Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [8]
Actually, I had been in my apartment, drinking coffee and watching Matt Lauer interview a woman on how to organize an out-of-control garage. (By the way, extensive use of Peg-Boards is the answer.)
I headed down the hall and into my office, with Vivienne following me.
“I hope that paper bag you’re carrying does not hold a fattening blueberry muffin.”
“No, it does not,” I answered truthfully. The bag held a fattening maple-walnut doughnut, glazed.
I sat down at my desk and began going through a one-inch stack of phone messages. A lot were from agents and therefore lies.
One was from my “personal shopper” at Saks, Vivienne’s idea. More lies.
Five messages were marked “Your mother.”
One was from Hugh McGrath, my boyfriend. The light of my life, the bane of my existence, all wrapped up in one hot, charming package.
The next message was from my dermatologist, returning my call.
The only other significant message was from Karl Friedkin, and it actually was important. He was a wealthy real estate developer, and he was very interested in investing in my movie project.
Three years ago my mother had allowed me to produce a play, all on my own. It had a cast of two — an eight-year-old girl and a thirty-five-year-old man. It had two sets — the Astor Court of the St. Regis Hotel and a Manhattan apartment. I was pretty sure that Vivienne had thought it would be so cheap to produce that when it flopped it wouldn’t be a huge loss.
The play was called Thank Heaven, and it was based not at all loosely on my long-ago relationship with Michael, my imaginary friend. Maybe producing this play had been my way of trying not to forget Michael. Maybe it was just an adorable idea for a play.
To both Vivienne’s and my astonishment, Thank Heaven had been a hit. A smash hit, actually, and a Tony winner. Audiences had loved the story of the chubby little girl and her handsome imaginary friend. When Michael finally left her, you could hear the audience sobbing. Often enough, I had been one of them.
A blowup of a quote from Ben Browning in the New York Times hung over my desk:
CALL ME A SENTIMENTAL FOOL, OR MUCH WORSE IF YOU LIKE, BUT “THANK HEAVEN” IS IRRESISTIBLE. LIKE LIFE AT ITS BEST, IT IS THE PERFECT COMBINATION OF CHARM, TEARS, AND LAUGHTER.
Of course, Thank Heaven wouldn’t bring Michael back, but it had brought Hugh McGrath into my life. Hugh had played Michael, and then he became my real-life boyfriend.
When I’d told Vivienne that I wanted to produce a movie of Thank Heaven, she’d said, “That’s not a terrible idea, but you’ll never be able to do it on your own, Jane-Sweetie. You’ll definitely need my help. Fortunately for you, I don’t have too much on my plate right now.”
The plan was to raise half the production money ourselves, then ask a Hollywood studio for the rest. Vivienne had said she’d match whatever Karl Friedkin came up with.
“I’m breaking the cardinal rule of production.Never invest your own money,” Vivienne had said. “But, after all, you’re family, Jane-Sweetie.”
Ah, she remembered.
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 exasperated