Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [18]
But I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t. I really, really couldn’t.
Take your mind off it. Okay, I had to get back to the salt mines for a Thank Heaven preproduction meeting. I needed to introduce our possible financier, Karl Friedkin, to some of the creative people — casting agent, costume designer, set designer. No Dome Cake for you, I told myself sternly. Ix-nay on the ome-day ake-cay.
Hugh air-kissed his skinny, doting fan, while I paid the fat check for our lunch.
“Mind if I don’t go back with you, Jane?” he asked. “I need to hit the gym.” Unconsciously he preened in the mirror over the bar, stroking his perfectly smooth cheek and checking out his different angles. Of course, I have the kind of face that doesn’t even have angles, from any direction.
“No, that’s fine, Hugh,” I said. “I’m good.”
Actually, I was telling the truth. The less he knew about the behind-the-scenes development of the movie, the better. Since he’d played the role on Broadway, Hugh definitely thought that he should play the lead in the movie. So did my mother. The two of them had been lobbying hard for me to contract him for the part. I pretty much disagreed with every fiber of my being. Hugh was all wrong for movie close-ups; he just wasn’t that kind of an actor. He just wasn’t Michael.
Hugh gave me a kiss on the cheek, remembering only at the last second to make it real and not an air kiss. “Later, babe,” he said, and then he was gone, glowing smile, glowing tan, slicker than a snake on a rainy day.
Firmly dismissing the longing to get a piece of ake-cay to go, I hurried back to 57th Street, arriving right on time, of course. How very Jane of me. After making sure everyone knew everyone else, I started the meeting. Once I began talking, my nerves settled, and I felt pretty much in charge of the project.
“We’re all very excited by the way the film is shaping up,” I said, encouraged by everyone’s rapt attention. “An A-list director is just about on board. I believe we’ll have the formal studio go-ahead by the end of the week.”
Everyone spontaneously burst into applause, and it warmed my heart. I knew this project couldn’t mean as much to my creative team as it did to me — how could it? — but I relished their enthusiasm and support.
Then the conference-room door flew open.
“No need for applause,” Vivienne said in sugar-sweet tones. “I’ll just sit here quietly and listen. Go ahead, Jane-Sweetie. Proceed.”
My heart sank, but I straightened my shoulders, determined to carry on despite knowing that the likelihood of my mother sitting and being quiet — or for that matter, listening — was about the same as some weird comet suddenly striking Earth and melting the fat from everyone’s thighs. It would be nice, but it wasn’t going to happen.
“I’d like to talk about the sets,” I said. “Clarence? What are your thoughts?”
“I think we’re going to have to build an exact replica of the Astor Court,” Clarence said.
“I was hoping that we might actually shoot at the St. Regis,” I said. “Both to save money and for added authenticity. Couldn’t we? Somehow?”
“If I could jump in for a second, Jane-Sweetie,” my mother said, “I think we should build the set. It’ll give us more control over the camera angles and lighting.”
Of course she was right, and suddenly there were sage nods around the room. Nobody ever disagreed with my mother.
The costume designer spoke next. “I was thinking that the little girl should always wear white when she’s with her imaginary friend at the St. Regis.”
White would perfectly capture the idea of childhood innocence, I thought. “Yes, that sounds good,” I said. “And it’s the sort of thing the actual little girl did wear.”
Vivienne interrupted again. “Janey, you have to remember, this isn’t a biographical film. I think variety in the wardrobe would be better and would add color and texture to the screen. I’m certain of it, actually. Trust me on this. I have no ego.