Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [9]
“By the way, how did you know Karl Friedkin called me?” I asked suspiciously.
“A mother’s intuition,” she said, click-clacking toward the door.
“You went through my phone messages.”
She pretended to be shocked. “I would never do such a thing.” Looking affronted, she swept out the door, only to sweep back in a second later.
“Oh, and after you call Karl Friedkin and get our money, don’t forget to call your dermatologist back.”
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 little girl, Babbo had been called the Coach House. My mother and I would go there sometimes on Sunday nights. I would always order the black bean soup, and she would always say, “No sour cream in the soup, Jane-Sweetie. Remember, you had a huge ice cream sundae a few hours ago.” Yes, with Michael.
Tonight I arrived at the restaurant before Hugh, and the stunning Russian-born blonde at the reservation desk led me upstairs to the dining loft. Once I was seated, I couldn’t help people-watching. I’ll admit it, I’m an addict from way back.
Across the aisle from me was an eye-catching couple, a black woman and a blond white guy, both in their twenties. His navy blue Ralph Lauren suit said “successful attorney.” Her long legs said “runway model.” They were clearly in love, crazy about each other. For tonight, anyway.
At the next table was another couple in their mid-to-late forties. She wore a pair of jeans and your basic five-hundred-dollar T-shirt. He wore chinos, a dark brown shirt, a darker brown suede jacket. His eyeglasses were authentic 1950s black. I decided they were art dealers, and she was an artist. It was their second anniversary. She was trying to get him to taste her black fettuccine with squid.
Yes, I was playing the Jane-and-Michael game. And, yes, I didn’t even realize it. And, yes, damn it, Hugh was fifteen minutes late for our date. It wasn’t the first time, especially in the last few weeks. Well, actually, ever since I’d been going out with him.
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 shape, and how could I object to that?
MAYBE BECAUSE HUGH was now exactly one hour late. Nobody needs to be in such good shape. A second Bellini had made me a little light-headed and hungry.
“Perhaps I could bring a little antipasto for you, Miss Margaux?” the waiter asked. He was one of my favorites, always so nice, and he remembered me every time. Well, I’d been coming here for years.
“You know, I think I’ll order.”
I REMEMBER being hungry — and then I remember being full. I remember looking down and seeing my hand, holding a spoon with some elaborate