Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [23]
“You look so in-ter-es-ting tonight,” Felicia said. “Pink, huh.”
“Is that a compliment?” I asked.
“You decide, darling.”
I decided “no.” My skin was crawling, and I thought I might break out with hives.
Ronnie chuckled awkwardly and removed his jacket, which made him the only man in a room of five hundred people in his shirtsleeves.
“Jane, now that we’re together, let’s chat, shall we?” he said with false heartiness. “Felicia and I were going to get on your calendar this week, but since we’ve happened to run into you . . .”
Hugh returned. “Apple martinis all around,” he said, and beamed.
“Hugh, this was so lucky, us running into you like this,” Felicia said.
“Yes indeedy,” said Ronnie. Had they practiced this routine, the three of them?
“No point beating around the proverbial bush, Jane,” Ronnie went on, turning to me. “Felicia and I . . . and Hugh, of course . . . well, we just need to know when you’ll be signing him officially for the lead in the movie of Thank Heaven. We have other offers, but we want this one. Hugh does, anyway. And you know what else? Hugh deserves it. Don’t you agree? You must. We all do. And so does Vivienne.”
I was furious . . . and nervous . . . and sad. But mostly furious.
“I don’t think this is the time or the place to discuss it,” I said, feeling my face turn to stone.
“I think this is an excellent place and time,” Hugh said, his eyes steely, any trace of a smile vanishing.
“Oh, let’s talk it out, Jane. It’s a fun subject at a fun event,” Felicia said.
It was not a fun subject, and it was no longer a fun event.
“You do plan on giving me the part in that movie, don’t you, Jane?” Hugh asked, his eyes boring into my face. “How could you not?”
“We need to examine all our options,” I said stiffly. Because you weren’t right in the play, and I don’t want you to screw up my movie.
My whole romantic future was going up in flames, right now, under the watchful, ferretlike eyes of Felicia and Ronnie. I hated this so much. Suddenly it felt as if all five hundred people in the room had stopped talking at once.
“I’m just not sure if you’re right for the part, Hugh.” I finally spoke in the quietest voice. “I’m being honest.”
I reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.
“You need to change your mind,” he said intently, his jaw set. He’d never quite bullied me before, and I wanted to whack him in the head with my Judith Leiber clutch.
“I was right for the stage,” he went on. “I should have won a Tony.”
I wanted to say that he was, at best, only okay in the stage version. He hadn’t even been nominated for a Tony. It was the little girl who had won the hearts of the audience, and the critics. Hugh’s reviews were, well . . . respectable. His best moment had occurred when he was dressing to meet the little girl at school. For about five minutes he’d had to walk around with his shirt off. He was very good at that.
Suddenly Hugh stood up.
“I want that role, Jane. I deserve it. I made that play work. Me. I’m leaving now. If I don’t, I’ll pick up this fucking table and throw it against the wall. You’re just playing some stupid game! Fuck you, and fuck Jacqueline Kennedy!”
Suddenly I was alone with Ronnie and Felicia. What had happened to this night?
Ronnie spoke: “I’ll go get us another drink.”
“Not for me,” I said. “I already feel like I’m going to throw up.”
A minute later, I was listening to my heels clicking through the Great Hall, then down the steep museum steps.
I felt like a stupid, chunky idiot, in a much-too-young stupid pink dress that was now being stained by my tears and mascara.
Twenty-five
MICHAEL WAS BECOMING comfortable with his stalker status. Maybe a little too comfortable. This is the last time, he promised himself. It all ends tonight. An hour or so earlier, Michael had been floored when Jane walked out of her apartment, looking like a million bucks. He’d shadowed her as she walked from her apartment to the Metropolitan Museum.
There was a determined movement in her walk, he noticed. A strut in her step. And that hot pink dress . . . She looked as though she