Danielle Steel - Bittersweet

“Oh shit,” she said, as she listened to him, she had to admit it sounded tempting. Maybe she could sell it to Doug on the wedding. But the story that excited her was the one about ten-year-old prostitutes, it was an outrage, and she would have loved to expose it. “Why do you call me with these things, Raoul? You're going to destroy my marriage.” She sighed as she said it.

“I call you because I love you, and you're the best there is. Look what you did in Harlem.”

“That was different, it was an hour away on the train, and I could get home in time to fix my kids dinner.”

“I'll hire a cook for you while you're gone. I'll cook for them myself, but, India, please don't say no to me again. You've got to do this.” He was desperate for her and she could hear it, and she was excited about the stories.

“When is it?” she asked, sounding worried. Maybe if she had a little time she could talk Doug into it, or plead with him, or promise to shine his shoes forever if he'd let her do it. She was dying to do the story and she didn't want to turn Raoul down again.

“It's in three weeks,” he said, pretending to sound vague, as she calculated.

“Three weeks?” She worked the dates out again, and frowned as she came out at the same place she had the first time. “That's Thanksgiving.”

“More or less,” he said, still praying she'd do it.

“What do you mean ‘more or less’? Is it Thanksgiving, or isn't it?”

“All right, all right. It's the Thanksgiving weekend, but you'd have to be there on Thursday. There are two huge events right before the wedding, and all the heads of state will be there, including the President and the First Lady. You could have turkey with them, or better yet, take one with you.”

“I hate you. This is not funny. Doug is going to kill you.”

“I'm going to kill him if he doesn't let you do it. India, you have to. Look, do me a favor and think about it. Call me back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Are you crazy? You're giving me one night to tell my husband that I'm leaving him and my children for Thanksgiving? What are you trying to do to me?”

“I'm trying to save you from a boring life, and a husband who doesn't appreciate your talent. Not to mention a bunch of kids, however cute they may be, who don't deserve to have the use of one of the most talented photographers in the world as their personal cook and chauffeur. Give me a break here, India. I need it. So do you. Just do this one for me.”

“I'll see what I can do,” she said somberly. “I'll call you tomorrow … or the day after. If I'm still alive then.”

“I love you.” He was beaming, and praying she would do it. She would be perfect for both jobs. “Thanks, India. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Just remember to feel guilty when they find my body dumped in the shopping mall in Westport.”

“Tell him to grow up and realize who he married. He can't keep you locked up forever.”

“No, but he's trying. I'll call you.” She stood in the kitchen for a long minute when she hung up, and realized she was actually shaking. She was terrified to say anything to Doug, but she was as excited about the assignments as Raoul was, particularly the tough one. But the wedding would be fun too. She was dying to do it. But how was she ever going to tell Doug? She sat down on a stool to think about it, and then headed out to the market.

She bought all the foods he liked best, and was going to make him a fabulous dinner that night. Even a little caviar. She was going to make all her specialties and his favorites, and serve him wine, and then they would talk …and he'd kill her. But at least she could try it.

Doug was thrilled when he came home that night, and saw what she was making. She had bought a Chateaubriand, and she was making his favorite pepper-corn-and-mustard sauce, baked potatoes, French-cut string beans, stuffed mushrooms, and smoked salmon with caviar to start with. And when he sat down to dinner with her and the kids, he felt like he'd died and gone to heaven.

“Did you smash the car up today, Mom?” Jason asked her casually, ladling sour cream into his baked potato.

“Of course not,” she said, looking startled by the question. “Why would you ask that?”

“It sure is a great dinner. I figured you'd done something that would make Dad mad. Really mad,” he corrected, glancing at the caviar.

“Don't be silly.” But he was very clever, more so than his father, who had no suspicions whatsoever. He was sitting comfortably in his favorite chair, looking lazy and sated after dinner. She had made chocolate mousse for dessert, with Mexican Wedding Cookies, his favorite. It was anything but subtle.

“What a dinner!” He smiled as she came to sit next to him in the living room after cleaning up. The kids were all upstairs doing homework. “What did I ever do to deserve that?”

“You married me,” she said, sitting on a little stool near his feet, and praying that the gods would be kind to her on this one. Just this once. Just one time. She was prepared to beg him. She was dying to go to London, even if it was over Thanksgiving.

“I guess I just got lucky,” he said, leaning back in the chair and rubbing his stomach.

“So did I,” she said sweetly. It was the friendliest exchange they'd had since the summer. But not without an ulterior motive this time. “Doug …” She looked up at him then, and in an instant he knew that it was a setup. There was blood lust in her eyes, and he couldn't help wondering what it would take to satisfy it.

“Uh-oh,” he laughed, still amused by it. “Was Jason right? Did you smash up the car, or someone else's?”

“My driving record is intact, your insurance is unchallenged, and the car is in perfect order. You can check it.”

“Get arrested for shoplifting, maybe?”

“Now, there's a thought.” She decided to get it over with. She had to. And she had to call Raoul tomorrow, or the next day. “I got a call today,” she confessed.

“From whom?” He knitted his brows as he listened. It was like asking her father if she could go on a date at fourteen, only ten times harder and more scary. A hundred times maybe. She knew only too well how Doug felt about this.

“Raoul,” she said simply.

“Not that again.” He sat up in his chair and glared down at her on the footstool.

“Just listen. It's the most civilized job they have ever offered me, and they wanted a ‘lady’ to do it.” She had already decided not to tell him about the prostitution ring in the West End. He would never let her do that, even if it was in London. But maybe the wedding …”Someone terribly important is marrying into the British Royal Family, and they want someone to cover it. All the heads of state will be there, and the crowned heads of Europe, and the President and First Lady….”

“And you won't be,” he said firmly. “They can get any photographer to do that.”

“But they want me, or Raoul does. Doug …please … I'd love to do it.”

“I thought we already went through this. How often are we going to have to fight this battle, India? This is why I told you to get your name off his roster. He's just going to keep calling. Stop torturing me over it, and yourself. You have kids …you have responsibilities …you just can't run out the door and forget about that.”

“Doug, we are talking about a week. One week. That's all. The kids are not going to commit suicide because I'm not here on Thanksgiving.” And with that, she looked panicked as she said it. She hadn't meant to tell him that part until later. But it was all out now, at least as much as she was going to tell him.

“I can't believe this. You're asking me if you can leave us for Thanksgiving? What do you expect me to do, cook the turkey?”