Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [10]
“I’ve put the check on Ms. Margaux’s tab,” the waiter said. “It was so nice to see you again. I hope you enjoyed your meal.”
“Everything was wonderful.” Maybe not everything.
I walked out of the restaurant into a chilly spring night in Manhattan. Alone. My cheeks were burning, but whether it was the Bellinis or the humiliation, I couldn’t tell. I was living that old cliché: When your own romantic life is falling apart, everyone else’s looks fabulous. Did I really need to see a middle-aged couple chatting quietly and holding hands in the park? Or the teenagers who decided to stop and kiss eagerly just a few feet away from where I was walking? No. I did not. Why was everyone in New York City suddenly madly in love while I was walking alone with my arms folded across my chest?
My cell phone rang.
Hugh! Of course it was Hugh. And his excuse for tonight would be . . . what?
“Hello?” A little too breathless, maybe? Too Bellinified?
“Jane Margaux?” the voice on the line said.
“This is Jane,” I answered, not recognizing whoever it was.
“This is Verizon Wireless, and we’d like to tell you about our exciting new calling plan.”
I flipped the phone closed and dropped it back into my bag. I wished I was the kind of person who was reckless enough to throw it into the nearest trash can. Of course, if I did, I’d only have to fish it out again, and of course someone I knew would be walking by right at that moment, when I was pawing through the trash, and then this day would be complete.
I swallowed hard and felt hot tears behind my eyes. Perfect. Crying on the street. A new low, even for me.
I was a pathetic loser. The sooner I faced it, the better. The facts were that I was on the wrong side of thirty, I worked for my mother, and I was the kind of woman whose gorgeous, too-good-for-her boyfriend stood her up at their favorite restaurant, and that was the way it was.
Twelve
MICHAEL WAS POLISHING OFF his second hot dog, savoring every juicy bite, every burst of flavor in his mouth. Man, was he ever hungry! Starved! Ravenous! And thank God, he didn’t have to worry about what he ate.
Here he was, between assignments, back in New York, killing time. He was hanging out, having some fun, waiting to hear what was up next for him. He’d seen just about every movie released, gone to the best museums (like the Museum of the American Indian), plus visited most of the doughnut and coffee joints on the island of Manhattan in single-minded pursuit of the best old-fashioned cake doughnut known to man. And, oh yeah, he was taking boxing lessons.
Yes, boxing lessons. Over the years he’d discovered so many activities that he loved, a lot of which he’d thought he wouldn’t like at all. Such as boxing. But it was terrific exercise, and it really built up the self-confidence. Self-awareness, too. Also, it brought him closer to people, in a weird sort of way. Sometimes a little too close.
Two nights a week, in a seedy second-floor gym on 8th Street, an old black guy with whiskey and peppermint on his breath taught him how to throw reasonably crisp punches, how to guard himself against attack, how to get in close and slam left hooks into the body of an opponent.
He’d pretty much gotten used to eighteen-year-old black and Hispanic kids banging his nose till blood oozed out. And being called “old man” by his sparring partners, who seemed to like him anyway. Hell, everybody liked Michael. That was his job, right?
But he still wasn’t used to the wicked appetite he had after every workout. The post-workout hunger was so fierce it could be satisfied only by three or four hot dogs and at least two chocolate Yoo-Hoos from a Manhattan pushcart.
Tonight he’d ordered his hot dogs and Yoo-Hoos and was thinking how nice it was to be back in New York. He’d just finished a Seattle assignment with a six-year-old boy whose parents were lesbians. The problem had been that the two women were way too involved with little Sam. He