Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [69]
Eight ELSIE MCANN LOOKED as pale as the froth on a latte, panic-stricken, and possibly close to a fatal stroke. So what else was new? After all, Elsie had been the dragonlike receptionist at my mother’s production company, ViMar Productions, for twenty-eight long and stressful years, and here she was, still breathing, if not exactly breathing fire anymore. “Oh, thank God, you’re finally here, Jane,” she said, relief flooding into her voice. “It’s barely ten o’clock.” “I don’t know what’s wrong, but Vivienne’s been out here a hundred times, asking about you.” “Well, tell her I’m here now.” But Elsie wouldn’t have to. I could already hear Vivienne’s stiletto heels clicking down the corridor. “Where have you been, Jane-Sweetie? It’s practically noon,” she asked, a split second before she actually came into view. “It’s ten o’clock,” I said again. “And where have you been?” she said, then kissed me on the cheek, as she always did. My morning kiss. Actually, I had been in my apartment, drink
Nine IN MY OFFICE, Vivienne said, “Call Karl Friedkin. Right now. This minute! Your mother commands it.” She was only half joking. Faithful servant that I am, I pressed his number on speed dial. “Wait a second, Jane-Sweetie. Hold on. Hang up. Let me think.” I hung up. Vivienne tented her fingers together as she paced around my small office. It almost looked as if she were praying to the patron saint of theater backers. “Here’s what I want you to let Karl know,” she said. “Tell him there’s a great deal of interest in the project from Gerry Schwartz at Phoenix Films, and Gerry has an eye for big hits.” “Oh my God!” I said. “When did Phoenix call?” She gave me an exasperated look. “Oh, for God’s sake, Jane-Sweetie. They didn’t. But let Friedkin think they’re interested.” She went on: “Tell him that if he doesn’t kick in the money today, well, tomorrow’s going to be too late.” I put down the phone. “Mother, I can see stretching the truth. But outright lying? You know I hate that.” Another
Ten MY BOYFRIEND, Hugh McGrath, was ridiculously handsome, but should that be held against him? Okay, well, maybe. I can think of a few reasons. Once, on a beach in East Hampton, a man had walked up to him and said, “Where can I buy a smile like that?” And he’d been serious. That was the kind of guy Hugh was. The kind that something like that would happen to. The kind of guy with velvety brown eyes, a perfect nose, high cheekbones, and a chiseled chin worthy of Bond, James Bond. Hugh was a Broadway actor, nominated for a Tony when he was nineteen. He’d been born with the gift of gab and an innate ability to sell ice to polar bears. Once he’d leaned on his elbow in bed and told me that just the sight of me in the morning made him deliriously happy. Since I know what I look like when I wake up, my response was “You want mustard with that baloney?” Tonight he was meeting me for dinner at Babbo, our favorite Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village. Twenty-some years ago, when I was a littl
Eleven I TOOK OUT my cell phone and placed it on the table. I ordered a Bellini, delicious, perfect, and sipped it while I waited for my date to arrive. Hugh was now a half hour late. Damn him. Then I realized this was the third time in a row that Hugh had been really late without a phone call. I tried to work up concern, like maybe he’d gotten hit by a taxi, maybe he was in the hospital, maybe he’d gotten mugged, but quickly shut it down when I realized it was my anger talking. Hugh was probably at the gym. He was obsessed with staying in ridiculously good