Maggie was suddenly nervous. “What did he say?”
“I think he knew he was in the wrong. He seemed pretty sheepish.”
“Really?” Unusual for Jamie, thought Maggie. Humility is not his style.
Jean paused to consider. “Yeah, he was definitely a bit … well, sort of guilty.”
“Oh.” Maggie wasn’t sure what to make of this. Does that mean he’s got something to be guilty about? she wondered. No, she decided. It’s because he’s not been that nice to me lately.
“I told him I didn’t think he appreciated you.”
Maggie laughed. Trust Jean not to mince her words! “What did he say to that?”
“I suspect he’s aware he’s been distant, though of course he wouldn’t admit it to me. Although I did get him to agree that he’d try to sort things out between you. He said he’d have a proper heart-to-heart with you when he gets back.”
“Good! Just in time.”
“Quite. My feelings precisely.”
“I was planning to have a chat with him, because I saw the doctor today.”
“That was quick.”
“I got a cancellation.”
“How lucky. What did he suggest?”
Maggie briefly recounted the conversation. “Anyway,” she finished, “apparently we should get an appointment with Relate within the next month, so I need to see if he’ll agree to come. Sounds like he might, from what you’ve just said.”
“Yes.” Jean sounded noncommittal.
“And, in the meantime, my GP suggested that I try to focus on work, take my mind off things. I’d really like to write more challenging pieces. Which reminds me—you don’t have to answer this now, but do you know anyone who would be interested in something a bit different at UK Magazines? What I want to do isn’t right for Babe, so I was thinking more of special projects. Maybe I could help steer the way a magazine covers food and nutrition from the outset, rather than have to fulfill someone else’s brief.”
“What a great idea!”
“Do you think so?” Maggie was delighted she was enthusiastic. After all, Jean was one of the most successful women in the industry.
“I do! I really do! In fact…” Jean hesitated. “Now you’ve given me an idea.”
“Really?”
“Mm. Leave it with me, my dear, and I’ll get back to you.”
27
Back at the Paramount, James was concerned that he and Chloë might give themselves away over supper.
“You’d better get your taxi to drop you near Spring and walk up the Bowery,” he advised her, buttoning his remaining clean shirt.
Chloë was focused on finding something presentable to wear other than her Whistles suit.
“It would be awful if Jean saw you coming from uptown.”
“Mm.”
“She’d be bound to wonder why.”
“I suppose so.” If he hadn’t been so anxious about exposing their affair, Chloë would have seen the funny side of all the intrigue. Instead she found his jumpiness annoying; it seemed cowardly. She was tempted to ask if it would be so dreadful if Jean or Vanessa did work out they were having affair. Obviously it wouldn’t be good for either of them professionally. Yet if James was ever going to leave Maggie—and Chloë was increasingly hoping that he would at least consider it—they’d have to find out sometime. Otherwise, as she knew from her own parents, this sort of mess could drag on for years.
At half past seven, they caught separate cabs from outside the Paramount. Chloë asked her driver to drop her a couple of blocks from the restaurant. When she arrived, Vanessa, Jean, and James were having a drink at the bar.
“Ah, Chloë,” said Vanessa. “You found it.”
“And on time,” said Jean drily.
“What’ll it be?” James asked.
“A margarita, please.”
“Salt?”
“No salt.” How clever he’s being, thought Chloë. She almost forgave him for irritating her earlier.
She turned to look around the restaurant. It reminded her of Louisa’s in Soho: it had a similar quirky, casually elegant charm. Yet with its mix of chintz and red velvet, and an assortment of antique plates and old photographs covering the walls, it was more theatrical, in keeping with its Off-Off-Broadway locale.
“This is fab!” she said.
“Do you like it?” asked James.
“Ooh yes. It’s just my kind of place.”
“I discovered it,” he said, visibly pleased that she approved, “then told Jean about it when she came to the conference here last year.”
Chloë wasn’t surprised. She knew James’s taste quite well by now and that the East Village was a favorite haunt.
“Anyway, cheers, girls.” James raised his glass. “What a lucky man I am to be out with not one but three lovely ladies!”
Hmph, thought Chloë. He needn’t sound quite so happy. For all his seeming confusion, perhaps there’s a side to him that enjoys having more than one woman.
* * *
James poured them each another glass of wine.
So far we’re doing pretty well, thought Chloë.
She and James were sitting next to each other, knees surreptitiously pressed together under the table. James had steered the conversation away from personal matters, and Chloë had done the same. They were helped by Vanessa’s presence; she didn’t know any of them intimately.
But then Jean said, “I spoke to Maggie just now,” and Chloë nearly dropped her fork.
God, I hope she’s not going to have another go at James, she worried. I couldn’t bear that.
Jean carried on, “I thought it might help her if I had a word with you two—”
Oh no! Chloë gulped. Is Jean seriously prepared to expose our affair in front of Vanessa?
“—about special projects.”
Ah. So “you two” referred to her and Vanessa. By now she was as scarlet as the velvet décor, but luckily the lighting was low. She prayed no one would notice.
Jean addressed Vanessa. “Jamie’s wife is a talented food writer. You probably know her stuff—she works under the name Margaret Wilson.”
“Of course. She’s been around a few years. One of the best in the business.” Vanessa turned to James. “I didn’t realize she was your wife.”
“Yes. She uses her maiden name. Always has.” Unless Chloë was mistaken, James sounded proud.
“Gosh. What a small world!” said Vanessa.
“Isn’t it?” Chloë reached for her wine. Worryingly small, she thought.
“Well, if you think she’s good now,” Jean continued loyally, “you’ll probably be very interested in our conversation.”
“Oh?” said Vanessa, James, and Chloë in unison.
“She’s keen to write something a bit different, more controversial, features that draw more on her training and passions. She’s got a great background, you know. Earned a degree, then trained as a nutritionist and has been contributing regularly to the women’s monthlies for a while now. If you think what she does already is okay, I’m sure she could produce some stuff that’s really stimulating. So, I thought maybe—though God knows why I should help you out, Chloë—you’d be interested in her doing some writing for your magazine.”
Chloë’s jaw dropped.
“That sounds very interesting,” said Vanessa. “Don’t you think? Chloë?”
* * *
Chloë watched the flight attendants wheeling the trolley down the aisle toward her. Eventually they were parallel with her row, and stopped and proffered her breakfast on a plastic tray.
“No, thank you. Just a coffee.” It seems only seconds ago that we had dinner and I can’t face food, she decided. It might be six thirty a.m. UK time, but it feels like the middle of the night to me.
She pushed up the blind and bright sunlight flooded in. The plane was high above the clouds; Chloë could see them down below, layer upon layer, from the darkest, rainiest shade to the palest, most ghostly gray.
&n
bsp; England, she thought gloomily. I hate it.
Oh yes, she was looking forward to seeing Rob again, and Potato, their couch-loving cat. She would be pleased to be in her own space and have a nice, long bath instead of a shower. She was also happy at the prospect of catching up with her friends on Facebook—arriving on a Saturday morning had some advantages.
And I had been keen to start work on Monday with Vanessa, she thought. Although since Jean introduced Maggie into the scheme of things, it wasn’t looking like such a brilliant career move—everything was fast becoming so hideously tangled. But it’s my baby! she protested to herself. I’ve spent months working toward this!
The irony that James’s wife was now muscling in on Chloë’s act was not lost on her. She was too fuzzy-headed to consider all the ramifications right then, so took another sip of coffee and resumed her position, nose pressed up against the glass.
As the clouds thinned she could make out the patchwork fields of Berkshire far, far below. They were nearing Heathrow. If she was going to the ladies’ room, she’d better do so now. She squeezed past her two adjacent passengers, but out in the aisle, the trolley was blocking the way. Chloë decided to go up to business class and say hello to James instead.
“Hi,” she said, crouching to speak to him; he was on the end of a row.
“Oh, hi!” He ruffled her hair. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”
“A bit. You?”
“A little.” He glanced past the man next to him and out of the window. “It seems we’re nearly there.”
“I know.” Chloë was unable to keep the sadness out of her voice. “I don’t want to go home.”
“You’re not the only one.” James sounded equally sad. He stroked her cheek. “I’ve had a lovely time.”
“Me too.” Chloë could feel tears pricking behind her eyes. She stroked his face in return, a particularly soft bit of skin that she’d discovered on his cheekbone. It’s funny, she thought, you get to see a lover’s face far more close up than anyone else’s. Over the last few days she’d come to appreciate every contour, every line, even the way his stubble grew. “Whatever happens, we’ve had this time, haven’t we? No one can take that away.”
“No, they can’t.” James smiled, then sighed. “I need to have a chat with Maggie when I get back.”
“Mm,” said Chloë. Did that mean James was going to tell her? Chloë was about to ask what he was going to say, but thought better of it. That was between the two of them, and she wasn’t sure that she wanted to know. So she said, “I’d best go,” and stood up.
Once she’d been to the restroom, she made her way back to economy class, edged into her seat, and looked out of the window again. The cars were little and rounded, the roads winding and irregular, the houses depressingly suburban and similar.
The FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign flashed on.
After all the excitement, intrigue, intimacy, and romance of the last week, they were coming down.
28
“Is that Chloë Appleton?”
“Speaking.”
“You don’t know me, but my name’s Margaret Wilson, Maggie. I’m Jamie Slater’s wife—”
“Oh!”
“—and a friend of Jean’s. She suggested I give you a call.”
“Yes. So she did … Er, could you hang on a second?”
“Sure, sure.” A sound of rustling papers, then silence.
Maggie waited. I hate cold-calling, she thought. Thankfully, her professional reputation was well established these days, so phoning this woman whom Jean had described as “phenomenally talented but prone to liking things her own way,” was the first time she’d had to do it in years.
After what seemed an age, Chloë came back to the phone. “Apologies for that. Hi.”
By now Maggie felt she was interrupting something awfully important. “I’m sorry, is this a bad moment?”
“Er, no, no.” Although she sounded as if it was. “It’s that I only started in this department yesterday, and things are a bit chaotic around here.”
“I can call back if you like.”
“It’s fine, honestly.”
I bet she’s thinking, Blast Jean for getting the publisher’s wife to call me, thought Maggie.
Chloë continued, “I understood from Jean that you might be interested in doing a piece for special projects. What kind of thing did you have in mind?”
“Actually, I wondered if I could come in and show you some of my work.”
“I have seen lots of your features over the years.”
“You have?” Maggie’s heart sank. Doubtless she would already be typecast as a traditional writer of unadventurous recipes.
“Yes—you’re very prolific. I’m sure it’s not really necessary for us to meet face-to-face.”
I bet she’s made up her mind about me and already written me off as a waste of time, Maggie concluded.
Yet Chloë continued, “Actually I particularly liked that feature you did, ‘Pulling Dishes,’ in this month’s Men.”
“You did?” Maggie was pleased. If she was going to be judged on what she’d written lately, at least this was one of her more amusing pieces.
“And Jean speaks very highly of you, so I’m positive you don’t need to bother coming in. Tell me more about what kind of articles you were thinking of.”
Maggie had spent that Sunday painstakingly putting together a portfolio of cuttings while Jamie, just back from New York, had volunteered to spend the day with Nathan.
Oh dear, she thought. I hate coming up with suggestions on the spot—especially for a new publication. I’d vastly prefer a proper debriefing face-to-face, so I have time to think of something original. I don’t want to end up rehashing the same old stuff again.
As she thought about this, Maggie was silent. Conscious of the pause, Chloë said, “Would it help if I gave you an outline of how I see the magazine?”
Maggie hesitated. Oh, what the hell—go on, Maggie, she cajoled herself. Say what you mean. “I’m sure we could come up with some ideas together over the phone, but from what I understand from Jamie and Jean you’re trying to do something different, less clichéd, quite radical. I believe it would be an enormous help if I could see the dummy, get a feel for who the magazine is pitched at, understand what you’re really after, and talk you through where I’m coming from too. So I really do think it would be useful if we could meet up.”
“Oh.” There was another pause. “Okay, sure, I take your point. When would you like to come in?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow!”
Maggie was keen to get moving. She might not have managed a heart-to-heart with Jamie, yet in comparison this meeting was less daunting. “Yes. I’ve got to come into town anyway.”
This was a lie, but she wanted to appear in demand.
There was more rustling of paper. “Er … yes. I suppose that would be fine. Shall we say about twelve thirty?”
“Lovely. I’ll see you there.”
“Do you know where to come?”
Maggie was more relaxed now that she’d swung things her way and laughed. “Of course! My husband works there.”
“Oh, yeah. Silly me. Special projects is on the third floor. Just ask for me, Chloë.”
“I look forward to meeting you.”
“And me you. Bye.”
“Bye.” Maggie put the phone down.
Poor woman, she thought. She sounds a bit distraught. Thank goodness I don’t work in-house any longer—it’s so much more stressful than being freelance.
* * *
The next day it was Maggie’s turn to take the children to school. After she’d dropped them off, she headed straight out of the village on a run—she’d dressed in her tracksuit that morning.
So, she thought as she ran, how should I dress to meet this Chloë woman? Maybe trouser suit with a pastel T-shirt would be good. I’ve no idea what she’s like, but a cream suit is bound not to offend anyone—it’s smart but n
ot intimidating. And if I add that scarf Jamie bought me in New York for a pop of color, who knows, it might even bring me luck …
Maggie wasn’t looking forward to the encounter; unlike her husband, she didn’t enjoy meeting new people, and Jamie had done little to boost her confidence. “Do you really need to schlep all the way into town?” he’d said when she’d mentioned it to him. “I imagine Chloë’s very busy—why don’t you just pitch your suggestions over the phone?”
I would have thought Jamie of all people would understand why I’m keen to meet face-to-face, thought Maggie. Then again, he’s always wanted me to stick with writing the stuff that’s guaranteed to make money. Sometimes he can be so unsupportive.
She carried on running round her usual route, and as the surrounding scenery energized her, she pushed her resentment away and told herself to think positively.
And when I’ve gotten over this hurdle, she vowed, I’ll talk to Jamie about going to Relate. I’ll feel stronger if I sort this career thing first.
Once home she showered, then spent ages doing her makeup. By the time she’d finished she appeared as if she had very little on, yet her skin seemed clearer, her eyes brighter, and her lips fuller. Next, she carefully selected a flesh-toned bra and knickers that would leave no telltale lines. She put on the suit and knotted the scarf on one side, French-style, around her neck. Finally she put on a pair of white canvas deck shoes and stood back to examine the effect in the mirror.
“You look okay,” she reassured herself.
Maggie allowed longer than necessary to get into London, so she was early. She decided it couldn’t be a bad thing to show that she was keen, and she headed for UK Magazines ahead of time. In the event, it meant that she had to wait in reception.
“I’m afraid Chloë’s nipped out for some lunch,” explained the receptionist.
While she sat there, many women came and went—some were very glamorous. Maggie was just remembering her sister’s observation that there would be lots of opportunity for Jamie to flirt at work, when a dark-haired girl approached her and said, “Hi, you must be Margaret Wilson.”
“Yes.” Maggie jumped to her feet. “Though people call me Maggie.”