Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [21]
Finally I did the best I could with Bobbi Brown mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick. Was Bobbi Brown a man or a woman? No clue.
Fortunately, and amazingly, I had good hair color, a kind of bubbly blond, and, because of my mother’s relentless urging, I could rest assured that I had a very good haircut. “Without a good haircut, everything else is for nothing,” said Vivienne. Then, of course, she had added, “And you need all the help you can get.”
Throwing caution to the wind, I took a few big scoops of Calvin Klein styling mousse and ran my fingers through my hair. The curls fluffed up and framed my face. I don’t know whether it looked good or bad, but it looked different . . . and modern . . . and not like Plain Jane.
Suddenly my mind flashed back to when Michael and I were inseparable.
“War paint,” Michael had said that when he’d seen Vivienne dressed to the teeth for a Tonys ceremony. I’d giggled, but Vivienne had been dazzling, a slender blond goddess whom I could never hope to resemble.
Now, looking at myself in the mirror, I saw with surprise that in fact I did have hints of Vivienne in my face. I had her cheekbones, or at least I would if I lost twenty pounds. My eyes were larger, rounder, and blue, but I had her long, thick eyelashes. My nose was more pronounced, but it was definitely more like hers and not my father’s.
I’d never noticed any of this before. I remembered Michael looking down at me with love, saying, “You’re a beauty,” and sounding as though he really meant it. Is this what he had meant? Had he seen my mother in my face?
Or maybe he’d thought I was beautiful for myself.
Nah.
Jane! Keep on task! Throwing my shoulders back, I flung open the doors to my walk-in closet, trying not to feel as if there were an eager crowd in there hoping to see me devoured by lions.
Oh God, it was worse than I thought. My panicked eyes took in the sea of beige and black and earth tones. I had nothing remotely sexy or even colorful.
Wait a minute. Wait one minute! What had we here?
Pawing through some out-of-season coats, I spied a couple of retro Chanel cocktail dresses, pushed way to the back. Vivienne (of course) had given them to me back when I was a teenager. I yanked one out and examined it. It looked like something straight out of a 1950s society magazine, hot pink, with a tight, fitted bodice and a full, flared, flirty skirt that stopped right at the knee.
“Some night you’ll be totally bored with everything you own, darling, and you’ll want to wear one of these,” she had said. “Mark my words.”
She’d been right, of course. She’d picked out the perfect thing. She was totally saving my butt (the same butt that hadn’t seen a StairMaster since God knew when).
I put on the dress, loving the silky fabric. Then I couldn’t zip it up.
On a mission now, I dumped out my lingerie drawer onto my bed. Under my sensible bras and full-coverage briefs was a one-piece foundation garment, which, with any luck at all, was made of Kevlar and would do the trick.
I struggled into it.
I put on the dress.
No go with the zipper.
I got a pair of pliers from the kitchen junk drawer. The zipper was no match for them, and the bonus was that the too-tight bodice gave my boobs nowhere to go but up, up, up. As long as I didn’t need to bend down or take deep breaths tonight, I was golden.
The only thing more daring than my decision to wear the pink dress was my decision not to wear a jacket with it. If my arms were a little fleshy, let them be. In the best of worlds and the best of lights, maybe I would look voluptuous.
I couldn’t even bring myself to peek in the full-length mirror in the hall. What if I looked like a fat kid in a Halloween costume? There was no time to change anyway.
I took the elevator to the lobby, and I was off to a good start. The doorman said, “You look lovely tonight, Miss Margaux. Would you like a cab?”
“No thanks. I think I’ll walk.”
I kind of want to be seen for a change.
Twenty-three
I WALKED WEST on 75th Street, then made my way