Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [2]
“Where was he?” Michael asked. I could see the sympathy and concern in his eyes.
“I don’t know. When I asked Vivienne, she just said, ‘Who knows and who cares?’ ” I imitated my mother’s voice, then shook my head. “Okay,” I said. “New topic. Guess what day Tuesday is.”
Michael tapped his chin a few times. “No idea.”
“C’mon. You know perfectly well. You know, Michael. This isn’t funny.”
“Valentine’s Day?”
“Stop it!” I told him, kicking him gently under the table. He grinned. “You know what Tuesday is. You have to. It’s my birthday!”
“Oh, yeah. Wow, you’re getting old, Jane.”
I nodded. “I think my mother is having a party for me.”
“Hmm,” Michael said.
“Well, anyway, I don’t care about a party, really. What I really want is a real, live puppy.”
Michael nodded.
“Cat got your —” I started to say but then stopped in midsentence.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vivienne signing the check. In a minute she and Jason would be standing over our table, hustling me off. This Sunday at the St. Regis was coming to a close. It had been another wonderful afternoon for me and Michael.
“Here she comes, Michael,” I whispered. “Look invisible.”
Three
VIVIENNE STRODE TOWARD our table as if she owned the St. Regis. Jason trailed along behind her. No one in the Astor Court would have believed that this beautiful woman with the perfect makeup, the perfect skin, the perfect tan, was in any way related to the pudgy eight-year-old with frizzy hair and smudges of fudge sauce on both cheeks.
But there we were. Mother and daughter.
Vivienne kissed me on the cheek and then got down to business. The business of me.
“Jane-Sweetie . . .” She almost always called me “Jane-Sweetie,” as if that were my actual name. “Must you always order two desserts?”
Jason the celebrity hairdresser tried to help. “Well, Vivienne, the second dessert was melon. That’s not too bad. Carbs, of course, but —”
“Jane-Sweetie, we’ve talked about your weight —” my mother began.
“I’m only eight years old,” I said. “How about I promise to be anorexic later?”
Michael laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair.
Even Jason smiled.
Vivienne didn’t move a facial muscle. She was always trying not to frown because she didn’t want to get wrinkles before her time. Say, ninety or so.
“Don’t be precocious with me, Jane-Sweetie.” She turned to Jason. “She reads far too many books.” Yeah, I’m terrible that way, I thought. Vivienne turned back to me. “We’ll discuss your eating habits at home. In private.”
“Anyway,” I told her, “that melon isn’t even mine. Michael ordered it.”
“Ah, yes,” said Vivienne, sounding bored, “Michael, the amazing, ever-present imaginary friend.” She addressed the chair next to mine, which was empty. Michael was on my other side. “Hello, Michael. How are you today?”
“Hello, Vivienne,” said Michael, knowing she couldn’t see or hear him. “I’m just peachy, thanks.”
All of a sudden I felt Jason tugging at a handful of my hair.
“Hey!” I protested.
“Something must be done about this,” he said. “Vivienne, give me one hour with this hair. There’s no reason why anyone should walk around like this. She’ll come out looking like a Vogue model.”
“That’s great,” Michael said. “Just what the world needs — an eight-year-old who looks like a Vogue model.”
I winced and pulled my hair away from Jason.
“Come, Jane-Sweetie,” said Vivienne. “There’s a full-cast rehearsal tonight, and I must look in on it.” Her latest huge Broadway musical, The Problem with Kansas, was opening in days.
“But first we can drop by Tiffany’s, like we always do, dear. Our time together.”
“What about Jane’s hair?” Jason demanded. “When can I schedule her makeover?”
Michael shook his head. “You’re perfect the way you are, Jane. You don’t need a makeover. Never forget that.”
“I won’t,” I said.
“You won’t what?” asked Vivienne. She took a napkin, dipped it in