a movie, and we'll all go to Hollywood for the premiere. And if you write the screenplay, I want to be your escort when you accept the Oscar.”

“I love you, and thank you for the vote of confidence, but you're nuts. Now you have to have dinner with me tonight so we can celebrate. Can you do it?” He was still trying to get out of a previous engagement, but he promised her he would. He wanted to take her out and fuss over her a bit. They agreed to meet at eight o'clock at La Goulue, which was still her favorite restaurant in New York.