Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [29]
I do remember seeing Hugh peel away; I remember the sharp gravel hitting my shins; I specifically remember giving him the finger. Next thing, Martin was holding open the door of my building, and I was staggering toward the elevator.
As I opened the apartment door, the phone was ringing, and I answered it in a daze, not even thinking that it might be Hugh.
“This is Jane,” I said mechanically, kicking off my shoes.
“Jane-Sweetie!” My mother’s imperious voice. “Where are you? You said you were coming for lunch! I have that wonderful gravlax from Zabar’s. Karl Friedkin is here. And I have photos from the new Valentino collection. And —”
“Sorry, I won’t be there, Mother. I’m not feeling too great.” Slight understatement.
“I think what you’re feeling . . . is maybe Hugh McGrath?” my mother said playfully. “Bring the dear boy along. It will be fun. We can chat about Thank Heaven.”
Oh, that was so not going to happen.
“Hugh isn’t here, and I’m not feeling well. I’ll talk to you later, Mother.”
I didn’t wait to hear her say good-bye. I immediately decided that I couldn’t bear being in my empty apartment. Anywhere but here. Well, anywhere but here and Brooklyn. I changed my gravel-ruined pants for some jeans and a Music in the Park T-shirt and started walking downtown. No destination in mind.
In twenty minutes or so I was heading west. There was Hermès. And the Robinson Galleries. And then, my childhood home away from home: Tiffany’s.
The sign in the window read: OPEN SUNDAYS, 11–6. Which I knew, of course. How many Sunday afternoons had Vivienne and I spent here, trying on estate jewelry and looking at diamonds through a loupe? I had probably been the only seven-year-old who could knowledgeably discuss facet proportions and the merit of an Asscher cut versus a brilliant one.
I leaped through the revolving door on 57th Street, timing it as if I were jumping rope. In no time I was near the Fifth Avenue entrance, and, all of a sudden, I was shopping for a diamond ring.
Thirty-two
WHENEVER I WAS INSIDE Tiffany’s, memories rushed back. The feel of the carpet beneath my feet, the shine of the wooden panels, the heat of the lamps under the glass counters. This was the one place where Vivienne and I had gone alone, without her entourage, and we were like a real mother and daughter. This was where my mother seemed most herself — even more than when she was at the theater — and happiest.
I studied the display case as if I were planning a June wedding, which, oops, I guess I had put the kibosh on earlier today. The diamond rings were like a constellation, all lined up in a divine, predestined order: from the smallest, barely visible single-stone band to exquisite natural pink and yellow square-cut and pear-cut diamonds set in platinum, each ring worth more than some luxury automobiles.
“May I show you something?” a young saleswoman had appeared out of the ether. She was my idea of elegance in a simple black suit with a lovely string of pearls, everything just so.
“Um,” I said.
I saw her surreptitious glance at the naked fingers of my left hand.
“You know,” she said confidingly, expertly unlocking the case, “lots of women are gifting themselves with diamonds for their right hand.” Gifting themselves. Now there was a phrase. It sounded so much better than, say, ridiculously indulging.
Yes, I had actually seen the ads in Vanity Fair and Harper’s Bazaar. Every ring has its own meaning. A special day. A dream come true. A wonderful secret. Blah. Blah. Blah. But obviously the sales copy had worked on me, at least a little.
“May I see that one?” I asked, pointing to an elegant Tiffany Celebration ring, more than a dozen flawless diamonds set in a platinum band.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the saleswoman said as she delicately placed it on a piece of black velvet. The diamonds burned with an inner fire, and even when I was seven I could have told you that their cuts were perfection.
God, the ring was beautiful. So beautiful that it almost hurt my eyes. It hurt my heart, too.
“Try it on,” urged the devil’s handmaiden.