Dating Game

by Danielle Steel

  “I'm very impressed. This is quite an office.”

  “Thank you. I've only worked here for about five minutes.” She didn't want to take credit for it. Bix had done all the decoration himself.

  “How so?”

  “I moved out from Greenwich, Connecticut, less than two weeks ago. This is only my second week in the

  job.”

  “You look like you've been here forever.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled.

  “Shall we go?” he said with a wide smile. He had perfect teeth, and looked like a toothpaste ad on TV. He was an incredibly good-looking man. It was impossible not to notice, and she felt flattered somehow that he was taking her out.

  She followed him down the stairs and out to his car, and seconds later the silver Ferrari roared off. “Where are we going?” she asked nervously, and he smiled at her.

  “I'd like to tell you I'm kidnapping you, but I'm not. I know you're pressed for time, so we're going very nearby.” He took her to a tiny Italian restaurant in a Victorian house, with a garden out back, only blocks from her office. “This is one of the city's best-kept secrets.” And the owners seemed to know him well. “I go out to lunch a lot,” he explained, “and I hate to get stuck inside.” The weather was even warmer than the week before. Spring had arrived.

  The waiter offered her a glass of wine, and she asked for iced tea instead. Chandler had a Bloody Mary, and they ordered salads and pasta for lunch. And the food was extremely good. Somewhere, halfway through lunch, as he chatted with her, she started to relax. He was actually a very interesting man, and he seemed like a nice guy.

  “How long have you been divorced?” he asked her finally, as she realized she was going to be hearing this question a lot. Maybe she should hand out leaflets with all the details.

  “Two months. I've been separated for nine.” She didn't offer any further information. For now at least, it was none of his business. She didn't owe him any explanations.

  “How long were you married?”

  “Twenty-four years,” she said simply, and he winced.

  “Ouch. That must have hurt.”

  “A lot,” she said, and smiled, and turned the tables on him. She wanted information too. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” he asked with an evasive smile.

  “Same questions. How long have you been divorced? How long were you married?” She was learning the ropes.

  “I was married for twelve years. I've been divorced for fourteen.”

  “That's a long time,” she commented, thinking about it.

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed.

  “You've never remarried?” Maybe he was hiding one from her, but not if Bix was right.

  “Nope. I haven't.”

  “Why not?”

  “Never found the right woman, I guess.” Oh shit. Maybe Bix was right. “Or maybe being single has just been too much fun till now. I was thirty-four when I got divorced. And I was pretty badly burned. My wife ran off with my best friend. It was a lousy trick. Turns out they'd been having an affair for three years before she left. Things like that happen, but it hurts like hell when they happen to you.” More data. The ex-wife as supreme bitch. And slut.

  “That sounds pretty rough,” she said sympathetically, but he no longer looked upset. It had been a long time. Maybe too long. “Do you have kids?”

  “One. My son is twenty-seven, lives in New York, and has two little girls. I'm a grandfather, which I still have trouble believing sometimes. But the girls are awfully cute. They're two and four. With another one on the way.” At forty-eight and as good-looking as he was, he didn't look like a grandfather to her.

  They chatted about other things then, traveling and favorite cities, languages they spoke and wished they did. Paris spoke a smattering of French. Chandler said he was fluent in Spanish. He had lived in Buenos Aires for two years as a young man. Favorite restaurants in New York. He even asked about her name, which had always seemed silly to her. Her parents had honeymooned in Paris, and had conceived her there. So they had named her after their favorite city. He said it was exotic and looked properly amused. With a practiced hand, he kept the conversation light. He was good company, and on the way back to the office in the Ferrari, he told her he flew his own plane, with a copilot of course. It was a G4. And he offered to take her up in it sometime. He told her when he dropped her off that he'd love to see her again, maybe they could have dinner later that week, and she told him that she had to work. He just smiled, and kissed her on the cheek before he left. And then in a roar from the engine, he sped away as Paris walked up the stairs. Bix was doing sketches at his desk.

  “Well?”

  “I think you're right. I don't even know why I went. I don't want to date. So what's the point?”

  “Practice for when you grow up. You will one day. Unless you want to be a nun.”

  “It's a thought.”

  “So?”

  “He was married for twelve years, has been divorced for fourteen. And he just hasn't met the right woman to make him want to marry again. How do you like that?”

  “I don't,” Bix said, looking cool. After knowing her for a week, he already felt protective of her. She needed it, more than anyone he knew. And he wanted to do that for her. She was a babe in the woods. And by all rights she should still have been happily married in Greenwich, but she wasn't. Thanks to Peter. Who had Rachel. Now Bix wanted her to have someone too.

  “He has one son, and two granddaughters and another one on the way. He lived in Buenos Aires for two years. And he flies his own plane. Oh, and his wife had an affair with his best friend while they were married, and ran off with him, hence the divorce. And that was about it.”

  “Very good.” Bix smiled at her. “Did you take notes, or did you remember all that?”

  “I recorded it on a device in my shoe,” she said, grinning. “So what do you think? My shrink says it doesn't matter if he's a shit, he could introduce me to his friends.”

  “Who are probably shits too. Professional daters stick together. They hate married couples, they think

  they're bourgeois and dumb.”

  “Oh. So? Is he? A professional dater, I mean.”

  “Maybe. Be careful. Did he ask you out again?”

  “He suggested dinner later this week. I said I had to work.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Sort of. He's interesting and intelligent, and very sophisticated. I just don't know if he's nice.”

  “Neither do I, that's what you have to watch. Give him a chance, but a very small one. Protect yourself, Paris. That's what counts.”

  “This is a lot of work.”

  “But it's worth it. Unless you want to be a nun.”

  “I'll give it some thought.”

  “The habits are ugly these days, remember that. No more Audrey Hepburn and Ingrid Bergman in flowing robes. They're short and polyester, and the hairdos suck.” She laughed, shook her head, and went back to her desk. And later that afternoon Chandler sent her flowers. Two dozen red roses, with a note. “Thanks for taking the time off from work. I had a great lunch. See you soon. CF.” Bixby looked at the flowers and read the note and shook his head.

  “He's a pro. Nice roses though.” Bixby was tough on her behalf. She sent Chandler a thank-you note and forgot about him. For the rest of the week, in anticipation of Valentine's Day, they were swamped. Every client they had wanted to send someone something creative, even if it was their mother, or their sister in Des Moines. And the romantic ones were the worst. He had to come up with some stroke of genius for each one of them, but he always did. And they still had two parties to work on.

  On Thursday Chandler called again. And asked her for dinner on Saturday night.

  “I'm sorry, Chandler, I can't. I have to work.”

  “Do you know what day that is?” he asked pointedly.

  “Yes, I do. Valentine's Day. But I still have to work.” If she hadn't been in this business now
, she would have been trying to forget. She was glad she'd be working. She and Peter always went out to dinner, and had the year before, although he'd been seeing Rachel, she knew now. She wondered how he'd handled that. However he had at the time, he had taken care of it permanently in May. This year he'd be with Rachel.

  “What time will you finish work?”

  “Late. Probably around eleven.” She was working a small dinner, and according to the house rule, could leave when the guests sat down. She was giving herself leeway when she said eleven. And trying to discourage him.

  “I can wait until then. How about midnight supper with me?”

  She hesitated a long beat, not sure what she was doing. She did not want to date. But she was talking about it to him as though she might. She didn't know what to do. He was backing her into it. And she was allowing it to happen. But there was something about him that was very appealing.

  “I don't know, Chandler,” she said honestly. “I don't think I'm ready for that. Valentine's Day is a big deal.”

  “We'll make it a small one. I understand. I've been there too.”

  “Why me?” she asked plaintively, and he sounded very gentle when he answered.

  “Because I think you're terrific. I haven't met anyone like you in fourteen years.” It was a heavy statement, and what's worse, he sounded as though he meant it. She had no idea what to say.

  “You ought to go out with someone who doesn't have to work.”

  “I'd rather go out with you. Why don't we say midnight? We'll do something simple and not scary. And if you finish earlier, you can call me. We'll do something easy like a hamburger. No pressure. No memories. Just good friends on a silly day.” He made it sound palatable, and she was tempted to accept. “Why don't you think about it, and I'll call you tomorrow. How does that sound?”

  “Okay,” she said weakly, somewhat under his spell. He was so reasonable and so easy and so convincing, he was hard to resist.

  And although she thought about it that night, she had come to no decision. She half wanted to see him and half didn't. And when he called her on Friday morning, she was busy and distracted, and before she knew it, she'd agreed. She said she'd call him after the party, when she finished, and they would go out for hamburgers in jeans. It was the perfect solution for Valentine's Day. She didn't have to be alone, but she wasn't going to have a romantic dinner either. And that suited her just fine.

  As it turned out, they sat down to dinner at nine o'clock at the dinner she was working. She left at nine-thirty, and he picked her up at ten, in jeans, as promised. She was wearing jeans and a red cashmere sweater and an old white duffel coat she'd had for years.

  “You look like a Valentine, Cinderella,” he said, smiling at her, as he kissed her on the cheek, and they were halfway through dinner at a quiet restaurant he'd chosen, when he pushed a small box toward her, and two cards. She didn't have anything for him.

  “What's that?” she asked, looking embarrassed. From the pink and red envelopes, it was easy to see what they were. They were Valentines for her, and when she opened them, they were funny and very cute. And in the wrapped box there was a small heart-shaped silver box filled with candy conversation hearts. It was a very thoughtful gift. “Thank you, Chandler, that was very sweet. I don't have anything for you.”

  “You don't have to. You came to dinner with me. That's enough.” He looked as though he meant it, and she was very touched. It was an easy evening. She was home at midnight, and when he walked her to her door, he kissed her chastely on the cheek.

  “Thank you, it was perfect,” she said, and meant it. She hadn't felt uncomfortable or pressured. And he'd been very good company.

  “That's how I wanted it to be. What are you doing tomorrow? Can I talk you into a walk on the beach?” She hesitated for a moment and then nodded. “Great. I'll pick you up at two.”

  And when he did, they were both wearing running shoes and jeans. They spent two hours walking on the beach and Crissy Field, all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a glorious afternoon with a gentle breeze. She had worn her hair down, and he looked at her admiringly as her long blond hair flew in the wind. And when he brought her home, she invited him upstairs for a drink. She drank iced tea as usual, and he had a glass of white wine, as he admired the view.

  “I love your place,” he said pleasantly.

  “So do I,” she said, as she joined him on the couch. She was beginning to feel comfortable with him. “I can't wait for my furniture to arrive.” It was due in another week.

  They sat there for an hour, talking about their children, and why their marriages had gone awry. He said he had probably taken his wife for granted and been too cavalier.

  “I guess I trusted her too much,” he said calmly. “I just assumed I could.”

  “You have to be able to trust someone, Chandler.”

  “I don't think I have since. I guess that's why I'm not married.”

  “You have to trust the right person.”

  “Did you trust him?” he asked, looking hard at her, and she nodded. “What did you learn from that?”

  “That even people you love make mistakes. People change their minds. They fall out of love. It happens, I guess. It's just bad luck that it happened to me.”

  “You're very naïve. Luck doesn't make things like that happen, or it would have happened to you and me too. I didn't cheat on her. You didn't cheat on him. Did you?” Paris shook her head, that was true. “So maybe the correct conclusion is that he wasn't trustworthy. My guess is that he's not as decent as you think. That wasn't an accident. He let it happen, just like my wife did. Maybe he even pursued it, with total disregard for what it would do to you. That didn't matter to him.”

  “I don't think it's as simple as that,” she said fairly. “I think things happen, and people get tangled up in relationships they can't get out of. They get confused. And people change. Peter did. He said he was bored with me.”

  “Boredom is part of marriage. If you get married, you have to expect to be bored.”

  “Not always,” she said, hearing Bix's words ring in her head. Professional daters think married people are boring and bourgeois. “I wasn't bored.”

  “Maybe you didn't know you were. I'll bet your life is a lot more interesting now,” he said with a smile as he took a sip of his wine. He had very definite ideas.

  “In some ways,” Paris conceded. “But this isn't what I'd have chosen to do with my life. I was happy the way things were.”

  “I'll bet a year from now you'll be happy he left.” That concept was inconceivable to her. She knew that whatever happened, she would never be happy Peter left. All she would have wanted was to stay married to him. But since she couldn't have that, she was willing to acknowledge the blessings in her new life. But even now they were second best, and she suspected they would always be.

  Chandler stayed until six o'clock, and then he left. He said he was going to L.A. in his plane the next day, and he would call her when he got back. And the next morning, she had flowers from him again.

  “I see Mr. Freeman is in hot pursuit,” Bixby commented drily as he came into her office to go over some sketches for a wedding they were doing in June. “Having fun?”

  “I think so,” she said cautiously, but she wasn't sure. He was easy and pleasant and very charming, but under the surface there was something bitter and angry. He had a chip on his shoulder the size of his ex-wife.

  It was Thursday before she heard from him again, and by then he was in New York. He had business there, and said he wouldn't be home till Sunday night, not that she cared. But it had been thoughtful of him to call. And the following week he called her, and asked if she'd like to go to L.A. with him, on his plane. She hesitated, but only for an instant. She had no intention of going away with him, or more specifically, sleeping with him. She wasn't ready to cross that bridge yet. And as delicately as she could, she said as much to him, and he laughed.

  “I know that, silly. I was planni
ng to get two rooms at the Bel-Air. I wanted to take you to one of the pre-Grammy parties with me. I have a friend in the music business, and he invites me to come down every year. It's quite a show. Would you like to come?”

  She hesitated and then realized she could see Meg. She could have seen her anyway, if she went down on her own. But she had to admit that the party he was suggesting sounded like fun.

  “I'm not sure I can get the time off from work. Let me talk to Bixby, and I'll let you know.” She wasn't sure what she wanted to do about it, but she was stalling for time. And that afternoon she asked Bixby about it when she was sitting in his office working with him.

  “I can spare you for a day, if that's what you want,” he said generously. “Are you sure you want to go?”

  “No, I'm not,” she said, looking as confused as she felt. “He's a nice man, but I'm not ready to sleep with him or anyone,” she admitted candidly. “He said he'd get me my own room. It might be fun. I don't know.”

  “Hell, Paris, why not?” Bixby said with a grin. “I'd like to go too.”

  “Then you go with him,” Paris teased.

  “Wouldn't he be surprised?” Bixby laughed. “Was he all right about your having your own room?” He was curious.

  “He seemed to be,” she said pensively.

  “He sounds pretty smooth.” It was precisely what Bixby didn't like about him. He sounded like a pro to him.

  By the end of the afternoon she called Chandler, and taking a deep breath, she said she'd go with him. He said they were going to fly down Friday morning. The party he was inviting her to was that night. And fortunately, by sheer luck, Bixby didn't have any major events scheduled for that weekend. Just a small dinner party Sydney Harrington was catering for them, and she would handle that on her own. The following weekend they were doing a huge wedding, and Paris couldn't have gone to L.A.

  Paris called Meg that night and told her she was coming down. She said she didn't know what their plans were for the rest of the weekend, but she was going to find time to see Meg whenever she could. She was planning to tell Chandler that too.