Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [20]
“No, I’m not, Owen. It’s just . . . I don’t know . . . there’s so much more to women than that. Sure, the physical, but also that connection between two people. I think that love can be great.”
“Ah, you think,” said Owen, seizing on that. “But you don’t know, do you? So there’s a little bullshit tossed in there? Just a little?” He pinched his big fingers together, giving Michael the devilish Owen smile. The twinkle, the dimple. Michael almost felt seduced.
Owen laughed. “It’s great, isn’t it? The look! My secret weapon. Years of practice, son. Years of practice.”
Michael turned his attention to the morning crossword while they waited, and Owen took the sports section, occasionally snorting and muttering out loud about teams, athletes, and horses who had personally let him down.
“Give me a five-letter word for ‘feel deep love,’ ” Michael said a couple of minutes later.
Owen didn’t look up. “Horny.”
“And we’re surprised you’re single?” said Patty — shapely, very cute, long blond hair — who often waited on Michael at the Olympia and whom he was crazy about.
Owen laughed, not at all put off. “What’s good today, honey? Besides you?”
Patty raised one eyebrow and took out her pad.
Michael said, “What makes you think he’s single?”
“Get the eggs Benedict,” she told Owen. “Real Holland rusks.” Turning to Michael, she said, “He’s got that look.”
“What look?” Michael asked. This was the kind of stuff he loved, the get-to-the-heart-of-humanity info.
“That single look,” she said, tucking her pen behind one perfect, shell-like ear. She looked Owen up and down as if he weren’t conscious. “Kind of hungry.”
Owen gave her his killer grin. “Hungry for you.”
Patty rolled her eyes, and they ordered. She nodded and swept off, blond and graceful, as Owen watched her every motion.
“Patty’s very sweet. Single mom, has a little girl who’s four,” said Michael pointedly as soon as she was gone.
Owen smiled. “Only one kid? I always wanted to find a single mom with at least three or four.” He winked at Michael. “Just kidding, podjo. Don’t be judging me, Michael. I like Patty. She just might be the one.”
Suddenly Michael was sorry that he’d brought Owen, his grin, and his twinkling eyes to the Olympia.
“Don’t go and hurt her,” said Michael. Not quite a serious warning, but almost.
“Don’t be judging, Mikey,” said Owen.
Twenty-two
I STARED AT MYSELF in the bathroom mirror, feeling like a soldier marching off to war. The pressure was on, but I had done it to myself this time. I had less than forty-five minutes to do a complete Elle makeover, and I needed the works — hair, clothes, makeup, accessories. If they had a pill that made you lose fifteen pounds in forty-five minutes but shaved five years off your life, I would have taken two.
I was meeting Hugh at the Metropolitan Museum, and I needed to look my absolute best, which in my case equaled, well, presentable. There was a cocktail party and reception there for a Jacqueline Kennedy fashion retrospective. I would be on Hugh’s arm, which meant that I would be watched closely, even jealously in some circles.
Okay, first, set the mood: I put John Legend’s Once Again in the CD player and cranked it. If that didn’t inspire me, I was SOL. Ah, yes! That was much better.
Second, face the enemy. In my bathroom was a cabinet that held nothing but unopened makeup. Here were the bottles and tubes, lotions and potions, that Vivienne regularly gave me. After thirty-plus years, she was still somehow hoping that I’d turn from ugly duckling into gorgeous swan. Not going to happen, Viv. Not today, not any day.
Third, arm yourself. I took a deep breath and opened a package of Clinique Dramatically Different moisturizing lotion. I smoothed it into my skin in clockwise circles, as directed. So far, I was not seeing a dramatic difference. But I persevered. Next came a thin base of Barely There foundation, which was guaranteed to give me a perfect, porcelain finish. Hmm. With the blotches hidden, my skin looked, oh, let’s say twenty percent