Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [45]
“Hugh, I’ve got a ton of work to do.”
Suddenly a little-boy, have-pity-on-me look came over his face. “Jane, I need your help. I don’t ask for much.”
My eyebrows raised, but he went on anyway.
“Look, let’s be honest with one another. I need this movie role. I need Thank Heaven. Okay, are you happy now? I’m humbled and I’m humiliated.”
I still said nothing, though I got what he was saying and even felt an iota of pity for him. Still, this was the same Hugh who’d wanted to trade an engagement ring for a movie part and who had left me stranded in Brooklyn.
“It’s not going to happen, Hugh. I’m sorry, honestly I am. I am. But you’re not going to get the part. You aren’t Michael.”
“I am! For God’s sake, Jane. I created that character.”
“No. You did not. You had nothing to do with creating Michael. Trust me on that.”
His eyes opened wider, and that mean little sneer of his appeared. “You disgusting little shit!” he spat. “Mama’s little girl pretending that she’s Mama. Still in a fairy-tale world from when you were eight years old.”
I stood up behind my desk, expecting my hands to begin trembling, but they didn’t. “That was nasty, Hugh, even for you.”
“You know where you can shove that little movie of yours? I was doing you a favor, volunteering to be in that piece of sentimental crap! It wouldn’t even be getting made if you weren’t Vivienne Margaux’s very needy daughter.”
My eyes were filling with tears, but Hugh didn’t seem to notice, and that was the only good thing happening. He came closer to my desk, stabbing his finger at me as he talked. “You need me, Jane. I don’t need you. You need my talent. I don’t need yours. Which is a good thing. Because you don’t have any talent.”
Everything went red, just like in books, and a burning rage filled my chest. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” I said. “Watch this, Hugh.”
I pulled my arm back and punched Hugh in the face, as hard as I could.
Silence.
We were both stunned. Hugh had both hands over his left eye, but his right eye was wide and staring.
A second later, intense pain filled my hand, and I looked down to see if I’d broken any knuckles.
“My God, Jane, have you completely gone out of your mind?”
With my typical luck, my mother had arrived just in time to see me slug Hugh. Excellent. I was sure I’d be able to live this down. Someday. Right after Vivienne finally recovered from the outfit I’d chosen to wear to my sixth-grade graduation, which I was still hearing about occasionally.
“She has!” Hugh sputtered. “She’s gone nuts!”
You know, I really couldn’t argue with them. I mean, what was I going to say? “I wouldn’t have had to hit you if my imaginary friend, possibly boyfriend, had been here”?
I think not.
Fifty-two
MY MOTHER and those damn stilettos of hers had come click-clacking into the room, not to see me, but to make sure I had accepted Hugh’s lame-ass apology.
“Jane, what is going on?” she asked.
“She’s insane, that’s what happened!” Hugh cried.
“Nothing, really, Mother,” I said calmly. “Hugh and I just formally broke up.”
“Broke up?” she asked. “How? Why? What am I missing here? I’m lost, and I never get lost.”
“I can see why you might be confused,” I said. “But after all, we were never very much of a couple to begin with. More like a solo act with a sidekick.”
Wide-eyed, my mother stared at me, then leaned out my office door. “MaryLouise!”
She must have been lurking outside the office door, listening to the fireworks, because she responded in record time.
“Get me some ice wrapped in a linen towel,” Vivienne said.
Leave it to Vivienne to specify the type of material for the towel.
Hugh thanked Vivienne for her concern, and she led him to the three-seater sofa against the wall. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’ll just sit here a minute. Vivienne, I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Well, as I said, he’s an actor.
My mother turned her attention toward me.
“See that, Jane? What has gotten into you? You can’t go around smacking people like Hugh. You could have hurt him.”
“She did