Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [73]
Twenty-four THAT JACKIE KENNEDY sure knew how to pick out clothes. Each outfit was more incredible than the last. And with every sip of my apple martini, those dresses of hers grew even more incredible. The sky blue Givenchy. The solid gold Cassini. The beige Chanel daytime suit that would never go out of style. The best thing that happened to me that night — except for Hugh being amazed at how good I looked — was being greeted by a stone-faced Anna Wintour, editor of Vogue, who said, “You look well, Jane.” High praise indeed. “My knee is killing me from tennis this morning. Let’s sit down,” Hugh finally said. So we sat at a tiny cocktail table in the museum’s Great Hall. I wanted to stand, to be seen for once in my life, but on second thought my Jimmy Choos could use a little break. “I’m going to smoke a cigarette until someone comes and throws water on me,” Hugh said. Before he had time to light it, I looked up and saw Felicia Weinstein, Hugh’s smarmy, pushy agent, walking toward us.
Twenty-five MICHAEL WAS BECOMING comfortable with his stalker status. Maybe a little too comfortable. This is the last time, he promised himself. It all ends tonight. An hour or so earlier, Michael had been floored when Jane walked out of her apartment, looking like a million bucks. He’d shadowed her as she walked from her apartment to the Metropolitan Museum. There was a determined movement in her walk, he noticed. A strut in her step. And that hot pink dress . . . She looked as though she’d recovered from Hugh. So maybe she was okay now. Maybe Michael could just be happy for her as he trailed along at a safe distance. If Jane was okay now, then it was time for him to disappear again. sKIP FORWARD ABOUT AN HOUR, and he was following her back down Fifth Avenue. Jane was walking alone again, but much slower now, her shoulders hunched, no spring whatsoever in her step. When she cut over to Madison Avenue, she stopped and stared aimlessly in several store windows, including one of those p
Twenty-six THE GIN AND TONIC was cold and fizzy and crisp. Tanqueray cut by lime. Just right. Was there any better place than Bemelmans to sit and think and feel disgustingly sorry for yourself? I was a thirty-two-year-old woman who had everything and nothing going for her at the exact same time. I had a good job that was theoretically fascinating, but it consumed my hours and days and gave me almost no personal satisfaction. I had a wealthy, successful mother, but she treated me like an idiot child and called it love. And worse, I desperately loved her anyway. I had a boyfriend. Yes, that was for certain. Had a boyfriend. Past tense. My mind began racing in a lot of bad directions all at the same time. Maybe my goals were too long-term. Maybe I should figure out a way to be happy, not for a lifetime, but for an hour or two. Maybe there was somebody out there who wanted to sit around with me, and order in Japanese, and not hate watching a DVD of You’ve Got Mail or The Shawshank Redempt
Twenty-seven WELL, ON TO BETTER, and definitely more meaningful, subjects. On Sunday mornings, I worked at a women’s shelter on East 119th Street, Spanish Harlem. No big deal, no Purple Hearts necessary, but it was something I could do to help out a little, and it brought much-needed perspective to my life. Six hours at the shelter, and I came home feeling blessed beyond belief. I kind of thought of it as going to church, only better — more useful, anyway. So there I was ladling out scrambled eggs and beans, hard rolls and squares of margarine. Paper plates for the food, plastic cups for the orange juice. It felt good to know that these people would have full stomachs this morning. “Can you give my son more eggs?” a mother with a five-or six-year-old boy asked. “You do that for me?” “Of course,” I said. I gave him another scoop of eggs with a hard roll on top. “Say thank you to the lady, Kwame.” “Thank you.” “You