Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [19]
And here’s a “well, duh” realization: It was suddenly clear to me that my mother and I had entirely different approaches to making this film. Also, my mother was determined to exert her influence over what was supposed to be “my” project. What a shocker that was.
“I have a question,” said Karl Friedkin.
I turned to him in relief. “Yes?”
“So who will be playing the make-believe man?” Friedkin asked.
“Well, he wasn’t exactly make-believe,” I said. “More imaginary.”
A moment of silence ensued. Oh, great, I thought, trying to come up with a quick way to backtrack and finding nothing. The silence stretched on. Very uncomfortable. I began to blush. Now they probably thought I was crazy. Excellent: a perfect end to a perfectly heinous day.
My mother rose, smiled thinly, and walked to the door.
The casting agent said, “I floated the role past Ryan Gosling’s agent, and she was very positive. Of course there are so many other excellent choices: Matt Damon, Russell Crowe, Hughs Jackman and Grant. Even Patrick Dempsey.”
My mother turned in the doorway, knowing every eye was on her. Looking right at me, she said, “You play the Hollywood name game as much as you want, kiddies, but I have a feeling that the perfect leading man is right under your noses.”
Everyone looked confused. Except me.
I’d just had lunch with the Hugh who Vivienne had already chosen for Thank Heaven, and it wasn’t Jackman or Grant.
Twenty-one
YEARS AGO when he and Jane had wanted to escape from her constrictive and smothering Park Avenue world, they would take the crosstown bus to the Upper West Side. What a terrifically funky and eclectic world it had been back then, before the baby boomers with their Maclaren strollers. Wide-eyed, Michael and Jane had explored secondhand clothing stores and West African restaurants, Spanish bodegas and Jewish delis, all mixed together and coexisting in harmony.
Now, Michael couldn’t help thinking, that same neighborhood had all the character and charm of a suburban mall in central Ohio. Goldblum’s Dry Cleaners had become a Prada. Johannsen’s Hardware was a Baby Gap. The “World’s Best Bagels” place had turned into a fancy soap store. As Michael thought of those hot, terrific bagels now, all he could taste was soap.
Only one really terrific place remained from the old Jane and Michael days: the Olympia Diner, at the corner of Broadway and 77th. It was run by third-generation Greeks who still managed to serve up the greasiest eggs, the fattiest bacon, and coffee so strong you had to brush your teeth after you had a cup. Michael thought it was quite possibly the best food in all of New York, way better than Daniel or Per Se.
It was worth a visit just for the sign in the window: YES! YES! YES! PANCAKES ALL AROUND YOUR CLOCK!
Since Michael had been back in New York this time, the Olympia had become a Saturday-morning ritual. Today he was there with Owen Pulaski, as payback for the party at which he had met Claire de Lune. He’d had a really nice time with her — talking about Jane, apparently.
“So, what happened, Mike?” Owen asked as they walked to a booth on the Broadway side of the diner. “I saw you letting the lovely Claire talk your ear off. Then, poof, the two of you were gone off into the night.” He grinned and punched Michael’s arm.
“We talked,” Michael said. “That’s all. Just talked till about four or so. She’s terrific. Only twenty-two and wise beyond her years.”
“Talked, eh?” Owen gave Michael a knowing glance. “I bet. I bet you were up all night, talking about women’s shoes. Or maybe the Yankees, right? Not the Jints. You dog.”
Owen leaned across the table, and there was that irresistible smile of his, probably the same one he’d had since he was a boy. “Tell you the truth, Mike. I’ve never been with a woman who wasn’t a sex object for me. And, buddy, I was married once. For. Two. Years. Which should qualify as a first and second marriage.”
“Really?” Michael asked in astonishment. “All women are sex objects to you? Seriously?”
That smile of Owen’s was back, the twinkle in his