Sundays at Tiffany's by James Patterson
I’d never noticed any of this before. I remembered Michael looking down at me with love, saying, “You’re a beauty,” and sounding as though he really meant it. Is this what he had meant? Had he seen my mother in my face?
Or maybe he’d thought I was beautiful for myself.
Nah.
Jane! Keep on task! Throwing my shoulders back, I flung open the doors to my walk-in closet, trying not to feel as if there were an eager crowd in there hoping to see me devoured by lions.
Oh God, it was worse than I thought. My panicked eyes took in the sea of beige and black and earth tones. I had nothing remotely sexy or even colorful.
Wait a minute. Wait one minute! What had we here?
Pawing through some out-of-season coats, I spied a couple of retro Chanel cocktail dresses, pushed way to the back. Vivienne (of course) had given them to me back when I was a teenager. I yanked one out and examined it. It looked like something straight out of a 1950s society magazine, hot pink, with a tight, fitted bodice and a full, flared, flirty skirt that stopped right at the knee.
“Some night you’ll be totally bored with everything you own, darling, and you’ll want to wear one of these,” she had said. “Mark my words.”
She’d been right, of course. She’d picked out the perfect thing. She was totally saving my butt (the same butt that hadn’t seen a StairMaster since God knew when).
I put on the dress, loving the silky fabric. Then I couldn’t zip it up.
On a mission now, I dumped out my lingerie drawer onto my bed. Under my sensible bras and full-coverage briefs was a one-piece foundation garment, which, with any luck at all, was made of Kevlar and would do the trick.
I struggled into it.
I put on the dress.
No go with the zipper.
I got a pair of pliers from the kitchen junk drawer. The zipper was no match for them, and the bonus was that the too-tight bodice gave my boobs nowhere to go but up, up, up. As long as I didn’t need to bend down or take deep breaths tonight, I was golden.
The only thing more daring than my decision to wear the pink dress was my decision not to wear a jacket with it. If my arms were a little fleshy, let them be. In the best of worlds and the best of lights, maybe I would look voluptuous.
I couldn’t even bring myself to peek in the full-length mirror in the hall. What if I looked like a fat kid in a Halloween costume? There was no time to change anyway.
I took the elevator to the lobby, and I was off to a good start. The doorman said, “You look lovely tonight, Miss Margaux. Would you like a cab?”
“No thanks. I think I’ll walk.”
I kind of want to be seen for a change.
Twenty-three
I WALKED WEST on 75th Street, then made my way uptown, and for once in my life I felt as though I actually belonged on Fifth Avenue. As I climbed the steps of the Metropolitan Museum, I definitely felt different. My heels clicked rapidly on the stone stairs. I felt exotic, glamorous, womanly. I didn’t feel like Jane.
I spotted Hugh standing at the top, leaning against a column as if posing for a Ralph Lauren ad. His jacket was slung over his shoulder and he was slouching just so, pretending not to notice the many admiring glances sent his way. He stood up straight as soon as he saw me, and his eyes widened.
“My God,” he said, “what have you done with Jane?”
I laughed, pleased that he had noticed, and he kissed me on the cheek. Then lightly on the lips. Then he stood back and examined me again.
“What did you do to yourself?”
“I decided I was tired of you always being the pretty one,” I said flirtatiously, trying on a new behavior as well as a new look.
“You mean, the only pretty one,” Hugh countered, squashing my happiness a bit. He laughed, to soften it, but he just hadn’t been able to resist, had he? No wonder he and Vivienne got along so well.
He took my hand in his, though, and led me toward the grand museum doors. We made a good couple, and I actually fit in with all the well-dressed men and glam women parading into the reception.
I was happy, I looked good, but one disturbing question kept turning over in my mind: Did I really want to go to all this trouble for the rest of my life?
Twenty-four
THAT JACKIE KENNEDY sure knew how to pick out clothes.
Each outfit was more incredible than the last. And with every sip of my apple martini, those dresses of hers grew even more incredible. The sky blue Givenchy. The solid gold Cassini. The beige Chanel daytime suit that would never go out of style.
The best thing that happened to me that night—except for Hugh being amazed at how good I looked—was being greeted by a stone-faced Anna Wintour, editor of Vogue, who said, “You look well, Jane.” High praise indeed.
“My knee is killing me from tennis this morning. Let’s sit down,” Hugh finally said.
So we sat at a tiny cocktail table in the museum’s Great Hall. I wanted to stand, to be seen for once in my life, but on second thought my Jimmy Choos could use a little break.
“I’m going to smoke a cigarette until someone comes and throws water on me,” Hugh said.
Before he had time to light it, I looked up and saw Felicia Weinstein, Hugh’s smarmy, pushy agent, walking toward us. She was arm in arm with Ronnie Morgan, Hugh’s equally sharklike business manager. My eyes widened.
“Jane, look,” said Hugh, all surprised delight. “Felicia and Ronnie! What a coincidence. Hey, why don’t you guys join us? That’s okay, isn’t it, darling?”
I was speechless, but Hugh was already scooting over to make room for his entourage.
With cold humiliation, I realized that I had been set up.
I had practically snapped a wrist getting into my body-slimmer for Hugh’s agent and his manager. I couldn’t believe it. I should have known something was suspicious—Hugh had been on time for once.
“What are they doing here?” I whispered, already feeling a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach. Suddenly my apple martini felt like lead marbles.
“Felicia mentioned they might pop by,” said Hugh.
My eyes narrowed. Felicia was too much—too much hair, too much makeup, actually cracking gum.
“What,” I muttered, disgusted, “d’she leave her pimp outside?”
Hugh gave me a sharp glance but didn’t respond.
As for Ronnie, he had on a Miami Vice T-shirt-and-jacket combo, perfect for “taking a meeting” at Chateau Marmont in Hollywood—in the mid-1980s.
“Fancy meeting you two here,” Ronnie said as he delivered a moist kiss to my cheek.
“Fashion lovers all,” Felicia said, hardly bothering to look at me.
“I’ll get drinks,” Hugh said cheerfully, and the Cowardly Lion popped up as if he were spring-loaded. “These apple martinis are delicioso.”
“No,” Ronnie said. “I work for you. I’ll get them.”
But Hugh insisted, walking away, and I was left sitting with those two big sharks at a very small table.
“You look so in-ter-es-ting tonight,” Felicia said. “Pink, huh.”
“Is that a compliment?” I asked.
“You decide, darling.”
I decided “no.” My skin was crawling, and I thought I might break out with hives.
Ronnie chuckled awkwardly and removed his jacket, which made him the only man in a room of five hundred people in his shirtsleeves.
“Jane, now that we’re together, let’s chat, shall we?” he said with false heartiness. “Felicia and I were going to get on your calendar this week, but since we’ve happened to run into you…”
Hugh returned. “Apple martinis all around,” he said, and beamed.
“Hugh, this was so lucky, us running into you like this,” Felicia said.
“Yes indeedy,” said Ronnie. Had they practiced this routine, the three of them?
“No point beating around the proverbial bush, Jane,” Ronnie went on, turning to me. “Felicia and I… and Hugh, of course… well,
I was furious… and nervous… and sad. But mostly furious.
“I don’t think this is the time or the place to discuss it,” I said, feeling my face turn to stone.
“I think this is an excellent place and time,” Hugh said, his eyes steely, any trace of a smile vanishing.
“Oh, let’s talk it out, Jane. It’s a fun subject at a fun event,” Felicia said.
It was not a fun subject, and it was no longer a fun event.
“You do plan on giving me the part in that movie, don’t you, Jane?” Hugh asked, his eyes boring into my face. “How could you not?”
“We need to examine all our options,” I said stiffly. Because you weren’t right in the play, and I don’t want you to screw up my movie.
My whole romantic future was going up in flames, right now, under the watchful, ferretlike eyes of Felicia and Ronnie. I hated this so much. Suddenly it felt as if all five hundred people in the room had stopped talking at once.
“I’m just not sure if you’re right for the part, Hugh.” I finally spoke in the quietest voice. “I’m being honest.”
I reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.
“You need to change your mind,” he said intently, his jaw set. He’d never quite bullied me before, and I wanted to whack him in the head with my Judith Leiber clutch.
“I was right for the stage,” he went on. “I should have won a Tony.”
I wanted to say that he was, at best, only okay in the stage version. He hadn’t even been nominated for a Tony. It was the little girl who had won the hearts of the audience, and the critics. Hugh’s reviews were, well… respectable. His best moment had occurred when he was dressing to meet the little girl at school. For about five minutes he’d had to walk around with his shirt off. He was very good at that.
Suddenly Hugh stood up.
“I want that role, Jane. I deserve it. I made that play work. Me. I’m leaving now. If I don’t, I’ll pick up this fucking table and throw it against the wall. You’re just playing some stupid game! Fuck you, and fuck Jacqueline Kennedy!”
Suddenly I was alone with Ronnie and Felicia. What had happened to this night?
Ronnie spoke: “I’ll go get us another drink.”
“Not for me,” I said. “I already feel like I’m going to throw up.”
A minute later, I was listening to my heels clicking through the Great Hall, then down the steep museum steps.
I felt like a stupid, chunky idiot, in a much-too-young stupid pink dress that was now being stained by my tears and mascara.
Twenty-five
MICHAEL WAS BECOMING comfortable with his stalker status. Maybe a little too comfortable. This is the last time, he promised himself. It all ends tonight. An hour or so earlier, Michael had been floored when Jane walked out of her apartment, looking like a million bucks. He’d shadowed her as she walked from her apartment to the Metropolitan Museum.
There was a determined movement in her walk, he noticed. A strut in her step. And that hot pink dress… She looked as though she’d recovered from Hugh. So maybe she was okay now. Maybe Michael could just be happy for her as he trailed along at a safe distance. If Jane was okay now, then it was time for him to disappear again.
* * *
SKIP FORWARD ABOUT AN HOUR, and he was following her back down Fifth Avenue. Jane was walking alone again, but much slower now, her shoulders hunched, no spring whatsoever in her step. When she cut over to Madison Avenue, she stopped and stared aimlessly in several store windows, including one of those places that sell cigarettes and Tic Tacs.
Somehow she seemed very alone to him, and so sad, so miserable. Obviously something bad had happened at the Met. No doubt it had had something to do with that creep Hugh McGrath.
More and more, Michael thought that he was to blame. He’d made her a bunch of lofty promises and predictions when she was just a kid. And they simply hadn’t come true. He had told her, and he’d believed, that someone special would come along for her. Well, obviously that hadn’t happened. Could he help her now? No, he didn’t think so. Jane wasn’t his responsibility anymore. He couldn’t interfere.
But he definitely wanted to. His heart went out to her. He wanted to hold her and comfort her, just the way he had done when she was little. At 76th Street, Jane crossed Madison Avenue, then walked through the side entrance of the Carlyle Hotel, and into Bemelmans Bar.
Now what should he do? What were his options? Michael waited a few seconds, then decided to follow her inside.
That pink dress of hers was easy to track. And there Jane was at the bar.
Michael sat at the far end of the bar, positioned beyond two fairly large, out-of-towner types. From what he could tell, they were drinking the house Scotch with Budweiser chasers and gulping handfuls of peanuts.
Jane ordered a gin and tonic. She looked beautiful sitting there, in a tragic, Russian heroine kind of way.
C’mon, Jane, chin up! You’re so much better than this.
For a crazy second, he considered going over and talking to her. She wouldn’t remember him, after all. He would be just some guy. In truth, he didn’t know what to do. Which was very unusual. In fact, he’d never been unsure before, about anything.
What was he doing sitting in Bemelmans with Jane Margaux? Well, not exactly with her, but wishing that he were.
It made no sense. It was maddening, confusing, and just not a good idea. No, actually this was insane!
“What can I get you, sir?” the bartender asked.
“Uh, nothing, I’m afraid. I just remembered… I was supposed to meet somebody somewhere else. I’m sorry.”
The bartender shrugged, and Michael stood, feeling awful, unlike himself. Head down, he started for the door. He turned and took one last look at Jane.
What a beautiful woman she’d become. Just as special as ever.
“Good-bye, Jane,” he said, and then he left without talking to her. It was the only way. In fact, he wished he’d never seen her again.
Twenty-six
THE GIN AND TONIC was cold and fizzy and crisp. Tanqueray cut by lime. Just right. Was there any better place than Bemelmans to sit and think and feel disgustingly sorry for yourself?
I was a thirty-two-year-old woman who had everything and nothing going for her at the exact same time. I had a good job that was theoretically fascinating, but it consumed my hours and days and gave me almost no personal satisfaction.
I had a wealthy, successful mother, but she treated me like an idiot child and called it love. And worse, I desperately loved her anyway.
I had a boyfriend. Yes, that was for certain. Had a boyfriend. Past tense.
My mind began racing in a lot of bad directions all at the same time.
Maybe my goals were too long-term. Maybe I should figure out a way to be happy, not for a lifetime, but for an hour or two. Maybe there was somebody out there who wanted to sit around with me, and order in Japanese, and not hate watching a DVD of You’ve Got Mail or The Shawshank Redemption for the fourth or fifth time.
Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder, which almost made me jump and scream. In that suave, woman-of-the-world way I have.
I turned to see a couple of men grinning somewhat moronically. Their loud, checked sport jackets looked out of place in the Carlyle Hotel, but then they’d probably look out of place anywhere. I didn’t need this kind of attention right now.
“Evening, ma’am,” said Thing One. “My friend and I were wondering if you wanted some company.”
“No, thank you,” I said firmly. “I’m just winding down after a long day. I’m good. Thanks.”
“You seem all alone,” said Thing Two. “And kinda down in the mouth. Seems to us, anyway.”
“I’m really fine, m
“Bartender, the lady could use another drink.”
I looked the bartender in the eyes and shook my head. “I really don’t want another drink. And I don’t want to be talking to these guys right now.”
“Maybe you two gentlemen want to move back down to the other end,” the bartender said, leaning on the bar.
They shrugged, but as they walked away, one of them said, “This bar sure has some uppity hookers.”
The bartender and I looked at each other in shock, and then we both laughed. It was either that or cry. In my pink designer dress, five-hundred-dollar shoes, carefully applied makeup, and chic haircut, I looked like a call girl? How much money did call girls make these days? Still, I turned around on the barstool to examine myself in the wall mirror. The image was mostly a blur of people and also reflected the colorful Bemelmans murals over the bar.
Smiling faintly, I looked at my reflection, with my ruined eye makeup, my pink nose. I would be one lame call girl.
Then I noticed something else. I squinted, feeling my heart instantly kick into high speed. It was completely, totally, utterly impossible. For a moment, my eye caught the image of a man leaving the bar. He seemed to be looking at me.
Of course I was wrong—but I would have sworn it was Michael.
As fast as I saw him, I lost him out the door.
Now that was really crazy.
I took a sip of my drink. My hands were shaking when I set it down. That man—it was ridiculous. My subconscious had used a trick of the light, a shadow, to create an image of the person I missed the most, wanted most to see.
Okay, I was truly worried. Was I going off the deep end? I was starting to see things. How unhappy did a person need to be before her subconscious would kick in, try to make things better? How bad off was I that I thought I had seen Michael?