Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [15]
“No, I do, actually. Let’s talk.”
So Michael listened to Claire Parker’s life story for well over an hour in a tiny corner of the hallway leading to the kitchen. She was conflicted about wanting to be a teacher, which she was in school for, and all the money she was suddenly making as a model with the Ford Agency.
Finally she looked into his eyes, smiled very sweetly, and said, “Michael, even though you’re not a surgeon, and I’m not Claire de Lune, do you want to come home with me? My roommate is on a shoot in London, and my cat isn’t the jealous type. You up for it? Say yes.”
Sixteen
TO BE HONEST, candid, whatever, it wouldn’t have been the first time something like this had happened to Michael, mostly on his sabbaticals, but sometimes during work stints as well. After all, he was able to make choices, he had a life, and he wasn’t impervious to beauty.
What he said to Claire was “Actually, I live right across the hall.”
Michael’s place was a sublet, fairly tidy and nicely furnished, the apartment of an anthropology professor at NYU who was in Turkey for the semester. Michael had a knack for finding great apartments, another perk of the job.
“Your turn to talk,” Claire said, curling up on the sofa. She tucked her long legs under her and didn’t pull her skirt down to cover her knees. She patted the cushion next to her. “Come. Sit. Tell me everything.” Michael sat, and Claire traced one finger down his cheek. “Who is she? What happened? Why are you available? Are you?”
Michael laughed, mostly at himself. “Funny you should ask. There was someone, sort of. I lost track of her for a long time. And then tonight, I think I found her again. Sort of. It’s kind of complicated.”
“It always is.” Claire grinned. “I am interested, and we have all night. You have whiskey? Spirits of some kind?”
In point of fact, Michael did (at least the professor did), very nice wine, which he would replace before he left. He opened a bottle of Caymus, then a second bottle — ZD — as he and the lovely Claire de Lune talked and talked until 4:00 in the morning, at which point they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms, in their clothes. And that was all right. Perfect, actually.
In the morning, gentleman that he was, Michael made Claire a breakfast of whole wheat toast, eggs, and coffee. He prided himself on his coffee. This week it was shade-grown Kona. When she was leaving, she turned and draped one arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Thank you, Michael. I had a wonderful time.” She leaned in — they were almost the same height — and kissed Michael on the lips. “She’s a lucky girl.”
“Who?” asked Michael, not understanding.
“Jane. The one you were talking about last night, during the second bottle of wine.” Claire gave him a resigned little smile. “Good luck with her.”
Seventeen
AT 7:15 AM, I, the boss’s daughter, was the very first one in at ViMar Productions (with the exception of the mail boy, a tap-dancing British teenager, who I think was actually living under the sorting table in the mail room).
It was 4:00 in the morning in Los Angeles, so I could send only e-mail and voicemail there. But it was noon in London, and that meant I could connect with Carla Crawley, the production head of the London company of Thank Heaven. The play was an even bigger hit in London than it had been in New York. The sets, the actors, everything was better quality over there.
“Jane, I’m so glad you called. We’re having a slight problem. Seems that Jeffrey doesn’t like the new girl we’ve cast.”
Jeffrey was Jeffrey Anderson, the British heartthrob who was playing Michael.
“Jeffrey says he doesn’t relate as well to this new little girl. But believe me, Jane, the girl is brilliant, a real heart-tugger. Best of all, she’s eleven years old, but looks eight, so she can talk.”
“Look, call Jeffrey’s agent and suggest they reread the part in his contract that says he has to play opposite a three-legged monkey if we want him to.”
“I’ll pass the word along, Vivienne Junior,” Carla Crawley said,