Danielle Steel - Second Chance

He looked instantly worried for her. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“It could be. Adrian, I need closet space. I don't have room for so much as a hankie in my closets.”

“Is he moving in?” Adrian looked impressed. This was quick. But that's how things happened sometimes. And this had.

“Sort of. For the summer. Till his housekeeper gets back. I swear, if he brings over so much as a pair of pajamas, I'm screwed. I looked in every closet last night. My fur coats are in the guest room, my summer stuff's upstairs. My evening gowns, nightgowns, office clothes—hell, Adrian, I have more stuff than a store. I don't have room for a guy.”

“You'd better find some fast. Guys don't like digging their boxers out of your pantyhose drawer, or fighting through your evening gowns to dress for work. If he doesn't cross-dress, you have a serious problem.”

“He doesn't.”

“You're screwed. Sell your clothes.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You have to figure something out.”

“I have to figure something out? Do I look like the closet police? He's not moving in with me, he's moving in with you.”

“What would you do? You have as much junk as I do.”

“How about renting one of those nice trailers and parking it on the sidewalk for your clothes?” He was vastly amused by her dilemma, but they both knew it was a nice one to have.

“You're not funny.”

“No, but you are. Just toss all your stuff out of one closet, and maybe dump it in the guest room, or put it on rolling racks, and push it around the house.”

“Great idea.” She looked relieved. “Do me a favor, go to Gracious Home at lunchtime and buy me a bunch of racks. Have someone take them to the house. I'll tell Jamal to set them up in the guest room, and I'll just empty a closet for him tonight.”

“Perfect. See, people make a huge mistake. They think the challenge in relationships comes from sex or money. That's absolutely not true. It comes from closets. I had to ask my last lover to move out. It was him or my Blahniks. I felt terrible about it, but in the end, I was more attached to my shoes.” She knew him better than that, and also knew that his last lover had cheated on him, and Adrian had been heartbroken and thrown him out and cried for weeks. He was a decent guy, and the boyfriend hadn't been. He had damn near broken Adrian's heart.

“You're a genius. Just get me the racks. I'll try and get home early and start emptying a closet for him. I feel so stupid to have so much stuff.”

“You'd feel dumber in our line of work if you were badly dressed. Let's be real here.”

“All right, so we're shallow, terribly spoiled people. And you're right. Maybe I'll rent an apartment for my clothes and just switch seasons. That way I'll only need half the closets.”

“See if the relationship works first. How is it, by the way? I assume it must be okay if you're letting him move in with you.”

“He's not moving in,” she corrected him. “He is staying with me for the summer.”

“Sorry, ‘staying with you.’ Things must be pretty good. No one has ‘stayed with you’ in years.” Adrian reminded her of what she knew already.

“I figured no one ever would again. I thought it was me and Sir Winston for eternity, or as long as we both shall live.”

“One of you is going to live longer than the other in that relationship. And considering Sir Winston's age and heart problems, I hope it's you.” She nodded, sobered by the comment. She liked to believe that Sir Winston would live forever. Adrian figured she'd be lucky if she got another year or two out of him, if that. He had already had a couple of close calls. He just hoped, for Fiona's sake, that sharing her with a two-legged admirer wouldn't push Sir Winston over the edge.

Having solved her most pressing problems of the hour, Adrian and Fiona got to work. He brought her up to date on all the follow-up from Paris. She had a general staff meeting set for eleven o'clock, which, as it turned out, went till two. She spent the rest of the afternoon catching up, looking at shots of the couture, and checking on schedules and details for shoots. They were insanely busy. They had just closed October and were starting on November. And in another month they were going to be up to their ears in Christmas, which was always a big issue. And Fiona was disappointed to discover that two of her favorite junior editors had quit while she was away and had already left. Adrian had hired replacements for them while she was gone.

She was startled to realize there was a major shoot scheduled for later that week with Brigitte Lacombe. And an even more complicated one with Mario Testino over the weekend. It was going to be a totally insane week. Welcome home.

But in spite of everything happening, she managed to leave the office by six o'clock and almost flew home. Adrian had sent someone out for the racks for her, and Jamal had set them up in the guest room, although she didn't discover until they collapsed twice with all her evening gowns on them that he had set them up wrong. He had been holding the diagram upside down. And he helped her get them right.

“You must really like this guy,” Jamal commented, as she picked all her evening gowns up off the floor for the third time and put them on the rack. She had taken all of two minutes to kiss and hug Sir Winston, and he had given her the cold shoulder. He did not like going to “camp,” and whenever he did, he took it out on her for weeks afterward. She was in the doghouse. And he was stretched out on her bed, snoring loudly.

“He's a great guy,” she said about John, as she added some of her beach clothes to the rack, and about a dozen nightgowns. By the time she was through, she had made space in about a third of one closet for him to hang suits, and there was room for about four or five pairs of shoes on the floor. And she had freed up two drawers. It didn't look like much, but it had taken her two hours to do it. John had called at seven and explained that he had gotten held up at the office, he hadn't gotten to the apartment yet, and hoped to be home by nine. And if she wanted him to, he would bring pizza and wine. She said it was okay, she would make them a salad and an omelette, which he said sounded good to him. She smiled to herself as she hung up, it felt wonderful being domestic with him.

Jamal had left by then, and she scouted through her closets again, looking for things to remove. She finally managed to part with a couple of ski parkas she rarely used, and the big down coat she wore when it snowed. They took up a lot of room, but translated into closet space, she suspected it would give him room for only two or three more suits. Closet space seemed to be harder to find than gold. And she would rather dig the gold out of her teeth than give up a whole closet to him. That was asking a lot, no matter how much she loved him.

She sat down on the bed next to Sir Winston then, and he looked at her, moaned, and turned around with his back to her. She got the point and went to take a shower before John got home. Everything was different suddenly. Now, instead of lying on the bed at night, looking a mess, and eating tuna fish out of a can, or eating a banana and a rice cake, she had to look decent, maybe even sexy and glamorous, and provide a meal for both of them. But it was fun. And it was only for the summer. It was like playing house. She put on a pale pink silk caftan and gold sandals, and she set the table and made salad. She was planning to do the omelette when he got home.

When he did, at nearly ten o'clock finally, he looked exhausted. Worse than she had when she got home. He was carrying armloads of clothes, which he dragged out of a cab, with two shopping bags full of belts, ties, underwear, and socks. He looked as if he were moving in, and for a fraction of a second, her heart gave a flutter. And then she instantly remembered how lucky she was and how much she loved him. When he kissed her, it reminded her, and he dropped all his belongings on the floor of the front hall. After he kissed her, he looked around expectantly and asked, “Where's the dog?… sorry… the boy… the man… your friend… you know, Sir Winston?” He had to remember to get it right. Every time he said the d-word, she looked like she'd been slapped. She was a little sensitive on the subject— and apparently, so was the dog.