Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [22]
I spotted Hugh standing at the top, leaning against a column as if posing for a Ralph Lauren ad. His jacket was slung over his shoulder and he was slouching just so, pretending not to notice the many admiring glances sent his way. He stood up straight as soon as he saw me, and his eyes widened.
“My God,” he said, “what have you done with Jane?”
I laughed, pleased that he had noticed, and he kissed me on the cheek. Then lightly on the lips. Then he stood back and examined me again.
“What did you do to yourself?”
“I decided I was tired of you always being the pretty one,” I said flirtatiously, trying on a new behavior as well as a new look.
“You mean, the only pretty one,” Hugh countered, squashing my happiness a bit. He laughed, to soften it, but he just hadn’t been able to resist, had he? No wonder he and Vivienne got along so well.
He took my hand in his, though, and led me toward the grand museum doors. We made a good couple, and I actually fit in with all the well-dressed men and glam women parading into the reception.
I was happy, I looked good, but one disturbing question kept turning over in my mind: Did I really want to go to all this trouble for the rest of my life?
Twenty-four
THAT JACKIE KENNEDY sure knew how to pick out clothes.
Each outfit was more incredible than the last. And with every sip of my apple martini, those dresses of hers grew even more incredible. The sky blue Givenchy. The solid gold Cassini. The beige Chanel daytime suit that would never go out of style.
The best thing that happened to me that night — except for Hugh being amazed at how good I looked — was being greeted by a stone-faced Anna Wintour, editor of Vogue, who said, “You look well, Jane.” High praise indeed.
“My knee is killing me from tennis this morning. Let’s sit down,” Hugh finally said.
So we sat at a tiny cocktail table in the museum’s Great Hall. I wanted to stand, to be seen for once in my life, but on second thought my Jimmy Choos could use a little break.
“I’m going to smoke a cigarette until someone comes and throws water on me,” Hugh said.
Before he had time to light it, I looked up and saw Felicia Weinstein, Hugh’s smarmy, pushy agent, walking toward us. She was arm in arm with Ronnie Morgan, Hugh’s equally sharklike business manager. My eyes widened.
“Jane, look,” said Hugh, all surprised delight. “Felicia and Ronnie! What a coincidence. Hey, why don’t you guys join us? That’s okay, isn’t it, darling?”
I was speechless, but Hugh was already scooting over to make room for his entourage.
With cold humiliation, I realized that I had been set up.
I had practically snapped a wrist getting into my body-slimmer for Hugh’s agent and his manager. I couldn’t believe it. I should have known something was suspicious — Hugh had been on time for once.
“What are they doing here?” I whispered, already feeling a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach. Suddenly my apple martini felt like lead marbles.
“Felicia mentioned they might pop by,” said Hugh.
My eyes narrowed. Felicia was too much — too much hair, too much makeup, actually cracking gum.
“What,” I muttered, disgusted, “d’she leave her pimp outside?”
Hugh gave me a sharp glance but didn’t respond.
As for Ronnie, he had on a Miami Vice T-shirt-and-jacket combo, perfect for “taking a meeting” at Chateau Marmont in Hollywood — in the mid-1980s.
“Fancy meeting you two here,” Ronnie said as he delivered a moist kiss to my cheek.
“Fashion lovers all,” Felicia said, hardly bothering to look at me.
“I’ll get drinks,” Hugh said cheerfully, and the Cowardly Lion popped up as if he were spring-loaded. “These apple martinis are delicioso.”
“No,” Ronnie said. “I work for you. I’ll get them.”
But Hugh insisted, walking away, and I was left sitting with those two big sharks at a very small table.