John looked more than a little startled for a moment, in fact he looked thunderstruck and uncomfortable, and then graciously stood up, acknowledged Fiona, and politely introduced her to his date. He looked supremely ill at ease as the two women shook hands.

“Elizabeth Williams, Fiona Monaghan.” The two women checked each other out, and there was instant recognition in the eyes of the blonde. She had obviously heard about Fiona, and she looked slightly discomfited by the long red hair and good legs. Fiona looked like a model, and ten years younger than she was. She was the kind of woman who would have made any other woman nervous, knowing the man she was involved with had slept with her, or worse yet been in love with her. But John had left her after all, not the reverse. So he was not carrying a torch for her, as far as Fiona was concerned.

“Nice to see you, John,” Fiona said pleasantly, after acknowledging the woman he was having dinner with. She hadn't paid much attention to her name. More than anything, she was a type, and exactly whom Fiona would have expected to see with John. She was precisely who and what Fiona had predicted he would end up with, and apparently he had. And he looked well. She suddenly wanted to tell him about her book and her new agent, but it seemed a little foolish doing so, so she refrained.

“How've you been?” he asked, as though they had been old tennis partners that had drifted out of sight in the last year, or as though the only contact they had ever had was through their work.

“Wonderful. I'm living in Paris,” she said, but even after not seeing him for a year, or being in his life for longer than that, she could feel her heart begin to pound. Much to her chagrin, even after all this time, the magic wasn't gone. She wasn't healed. But he clearly was. He knew she had left the magazine, and thought she had gone to Paris for a few months, he didn't realize she had actually moved. “I just sold my house,” and wrote a book! she nearly screamed. But she was demure and reserved. He nodded, and without saying more, she moved on and sat down. She hoped Adrian would come soon.

As luck would have it, it took him another half an hour to get there, and she was ready to have a nervous breakdown by the time he arrived, although she looked sophisticated, poised, and cool, as she made some notes on a pad, and never even glanced at John. She forced herself to look at ease and unconcerned.

“Did you see who's sitting there?” she whispered to Adrian through clenched teeth, as he sat across from her, with his back to John.

“Is it someone fabulous?” he asked, as she warned him not to turn around and look.

“Used to be,” she whispered. “It's John. He's with some blond debutante, who looked like she wanted to kill me.”

“He's with a young girl?” Adrian looked surprised, that had never seemed to be John's thing.

“No, she's older than I am, I think. Just that type.”

“Are you okay?” he asked solicitously.

“No.” She felt as if she were about to cry, but she would have died first, and she felt sick. “This is hard.” She had used every ounce of control and discipline she had to maintain the charade of indifference until Adrian arrived.

“I know it is.” She had given up a life, a job, a city, a house, and a country over him, just to get over him. Seeing him again was bound to be a bitch. “Do you want to leave?” Adrian whispered sympathetically. He wouldn't blame her if she did.

“I'll look like a fool… or a wimp.…” She foughtback tears, but no one would have guessed it in a million years.

“Okay. Then sit there and smile. Laugh your ass off. Pretend I'm amusing you to death. Come on… that's it… give me some teeth, Fiona… more… I want you to pretend that you've never been happier in your life.” He was right.

“What if I throw up?”

“I'll kill you if you do. Where did you get that dress, by the way? It's to die for.” Leave it to Adrian to notice her dress at a time like this. She smiled genuinely as she answered.

“Didier Ludot. It's vintage Dior couture, from the sixties. It barely covers my ass.”

“Good. I hope he got a good look, and feels as sick as you do, over what he gave up.” As he said it, Fiona looked surprised.

“I thought you thought it was all my fault, because of the compromises and adjustments I didn't make.”

“I never said that,” Adrian corrected her, and she looked incensed.

“Yes, you did.”

“I'm your friend, Fiona. I tell you when I think you're wrong. That's what friends do. I'm always honest with you. So I told you I thought you should adjust to him. But I think he is a chickenshit sonofabitch for throwing in the towel and walking out in a matter of months. You should have done a lot of things differently, and could have if you wanted to, like empty your closets for him, and keep the chaos to a minimum. But he should have kicked his kids’ asses, fired his housekeeper, and killed his dog, and stuck with the greatest woman that ever lived. He was a damn fool.” Fiona looked stunned and pleased. He had never told her how sorry he felt for her, or how angry he was at John. She had been in such bad shape, he had tried to underplay the damage to her, and minimize it, so she would have the guts to get back on her feet. He had always feared that too much sympathy would give her permission to fall apart and stay that way. Instead, she pulled herself together remarkably.

“You really think so?” She felt vindicated finally, and wished he had told her before. His respect made a huge difference to her, as much as his empathy.

“Of course I do. You weren't the only one to blame. You were silly, and even stupid at times, and you should have given me Jamal then. A guy like John can't deal with eccentric bullshit like that. You needed to be less Holly Golightly and more Audrey Hepburn, and you look like her in that dress by the way.” He could afford to be honest with her now. She was fine. Better than fine. She was great, even if the wounds still hurt. But she had survived.

“Which one do I look like?” she teased, but she liked what he had just said.

“Miss Hepburn, of course.”

“I always thought that you thought it was all my fault.”

“Of course not. He damn near destroyed your life, for chrissake. First he talks you into marrying him, and then he dumps you, because you have a crazy house man, too many clothes in your closets, and his kids are two raving bitches. A lot of that, maybe even most of it, wasn't your fault. I think you were just too much for him, Fiona. You scared him to death.” They both knew that was true.

“Yeah, I think I did. And he made a deal with his girls.”

“That sucks. You can't let kids blackmail you into giving up someone you love. He fell in love with who you are, in all your glory, and then he ran like a scared rabbit because you weren't Heidi. Please. The guy has no balls.” Adrian looked annoyed, and Fiona laughed.

“I guess that tells it like it is.” He was making this chance meeting with John much easier for her. And she was looking more relaxed by the minute. She was almost glowing. And John saw it. Or at least Adrian hoped so.

“He should have stuck it out and worked it out. Speaking of which, now that you're about to become a famous author, what are you going to do about your life?”

“What life?” She looked blank. She had almost forgotten that John was sitting two tables away with the WASP of his dreams.

“That's exactly my point. You don't have a life. You're too young to give it all up. Look at you, you're the best-looking woman in this restaurant. You don't need to be the editor of Chic magazine to have a life. You have to start getting out.”

“You mean like dating? No way.” She looked horrified at the thought.

“Don't give me that,” Adrian scolded her. “You need to meet people in Paris. Go to dinner. Have lunch. Never mind dating, if you're not ready. But for chrissake, once in a while at least, leave your house.”

“Why? I'm happy writing.” And she was about to start another book.

“You're wasting your life, and you'll be sorry when you get old. You're not going to look like that forever. Go out and have some fun. Otherwise, why live in Paris?”

“I can smoke.”

“I'm going to come over and drag you out, if you don't do something about it soon. You're becoming a recluse.”

“No, I already am one,” she said, looking confident and incredibly glamorous. There was something about Fiona that no other woman had, and from where he sat two tables away, John had seen it too. She had guts, panache, and style, along with looks that took his breath away. And Elizabeth Williams was not pleased. John had been trying not to look at Fiona since she sat down, but her pull was more powerful than he was, he kept glancing at her. She looked like she was having a terrific time. She had never looked at him once since she sat down.

“You never told me she was that beautiful,” Elizabeth said plaintively, “and so young. I thought you said she was in her forties.”

“She is. She just looks good for her age. Looking good is her business. She runs a fashion magazine, or she used to.” He had always wondered why she quit. He had heard rumors of health problems, and had no idea if it was true. She looked healthy enough to him. He wondered if she just got bored with her job. The coincidence of timing had never occurred to him. Sometimes men just weren't very smart about things like that. It never dawned on John that she had quit her job because of him.

“She's a very pretty girl,” Elizabeth conceded through clenched teeth, and then went on to complain about all the problems she was having with the Junior League fashion show. Anyone but Elizabeth would have realized that John looked bored. She loved to hear herself talk.