Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [72]
Twenty WHILE HUGH FLIRTED with an obnoxiously pretty and pathologically thin fashion model who had seen his play four times, I pretended to study the dessert menu, which, sadly, I knew by heart. God save me, right then I would have killed for a piece of Chocolate Dome Cake. But I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t. I really, really couldn’t. Take your mind off it. Okay, I had to get back to the salt mines for a Thank Heaven preproduction meeting. I needed to introduce our possible financier, Karl Friedkin, to some of the creative people — casting agent, costume designer, set designer. No Dome Cake for you, I told myself sternly. Ix-nay on the ome-day ake-cay. Hugh air-kissed his skinny, doting fan, while I paid the fat check for our lunch. “Mind if I don’t go back with you, Jane?” he asked. “I need to hit the gym.” Unconsciously he preened in the mirror over the bar, stroking his perfectly smooth cheek and checking out his different angles. Of course, I have the kind of face that doesn’t even have
Twenty-one YEARS AGO when he and Jane had wanted to escape from her constrictive and smothering Park Avenue world, they would take the crosstown bus to the Upper West Side. What a terrifically funky and eclectic world it had been back then, before the baby boomers with their Maclaren strollers. Wide-eyed, Michael and Jane had explored secondhand clothing stores and West African restaurants, Spanish bodegas and Jewish delis, all mixed together and coexisting in harmony. Now, Michael couldn’t help thinking, that same neighborhood had all the character and charm of a suburban mall in central Ohio. Goldblum’s Dry Cleaners had become a Prada. Johannsen’s Hardware was a Baby Gap. The “World’s Best Bagels” place had turned into a fancy soap store. As Michael thought of those hot, terrific bagels now, all he could taste was soap. Only one really terrific place remained from the old Jane and Michael days: the Olympia Diner, at the corner of Broadway and 77th. It was run by third-generation Gree
Twenty-two I STARED AT MYSELF in the bathroom mirror, feeling like a soldier marching off to war. The pressure was on, but I had done it to myself this time. I had less than forty-five minutes to do a complete Elle makeover, and I needed the works — hair, clothes, makeup, accessories. If they had a pill that made you lose fifteen pounds in forty-five minutes but shaved five years off your life, I would have taken two. I was meeting Hugh at the Metropolitan Museum, and I needed to look my absolute best, which in my case equaled, well, presentable. There was a cocktail party and reception there for a Jacqueline Kennedy fashion retrospective. I would be on Hugh’s arm, which meant that I would be watched closely, even jealously in some circles. Okay, first, set the mood: I put John Legend’s Once Again in the CD player and cranked it. If that didn’t inspire me, I was SOL. Ah, yes! That was much better. Second, face the enemy. In my bathroom was a cabinet that held nothing but unopened makeu
Twenty-three I WALKED WEST on 75th Street, then made my way uptown, and for once in my life I felt as though I actually belonged on Fifth Avenue. As I climbed the steps of the Metropolitan Museum, I definitely felt different. My heels clicked rapidly on the stone stairs. I felt exotic, glamorous, womanly. I didn’t feel like Jane. I spotted Hugh standing at the top, leaning against a column as if posing for a Ralph Lauren ad. His jacket was slung over his shoulder and he was slouching just so, pretending not to notice the many admiring glances sent his way. He stood up straight as soon as he saw me, and his eyes widened. “My God,” he said, “what have you done with Jane?” I laughed, pleased that he had noticed, and he kissed me on the cheek. Then lightly on the lips. Then he stood back and examined me again. “What did you do to