Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [46]
“No more than he’s hurt me,” I said. “I guess you haven’t heard about the wedding proposal debacle.”
“Jane, don’t be flip. I’m being serious.”
“So am I. Or do my feelings not count, because it’s only me?”
“Listen, Jane, this isn’t your fantasy world, where you can do anything you feel like,” Vivienne said.
“Oh, good thing you cleared that up,” I said snippily, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I can’t imagine anything Hugh could have done to provoke physical violence on your part.”
“Really? Well, when you have a few hours, I’ll give you the list. As for now, I want the two of you to leave my office.”
Vivienne’s cheeks flamed, and she walked toward me, stopping inches away from my desk.
“This is not your office. This is my office. Every ashtray, every desk, every computer, every toilet, every scrap of paper, every Xerox machine . . .”
My mouth dropped open.
“You wouldn’t be working here if it weren’t for me. You certainly wouldn’t be working here if I knew you were going to physically abuse a talented actor like Hugh McGrath. I don’t have to put up with behavior like this.”
“You’re right, Mother. You don’t.”
Anger was boiling over inside me. I reached down and grabbed my black leather satchel. Then I swept as much as I could from the top of my desk — papers and letters and pens and photographs — into the bag, making sure I got my Rolodex.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jane.”
“Oh, I’m not, Mother. I’m being as sane as I’ve been in years.” Then I added — because I’m me — “I’m sorry.”
I walked past her, and I walked past Hugh. And suddenly I had a crazy thought: No kiss today, Mother?
At the door I almost collided with MaryLouise.
As I headed down the hallway toward the elevator I heard her say, “They didn’t have a linen towel, Ms. Margaux. You’ll have to settle for cotton.”
Fifty-three
THAT MORNING, Michael had donned his headphones and jogged over to the Olympia Diner to see Patty, to make sure she was all right, but she wasn’t there. So he sat down, had a big, greasy breakfast, and tried to make some sense out of everything that was happening. Like the fact that he thought he was falling in love with Jane Margaux.
He had all the classic symptoms — pounding heart, sweaty palms, dreamy lapses in attention, a certain degree of immaturity, happiness in just about every part of his body. After last night, he had to see Jane again. Today. Worse, he had to kiss her again. He’d meet her at her office tonight. He couldn’t make himself stay away, even if it might be the right thing to do for all concerned.
When he got home from breakfast, he nearly ran into Patty — and her daughter. They were leaving his building.
What was this? Not good!
Patty was crying, and the little girl looked sad and displaced too. Michael had seen that look many times before with his kids, and it always broke his heart.
“Hi, Patty,” he said, then immediately bent down to talk to the little girl. “Hello, sweetheart. Your name is Holly, right? What’s going on?”
“My mommy’s sad,” she said. “She broke up with her boyfriend, Owen.”
“Yeah? Your mommy’s very strong, though. Tough as nails. Are you okay?”
“I guess so. I talked to my friend Martha about it.” Then the girl whispered, “She’s invisible, you know.”
“Ah, I do know, actually,” Michael said, since Martha was standing right there, looking concerned. She gave him a little wave. “Hi,” Michael said, and winked at Holly. “How are you, Martha?”
Martha made a so-so gesture with her hand.
Then Michael stood up. “You’re a terrific person, Patty. You know that, right? Owen is a . . . not-ready-for-grown-ups player,” he said. No beating around the bush about that.
“Thank you, Michael. Not your fault,” Patty said. “My fault.”
Then she picked up Holly and hurried down the front steps, with Martha right behind. “Owen is a shit,” Martha muttered to Michael as she passed him.
He watched the trio leave, ran up the four flights to his floor. With no plan in mind, he headed for Owen’s door, and was about to pound the hell out of it, but stopped himself.
Screw