Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [17]
But in Jane went.
And then, against his better judgment, so did Michael. What are you doing? he thought, and he nearly said it out loud. This is the time to walk away. Right now, right here. This is where you stop the madness.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. And as he scanned the lobby directory, it became clear that Vivienne was more successful than ever. ViMar Productions now took up two entire floors. She must be wickeder than ever.
He watched the grown-up Jane as she made her way through the lobby. She waved to at least half a dozen people, and they waved and smiled back, or chitchatted briefly. It hit him that she hadn’t really changed: She was still getting let down by people, and yet she was friendly and warm. Clearly she was well liked by everyone who knew her. Everyone except the schmuck who’d stood her up last night.
Then Jane disappeared into an elevator, and he watched the floors rush from LOBBY to 24 in a matter of seconds.
That’s when Michael made the fateful decision to wait for Jane. Why? He didn’t know. Would he even try to talk to her? No, of course not. Well, maybe. Just maybe. In the meantime, he had passed a Dunkin’ Donuts about a block away, and he was thinking about a couple of Bavarian Kremes.
After the doughnut break, he went back and hung around Jane’s office building, feeling stupid for lurking but unable to tear himself away. At about 12:15 the elevator doors opened, and out she stepped. She wasn’t alone. Unfortunately, a very good-looking guy had his arm around her waist. Jane removed the arm, and Michael guessed that this was the loser himself: McGrath.
They went out the front door, and he was right behind them. Even if Jane happened to glance back, she wouldn’t recognize Michael. She’d forgotten him. That was how it worked. Trying to look nonchalant, Michael stayed close enough to catch bits of their conversation. She and McGrath were talking about something called Thank Heaven, which Michael assumed was one of Vivienne’s productions.
“Jane, Thank Heaven is the key to everything I’ve worked for, and I don’t think you’re treating it seriously,” Michael heard McGrath say, or, rather, whine.
“That’s not true, Hugh,” said Jane. “I am taking this seriously. You know how passionate I am about Thank Heaven.”
Hugh. This guy’s name was Hugh. What was she thinking? Never trust a Hugh. Jane was with a man who had the most ridiculous name on the planet, a name that was always, always misunderstood. How are you, Hugh? Baby, it’s Hugh. Hugh never know. It had to be Hugh.
Shaking his head, Michael stayed with them as they turned into the Four Seasons restaurant. Inside, Michael went to the bar, ordered a Coke, and watched them be seated, knowing beyond a doubt that trailing Jane wasn’t a good idea to start with and was getting worse by the minute.
Michael watched their table across the restaurant with growing irritation as Hugh did all the talking, Jane all the listening. When he wasn’t lecturing her, the creep was working the room. Hugh shaking hands with a magazine publisher. Hugh hugging a talk-show host. Hugh pontificating over the wine list. What did she see in this jerk?
Then, as Hugh and Jane were about to begin lunch, a pretty young waif of a woman approached their table. She apologized for interrupting but held out a piece of paper and pen for Hugh to autograph. That meant he was some kind of celebrity. Like, an actor-slash-model? A weatherman? Maybe he’d been in Saw II or something?
He stood up, flirtatious, charming, nauseating. Michael watched and couldn’t believe it. Jane’s face and neck had gone red. She was clearly uncomfortable, but Hugh didn’t seem to notice.
Finally Michael just couldn’t stand it anymore. He paid for his soda, then left Jane with her Hugh. He didn’t know what Jane was doing, but she was a big girl. If that was the kind of stupid, superficial relationship she wanted, then maybe she and Hugh deserved each other.
Twenty
WHILE HUGH FLIRTED with an obnoxiously pretty and pathologically thin fashion model who had