The Other Half

  “Of course.”

  “And I will have to talk to some others about it. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Fine.” Chloë was loath to leave the ball in his court. “Perhaps we could meet for lunch next week?”

  “Good idea. I’ll call you.” James shuffled his papers and the proposal into his case. “I’m sorry to cut this so short, but I’m booked solid with meetings today and there is one I haven’t prepared for yet.”

  Briefly Chloë caught a glimpse of a more boyish nervousness behind the capable businessman. She smiled sympathetically. “Not at all. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

  “Don’t forget these,” he said, handing her the magazines.

  “God, no. Thanks.” Though when he passed them to her, a couple slipped out of her hands and onto the floor. Chloë had to bend down to pick them up. As she did so he did the same, and their heads bumped.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m fine.” He rubbed his forehead, then laughed. “That’s our second collision today!”

  “I’m so clumsy.”

  “It was my fault.”

  “No, it was mine,” she insisted, opening the meeting-room door and leading him back to reception.

  “By the way I like the dress.” He shook her hand again. “It shows a certain individual style.” He smiled broadly.

  She beamed, unable to contain her pleasure. “Thank you.”

  “I look forward to seeing your fashion spreads,” he said, his voice so low the receptionist couldn’t hear.

  Was there a slight innuendo in his tone? Surely not, she thought, as she sat back down at her desk. But later, she was certain about one thing. The madness of the morning had left her somewhat light-headed.

  4

  That Jamie wasn’t back in time to help put Nathan to bed was not unusual, yet tonight it was particularly annoying.

  “Right,” Maggie said, focusing on her son. “Supper’s ready.”

  She’d made a second soufflé, chiefly to verify the recipe but with the faint hope of casting an aphrodisiac spell on Jamie.

  Quite what it will do to a six-year-old boy, Lord knows, she thought.

  Nathan, oblivious to the X-rated world he was about to taste, was playing with Monday. The gerbil’s nose twitched as he investigated the myriad smells of the table.

  “Monday’s going to have to move so you can eat your supper. He shouldn’t be there as it is,” said Maggie.

  “But he’s exploring!”

  “He can explore all he likes once you’ve eaten. Take him back to your room.”

  “Okay.” Nathan scurried upstairs to put Monday into his cage. When he was sitting down again, Maggie handed him a plate with a little soufflé and lots of baked beans. He looked askance at his portion. “Can I have some more?”

  “Eat what you’re given first.”

  Nathan dug in with relish, yet a few minutes later he began to slow down, until he stopped completely, leaving a soggy pink mess of soufflé and beans.

  Maggie raised her eyebrows at him.

  Nathan raised his own back, and sped up again, slurping loudly. Then he picked up his plate and licked it.

  “Nathan!”

  Nathan smiled. “Finished.”

  That child has me wound around his little finger, thought Maggie.

  Once her son was tucked up in bed, she ran a bath. She lit some scented candles, poured herself a glass of red wine, and stepped in. Slowly, she lay back, bubbles floating around her. If she sucked in her tummy, the only part of her body that remained out of the water was her breasts. If she pushed her belly out, she almost looked pregnant. She lifted her feet and rested them against the overflow. They were slim and straight and a pleasing pale brown thanks to a recent week that she, Jamie, and Nathan had spent in a Tuscan villa.

  She recollected a trip to New York she’d made with Jamie several years ago: they’d been staying with friends and she had borrowed a gym pass. As she was dressing after her workout, a beautiful fitness instructor had come into the changing room and started telling her pupils about another woman. “Her feet are so pretty!” she’d enthused. “They’re kinda delicate, elegant—like hands, you know? Her toes, gee, they’re so long and straight, not like most toes at all. She wears those crisscross sandals with little knots in them that accentuate just how pretty they are. And men love her—I’ve seen it, sat next to her in cafés. They stare at her, transfixed, but not by her face, which is cute, or her figure, which is divine. They stare at her feet! It’s quite something.”

  Maggie had never forgotten this woman’s way with words and enthusiasm for life’s minutiae. And she’d resolved right then and there: she would never compromise her aesthetic standards, even over trivial matters, and she would always, always look after her feet.

  She took a sip of wine. It was not a particularly expensive bottle (it would have seemed extravagant to uncork one just for herself) but it was a good Burgundy, bought via mail order. She let it roll over her tongue. Moments like these were rare, and a new baby would make them rarer. Still, she thought, reaching guiltily for Jamie’s razor, she’d never imagined having only one child, and if she and Jamie didn’t get a move on, Nathan would be too old to play with a younger sibling.

  After bathing, she moisturized all over and wandered around the bedroom letting the lotion sink into her skin. She phoned her sister, Fran, for a brief chat, then reached for the shopping bag and tipped its contents onto the bed. In the glow of the bedside lamps the basque was even more seductive.

  Maggie rummaged in her drawer for some knickers. She knew which ones would be right—a satin-and-lace pair she’d purchased with Fran, who had persuaded her to buy them, but which she’d never worn. She put them on, fastened herself (with extensive swiveling) into the basque, and unwrapped a pair of sheer stockings. Carefully she eased one up over each newly shaved leg, clipped on the suspenders, and stood up. Finally, shoes. The stilettos bought for a Christmas party a few years ago when she’d wanted to impress Jamie’s colleagues were perfect. The effect was astonishing—a whole new Maggie.

  At that moment she heard a key in the front door and the familiar rustle of Jamie throwing his coat over the bottom banister. Quickly she pulled on a floor-length wrap and ran out to the landing. “Hi, darling.” She spoke in a hushed voice so as not to wake Nathan.

  “Hi,” said Jamie. He sounded tired.

  “We saved you some soufflé.” She led him into the kitchen. “Though I’m afraid it’ll be past its best.”

  Jamie poured himself a glass of wine and leaned back against the counter. “Phew. That was quite a day.”

  “Poor lamb.” Maggie brushed away a stray strand of his hair.

  “You smell nice,” said Jamie, inhaling. He looked down.

  The shoes.

  “Ah, yes.” Maggie let the gown fall open. “I went shopping today.”

  “So I see…” Jamie paused and took it all in. “Wow.”

  They made love in the kitchen—for the first time in ages. And he hadn’t had so much as a bit of soufflé, smiled Maggie later as she drifted off to sleep.

  5

  Patsy pressed the mute button. “It’s James Slater. Are you in?”

  “Oh, er, yes,” said Chloë.

  A week had passed since their meeting, and she had begun to wonder if it would be inappropriate to call him. She picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Hi. Can you talk?”

  “Mm, a little.” Chloë was in the midst of debriefing her assistant on some facts that needed checking in an article and was aware Patsy was earwigging every word.

  “I’ll keep it brief. I’m afraid I’m having a frantic week and lunch is going to be difficult.” Chloë’s heart sank. Why did men always turn out to be so flaky where she was concerned? Yet James continued, “I know it’s short notice, but I usually play squash on Thursday nights with a friend up here in the West End, and he’s just canceled. So I could do tomorrow, although it w
ould have to be dinner. Can you make it?”

  Could she make it? Of course she bloody could! She stopped herself from blurting an enthusiastic “Yes” in the nick of time. She recalled all those books that banged on about the importance of playing hard to get. Maybe it applied in business too. And then she remembered her mother’s slightly cruel (but accurate) observation that sometimes her natural exuberance could be misinterpreted as “lacking mystery.”

  “I’ll just check my diary.” She counted to five. “My week’s looking pretty hectic. Tomorrow, you said … Er, what time?”

  “I should be through around seven. What about you?”

  “I think I can make that.” Chloë rummaged through her in-tray in the hopes she sounded busy.

  “There’s a charming little restaurant on Lexington Street,” he continued. “It’s called Louisa’s, and it’s unusual in that you can bring your own wine, which means we can enjoy something particularly good. How about if I pick up a couple of bottles and meet you there?”

  “Sounds great.” Excellent! Nice and near the office—and two bottles of vino. She hated people who scrimped—but then, he could probably charge it. It sounded like he knew a bit about wine too. How sophisticated. “I’ll see you there.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  She put the phone down, and immediately had to get up and walk around to calm herself.

  “So?” asked Patsy, when she sat down again. “When are you meeting Prince Charming?”

  “Tomorrow. Though he’s not Prince Charming—it’s business.”

  “Then why are you blushing?”

  “I am not!” cried Chloë, going ever redder. She didn’t want Patsy knowing she was meeting James outside office hours. “It’s work,” she reiterated, hoping her assistant wouldn’t pry further.

  “If you say so.”

  “He’s married!” Chloë tried to laugh it off.

  “So was Prince Charles,” quipped Patsy. “Didn’t stop him and Camilla.”

  * * *

  “Chloë,” said Rob, with the air of one with insight into such matters, “you’re telling me that this man cancels lunch, rearranges it for dinner, says he’s going to buy two bottles of wine, and that he’s looking forward to seeing you, and you reckon he doesn’t fancy you? Dear girl, at times I may find the male psyche hard to fathom, nonetheless this seems a classic case of get-this-woman-intoxicated-on-the-pretext-of-a-business-liaison-so-I-can-try-to-get-into-her-knickers.”

  “But he’s married!”

  “So are half the men I sleep with, darling.” They were watching television but the ads were on, allowing two minutes for a chat.

  “That’s different,” said Chloë.

  “How, exactly?”

  “The men you sleep with obviously want something they can’t get from their wives.”

  Rob raised an eyebrow.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter what his motives are—though I think you’re wrong. Mine are quite pure.”

  “So why ask me what to wear?” asked Rob, who at times seemed to know Chloë better than she knew herself. “I’m sure nuns don’t give a fig for such worldly matters.”

  “Because it’s vital I create the right impression.” Chloë was firm. “This man could help me get my magazine off the ground.”

  “Well, be careful. If your motives are so pure, wear your Whistles suit. That’ll show him you mean business.”

  This was not what Chloë had been planning on; she’d in mind something rather less formal. “Mm,” she muttered, aware she’d be gone before Rob got up.

  “I just don’t want you falling for another inappropriate male.”

  “I won’t!”

  “OK. Only don’t make the mistake of being one of those women who uses flirtation to get what she wants professionally, then gets in a muddle because she’s not been clear about the distinction between business and pleasure. Now shush.”

  The ad break was over.

  * * *

  Perhaps it was a sign of growing maturity that Chloë was finally learning not to be early for dates. (Though this wasn’t a date but a business meeting, of course.) Restless by nature, she’d discovered the best tactic was to keep herself occupied till the last minute. So she remained in the office and rattled off a couple of e-mails—including a long one to Sam—and before she knew it, it was six fifty-five.

  Quick trip to the ladies’ room, third (but most thorough) repair of the day to her makeup, and she was off. Fortunately it was only a few minutes from Covent Garden to Lexington Street and she knew which backstreets to cut through.

  If she checked her appearance in one window she must have checked it in twenty, and by the time she arrived she was convinced she looked a right state. But at least James was there before her. As she walked into the restaurant she could see him through the back window. He was sitting outside, reading at a small round table in the patio garden, having grabbed a prime spot in the last of the evening sun.

  “Ah.” He smiled and stood as she joined him.

  From the documents before him, she gleaned he’d been working. He bent to put them in his briefcase, and as he sat back up he ran his hands through his hair to sweep it away from his face. Seeing him out of the office, in the sunshine, in this enchanting restaurant, made Chloë view him differently. God, he was attractive! She was punched in the stomach by a whoosh of desire. Still, she reminded herself, he’s married.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m well.” As if she was going to admit she was all of a jitter! “And you?”

  “I’m fine. Would you like a glass?” He pulled a bottle of white wine, dripping, from an ice bucket. It appeared invitingly cool, the perfect antidote to her nerves.

  “That looks lovely.” Chloë watched as he poured the pale golden liquid into her glass with a satisfying glug. She took a sip.

  “Rather good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Chloë agreed, thinking that anything other than Liebfraumilch would have done at this precise moment.

  “So,” said James. “Busy day?”

  “The usual.” She was relieved to focus on work. “We’ve just gone to press so it’s not too bad. Today has been fun—brainstorming ideas with my assistant. How was yours?”

  “OK, actually. I had a meeting I was dreading at our printing house. I’d expected it to be a nasty confrontation, but in fact it went well. And,” he paused, “I spoke to Vanessa Davenport, the special projects manager.’

  “Yes?” said Chloë. She’d seen this thin-faced, imposing woman gliding around UK Magazines. Her reputation for making or breaking a project—and a career—was legendary.

  “We had lunch yesterday, so I brought up your idea, and she’d like to meet you with a view to taking it further.”

  Chloë could barely restrain herself from clapping her hands.

  “One thing she did insist on, though, was that you make up some kind of dummy.”

  Chloë reached for her bag. It was all so exciting! “This may sound presumptuous … but here’s one I prepared earlier.” She pulled out a mocked-up magazine and laid it on the table. “The reason I didn’t do this before is most dummies tend to be made up of cuttings from other magazines and what I have in mind is so different I wanted you to consider the concept in theory before seeing something definite.”

  As James flipped through the dummy, Chloë sipped her wine. It rapidly imparted a warm glow.

  Eventually he looked up, beaming. “This is great—not the usual approach at all! I think Vanessa would love it. You two should hook up as soon as possible.”

  Chloë’s confidence grew. “You’ll see”—she leaned over the table enthusiastically—“that because I believe no magazines here get it completely right that I’ve hardly used any examples from British women’s monthlies. Instead I’ve taken cuttings from a range of publications—such as this US magazine, and run-outs from the Internet, club flyers, even book jackets and CD covers. What you’ve got here is more of an indi
cation of layout—the kind of photography and typography I have in mind. I’ve provided a collection of article ideas separately.” She handed him a second document.

  James paused at a spread in the dummy. “I like this.”

  “It’s from a U.S. website. Wicked cartoons, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. Why is it British women’s magazines are so humorless?”

  “God knows!” said Chloë, relaxing. “If I want a laugh, I’d rather read some of the men’s. Maybe people think women are right miseries.”

  “Well, not all people. You don’t seem a misery to me. Though I do agree the magazine industry could be accused of such.”

  “Oh, I can be miserable, believe me,” confessed Chloë, “though I reckon there’s a time and a place for looking at serious issues—in fact I think that’s extremely important. Still, to me life’s not worth living if you can’t have fun, at least occasionally.”

  “Hmm…” James said, and looked at her. Their eyes locked for just a bit too long. His were the most amazing deep hazel. He glanced away. “It’s strange,” he muttered, then added, frankly: “You remind me of someone.”

  “Really?” Chloë was surprised. The conversation appeared to have taken a personal turn. “I thought I was unique.”

  “Well, I’m sure you are.” James laughed, and looked at her again for a bit too long. God! Did he know what that did to a woman? Chloë’s stomach lurched. “But you do remind me of someone.”

  He must be referring to his spouse, Chloë told herself firmly. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “I remind you of your wife.”

  “Who told you I was married?” James sounded disarmed. Clearly he wasn’t aware she knew.

  “Jean, I think. I gather she and your wife are friends.”

  “Ah, yes, Maggie and Jean go back a long way. Though no, you’re nothing like Maggie.”

  Chloë didn’t know how to take this, but curiosity got the better of her. “Who, then?”

  “A girl I once knew.”

  “Oh.” Chloë was fazed.

  “Broke my heart, though I didn’t admit it to her or anyone else at the time. But enough—you’re not here to hear about my problems … Anyway, it was years ago. More wine?”