and says you’ve made up a dummy. I thought we ought to meet for a chat.”
“That would be great.”
“Obviously James can recommend ideas,” Vanessa explained, “though it’s me you’d be working with, should we decide to take on the project.” Chloë understood the subtext: You might be in with James, but you’ll have to win me over too . It was Vanessa’s job to handle the day-to-day business of launching new titles. “How about lunch next week, say, Tuesday?”
“Lovely.”
“I’ll call you that morning and we’ll arrange somewhere then.”
When Vanessa had hung up, Chloë couldn’t help but wonder what James had said about her. Presumably it was good or Vanessa wouldn’t have phoned. And she must have been on his mind for him to contact Vanessa in the first place.
Is he as hungover as I am? she wondered. Will he ever call me again? I doubt it—surely he’ll only be able to get away like that for one night. So I presume our relationship will be purely business from now on. Will having had sex affect his professional dealings with me? I hope not … Will he tell his wife? Chloë felt a pang of remorse at the prospect. Of course he won’t, she told herself. Though she might find out anyway. Some women just know. Horrors—what if she comes by and confronts me? Worse, if she confronts me at the office, in front of Patsy, Vanessa, Jean, and everyone! Imagine if James is so bowled over he decides to leave Maggie at once—and turns up on my doorstep later tonight with a suitcase and hangdog expression …
Chloë’s mind was in overdrive. She wanted to call him, but what would she say? And with Patsy tip-tapping away right by her—not to mention all the other complications—she knew that it would be foolish in the extreme. For once she must curb her inclinations to talk about anything, although she was itching to confide in someone. It would have to wait until she got home. There she knew she could offload it all on Rob. So, once she’d clarified that he was going to be in, she put her whirling thoughts on hold and busied herself sorting through her pending tray.
* * *
Back at the apartment, Rob and Chloë curled up on the sofa with the cat snuggled in a half-moon in his favorite spot between them, and waited for the delivery of a fifteen-inch extra crunchy supreme pizza.
“Well,” said Rob, “was that you I heard crashing around the hall in the small hours? Either you were so pissed you were making enough noise for two or you had a man with you. Please tell me it was the former.”
Chloë jerked her head toward the TV. “I think we’d better record this program.”
“Oh, my God! That means trouble! You did, didn’t you? You brought him back here! Oh, Lord! You actually slept with him?”
“Yes,” admitted Chloë.
“So…” Rob leaned forward. “Was it good?”
It was one thing she loved about Rob—he was very nonjudgmental. Perhaps it was because his own behavior was pretty reprehensible at times that his moral code was so flexible.
“The best,” sighed Chloë.
“OOOH!” shrieked Rob. “This warrants a glass of wine.” He virtually skipped into the kitchen. Sex, scandalous sex, forbidden sex—he was in his element. “Want one?”
“I couldn’t.” Chloë shook her head. “But you go ahead.”
Once Rob had settled back down with his glass and Chloë had set the recorder, she began. “So we met at this little restaurant on Lexington Street—”
“Stop, stop!” Rob held up his hand. “I want to know what you were wearing!”
“Ah, yes,” said Chloë, conscious it hadn’t been the Whistles suit. “That, um, crisscross turquoise top, black lace skirt, and my Miu Miu sandals?”
“The crisscross top that makes your boobs appear the best in Christendom?”
“The very same.”
“Shit. You’re irresistible in that. Almost enough to turn me straight. Jesus, woman, you are so naughty! I warned you, dress like you mean
“That would be great.”
“Obviously James can recommend ideas,” Vanessa explained, “though it’s me you’d be working with, should we decide to take on the project.” Chloë understood the subtext: You might be in with James, but you’ll have to win me over too . It was Vanessa’s job to handle the day-to-day business of launching new titles. “How about lunch next week, say, Tuesday?”
“Lovely.”
“I’ll call you that morning and we’ll arrange somewhere then.”
When Vanessa had hung up, Chloë couldn’t help but wonder what James had said about her. Presumably it was good or Vanessa wouldn’t have phoned. And she must have been on his mind for him to contact Vanessa in the first place.
Is he as hungover as I am? she wondered. Will he ever call me again? I doubt it—surely he’ll only be able to get away like that for one night. So I presume our relationship will be purely business from now on. Will having had sex affect his professional dealings with me? I hope not … Will he tell his wife? Chloë felt a pang of remorse at the prospect. Of course he won’t, she told herself. Though she might find out anyway. Some women just know. Horrors—what if she comes by and confronts me? Worse, if she confronts me at the office, in front of Patsy, Vanessa, Jean, and everyone! Imagine if James is so bowled over he decides to leave Maggie at once—and turns up on my doorstep later tonight with a suitcase and hangdog expression …
Chloë’s mind was in overdrive. She wanted to call him, but what would she say? And with Patsy tip-tapping away right by her—not to mention all the other complications—she knew that it would be foolish in the extreme. For once she must curb her inclinations to talk about anything, although she was itching to confide in someone. It would have to wait until she got home. There she knew she could offload it all on Rob. So, once she’d clarified that he was going to be in, she put her whirling thoughts on hold and busied herself sorting through her pending tray.
* * *
Back at the apartment, Rob and Chloë curled up on the sofa with the cat snuggled in a half-moon in his favorite spot between them, and waited for the delivery of a fifteen-inch extra crunchy supreme pizza.
“Well,” said Rob, “was that you I heard crashing around the hall in the small hours? Either you were so pissed you were making enough noise for two or you had a man with you. Please tell me it was the former.”
Chloë jerked her head toward the TV. “I think we’d better record this program.”
“Oh, my God! That means trouble! You did, didn’t you? You brought him back here! Oh, Lord! You actually slept with him?”
“Yes,” admitted Chloë.
“So…” Rob leaned forward. “Was it good?”
It was one thing she loved about Rob—he was very nonjudgmental. Perhaps it was because his own behavior was pretty reprehensible at times that his moral code was so flexible.
“The best,” sighed Chloë.
“OOOH!” shrieked Rob. “This warrants a glass of wine.” He virtually skipped into the kitchen. Sex, scandalous sex, forbidden sex—he was in his element. “Want one?”
“I couldn’t.” Chloë shook her head. “But you go ahead.”
Once Rob had settled back down with his glass and Chloë had set the recorder, she began. “So we met at this little restaurant on Lexington Street—”
“Stop, stop!” Rob held up his hand. “I want to know what you were wearing!”
“Ah, yes,” said Chloë, conscious it hadn’t been the Whistles suit. “That, um, crisscross turquoise top, black lace skirt, and my Miu Miu sandals?”
“The crisscross top that makes your boobs appear the best in Christendom?”
“The very same.”
“Shit. You’re irresistible in that. Almost enough to turn me straight. Jesus, woman, you are so naughty! I warned you, dress like you mean
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