Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [37]
Incredible. A toilet-paper bandage! Another first.
He dressed quickly in whatever was clean and walked out into the hallway. He turned to lock the door behind him, just in time to catch Patty from the Olympia, sneaking out of Owen’s place.
“Hey, Michael,” she said, blushing prettily in an old-fashioned way. “You nicked yourself shaving, huh?”
“Hey, Patty. Yeah, I cut myself. Isn’t it something?”
“Um, I guess, sure. Well, gotta go. My mom’s staying with Holly. My little girl. I have to take her to school. Then off to work at the pancake factory.”
“Be careful out there,” Michael said. He wanted to point to Owen’s apartment and say, “Be careful in there,” but he didn’t.
Patty grinned. “Hill Street Blues. I loved that show. That’s what the sergeant always said, right? Later, Michael.”
He followed Patty down the stairs, but when he got to the street she was already gone. He hoped she’d be okay. He felt a little responsible, somehow. Maybe he shouldn’t.
Finally he started to focus on his own day.
He had no idea where he was going this morning, but he knew it had something to do with Jane.
“I cut myself shaving!” he marveled out loud, and got some funny looks from passing strangers. “Guess you had to be there.”
Forty-two
NORMALLY (IF YOU COULD SAY THAT), he had coffee and pastries with “friends” in the morning. But today he needed to see Jane again, to talk to her. At least one more time. So he took a long walk and ventured into the building where she worked, which had at first seemed like a good idea but now was starting to feel like a big mistake, one of a series. What was he doing here? What did he hope to accomplish?
“Hello,” the woman at the reception desk of ViMar Productions said, startling him out of his fugue. “You must be an actor, right? Do you want to drop off your résumé?”
Michael shook his head. “Why would you say that?”
“Uh, have you ever looked in a mirror?”
He was trying to decide what to say next when a scary image from the past came striding through the big red swinging doors behind the receptionist. It was Vivienne, and God, the woman was living testimony to the fine art of plastic surgery. How many tens of thousands of dollars had been spent to pull that skin into such taut smoothness? Talk about miracles: She hadn’t aged a day.
There was a touch of plastic-surgery shininess to the forehead; the cheekbones stood out a little too prominently. But she looked good. A little frailer, but still quite striking. And energetic, of course.
Vivienne focused on him. Michael knew that even though he had seen her a thousand times, she was seeing him for the very first time.
“Well, hello,” Vivienne said, turning on the full-wattage charm. “I’m Vivienne Margaux. I know all the leading men in New York. So why don’t I know you? Don’t tell me you don’t speak English.”
“All right, I won’t tell you,” Michael said, and smiled pleasantly.
“A million-dollar smile, too,” Vivienne said, extending her hand. Michael took it. It was soft and smooth. Good Lord, she’d even had plastic surgery done on her hands.
“I don’t know why our paths haven’t crossed before. But it’s a pleasure to meet you. Who are you here to see?” she asked, the smile never leaving her face, her head tilting to one side in a coy, schoolgirl manner.
“A friend of mine works here,” Michael said.
“Oh. Really? Who’s your friend? If I might be so bold.”
“I’m here to see Jane,” Michael said.
The smile disappeared. “I see,” she said. Just then, with perfect dramatic timing, Jane walked into the reception area.
She froze for just a second, surprised to see Michael at the office. Then a lovely, slow smile came across her face, and Michael couldn’t look away from her. She walked toward him and gently peeled the piece of tissue from his chin — as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do.
“He feels pain” was all she said.
“He does. And he bleeds.”
Vivienne spoke up. “I just met your friend, Jane-Sweetie.