Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [79]
Forty-nine WHEN I GOT HOME from my “date” with Michael, and I definitely thought it had been a date, I didn’t have a chance to process any of what had just happened — because someone was in my apartment. The light in the foyer was on, and the kitchen overheads, and at least one lamp in the living room. I had a crazy thought: that it might be Michael. Who knows, maybe he could just make himself appear somewhere. Or it could be Hugh, because I thought he still had a key to my place. But if it was Michael, I didn’t want to call out “Hugh?” or vice versa. And what an ironic dilemma for someone who was historically so bad with relationships. So I took a deep breath and said, “Hello?” “Jane-Sweetie” came from inside the living room, and as I turned the corner, there was my mother, seated in one of my easy chairs. “I thought I’d come over,” she said, “for a little talk.” “Huh,” I said, thinking I’d rather be smeared with honey and tied to an anthill. “How did you get in?” “I still have a key
Fifty OKAY, OKAY, OKAY. I understood that pushing the elevator button over and over again would not make the elevator appear sooner. But I couldn’t help myself. After my heart-pounding date with Michael (it was so a date), and my weird talk with the mysterious Vivienne, I’d gotten about twenty minutes of sleep. Now it was the next morning, and I was praying that Michael would be waiting in the lobby to walk me to work. God, I wanted to see him again, at least one more time. Please. Please. Please. Let him be downstairs. Don’t let him be gone from my life again. I considered running down the ten flights. My Saks Fifth Avenue shopper — Vivienne’s birthday gift to me (and what kind of gift says “you embarrass me” better than a personal shopper?) — had sent over a chic Lagerfeld suit, slacks and jacket in a pale bluish green silk. I thought that I looked okay in it, maybe even better than okay. Damn it, I looked good! I’d even lost three pounds! Three whole pounds. That had never happened
Fifty-one AS I WALKED into the reception area of ViMar Productions, I was feeling a little shaky, but strangely balanced, about myself, about who I was, and about where I ought to be going with my life. Was that the reason Michael had come back, because my confidence needed a little touch-up or, to be more honest, an overhaul? Was that what Vivienne was trying to say last night? I saw Elsie waving from behind the reception desk. “In your office,” she said. “It’s a surprise.” Oh yes, and I was so in the mood for something unexpected. I don’t like surprises even on good days, and today it was about to make me run screaming down the hall. When I opened the door I was certainly startled, but not in a good way. It was Hugh. And he was seated at my desk, going through my mail. “Now that you’ve done the snail mail, why don’t you check my BlackBerry?” I said, and threw it on the desk. He leaped to his feet. “Jane,” he said, walking toward me with his arms spread wide. He was wearing faded jean
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