Sundays at Tiffany's Page 2

  “Tomorrow’s the special day,” Jane said, looking down at her shoes so her classmates wouldn’t see her talking to an imaginary friend. “I just might get my puppy. I don’t even care what kind anymore. Maybe he’ll be at my party. First we have to see The Problem with Kansas, though. And you’re invited, of course.”

  The school bell sounded.

  “Great. I can’t wait to see Kansas. You go in now, and I’ll be back at three to pick you up. As per usual.”

  “Okay,” she said. “We can talk about what we’re going to wear tomorrow night.”

  “Yeah, you can help pick out some fancy clothes for me. So I don’t embarrass you.”

  Jane’s eyes met his squarely. For a split second he had an idea of exactly what she would look like as a grown-up—the serious face, her warm smile, those intelligent eyes that reached right into his soul.

  “You could never embarrass me, Michael.”

  She let go of his hand then and ran toward the school building. Michael didn’t blink until he saw her head of blond curls slip behind the door. He waited. Jane peeked out again, as she always did. She waved, smiled, then disappeared for good.

  Suddenly Michael needed to blink. Several times, actually. He felt as if a giant had stepped on his chest. His heart actually hurt.

  How was he going to tell Jane that he had to leave her tomorrow?

  That was another duty of an imaginary friend, and possibly the worst.

  Five

  I WILL NEVER FORGET that day, in the same way that someone who survived the Titanic can’t just put it out of her pretty little head. People always remember the worst day of their lives. It becomes part of them forever. So I remember my ninth birthday with piercing clarity.

  That day after school, Michael and I got ready. Then we went to the theater and sat in our VIP seats for the opening of The Problem with Kansas. I hadn’t seen Vivienne all day, so she hadn’t had a chance to wish me a happy birthday yet. But Michael had met me at school with flowers. I remember how grown-up that made me feel. Those apricot roses were the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

  I hardly remember the play, but I know that the audience laughed and cried and gasped in all the right places. Michael and I held hands, and I had a fluttering excitement inside my chest. Everything good was about to happen: It was my turn. A birthday party, hopefully a puppy, Michael was with me, my mother would be happy about the play. Everything seemed wonderful, everything seemed possible.

  At the curtain call, Vivienne walked onstage with the cast. She pretended to be shy and shocked that everyone liked her new show so much. She bowed, and the audience stood and clapped. I stood up too, and clapped the hardest, and I loved her so much I could hardly bear it. Someday she would love me back just as much, I was sure of it.

  Then it was time for my birthday party at our apartment. Finally!

  The first people to arrive were the dancers from my mother’s play. I could have predicted that. Dancers don’t make that much money, and they were probably starving after dancing so much. In the front hallway with the black-and-white marble floor, a group of them were taking off their coats, revealing stick-figure bodies. Even at nine years old, I knew I’d never look like that.

  “You must be Vivienne’s daughter,” one of them said. “Jill, right?”

  “Jane,” I said, but smiled to show I wasn’t a total brat.

  “I didn’t know Vivienne had a kid,” one of the other stick figures said. “Hello, Jane. You’re cute as a button.”

  A flock of gazelles, they moved into the huge living room, leaving me to wonder if I’d ever seen a button that qualified as cute.

  “Holy Stephen Sondheim!” one dancer said. “I knew Vivienne was rich, but this place is bigger than the Broadhurst Theatre.”

  By the time I turned around again, it seemed as though there were a hundred people in the room. I searched for Michael and finally saw him standing near the piano player.

  The room was as noisy as a theater during intermission. You could barely hear the piano over the chatter. Near the door to the library I saw that Vivienne had arrived, and she was talking to a tall, silver-haired man wearing a tuxedo jacket and blue jeans. I’d seen him at a couple of rehearsals for Kansas and knew he was some kind of writer. They were standing very close to each other, and I got a sinking feeling that he was auditioning for the role of Vivienne’s fourth husband. Ugh.

  A little old lady who played the grandmother in The Problem with Kansas hooked me with the handle of her cane.

  “You look like a nice girl,” she said.

  “Thank you. I try to be,” I told her. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I was wondering if you could go to that wet bar over there and get me a Jack Daniel’s and water,” she said.

  “Sure. Straight up or on the rocks?”

  “My goodness. You are a sophisticated one. Could you possibly be a midget?”

  I laughed and glanced at Michael. He was whispering something to the piano player. What was he up to?

  As I began to walk toward one of the bars, I heard a loud voice. “May I have your attention, please?” It was the piano player, and the crowd quieted down immediately.

  “I’ve been told… and I’m not sure by whom… that this is a very special day for someone…. She’s nine years old today… Vivienne’s daughter.”

  Vivienne’s daughter. That’s who I was.

  I smiled, feeling happy and self-conscious at the same time. Everyone’s eyes turned toward me. The leading man from the show picked me up and stood me on a chair, and suddenly I was taller than everyone in the room. I looked for my mother, hoping she was smiling proudly, but I didn’t see her anywhere. The writer was gone too. Then music began, and everyone sang “Happy Birthday.” There’s nothing like having a professional Broadway chorus sing you “Happy Birthday.” I think it was the most beautiful “Happy Birthday” I’ve ever heard. A shiver went right through me, and it probably would have been the happiest moment of my life if my mother had been there to share it with me.

  When it was over, the very nice actor put me down, everyone applauded, and the party went back to being an opening night party. The birthday part was over.

  Then I heard a familiar voice call my name. “Jane! I think I know this big, beautiful girl.” I whirled to see my father, Kenneth. He seemed awfully tall and straight for someone who was supposed to be “spineless.”

  “Daddy!” I shouted, and ran into his arms.

  Six

  GOD, DID I LOVE being hugged. Especially by my dad. He wrapped his arms around me, and I could smell cold air and a faint tinge of his aftershave. I breathed in deeply, so happy and relieved he had come.

  “You didn’t think I’d forget your ninth birthday?” my father asked. He pulled away from me and tugged on my hand. “Okay, quick, out into the front hall. If your mother finds out that I’ve crashed her party, she’ll flip.”

  “There’ll be people to catch her if she does,” I said. “But I’m not even sure that she’s still here.”

  We pushed through the crowd, me holding my dad’s hand, and in the front hall were two surprises: a big box with a yellow ribbon—and my father’s current girlfriend. I remembered Vivienne saying something about Ellie’s chest, and how it wasn’t real, but I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “You remember Ellie, don’t you, Jane?” Dad asked.

  “Uh-huh. Hi, Ellie. I’m glad you could come.” Years of etiquette classes were paying off.

  “Happy birthday, Jane,” she said. Ellie was very blond and pretty, and she seemed much younger than my mother. I knew Vivienne called Ellie “the schoolgirl” whenever her name was mentioned.

  “Open your gift,” my dad said. “Ellie helped pick it out.”

  I pulled on the yellow ribbon, and it came undone immediately. Inside was a lot of tissue paper, and I excitedly clawed my way through it. My fingers touched something soft and velvety—but not alive. I reached in and pulled out the bigges
t, purplest stuffed poodle I’d ever seen. It had a poufy topknot on its head, a rhinestone collar, and a heart-shaped gold tag that said “Gigi.”

  Pretty much the total opposite of the puppy I had wanted.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” I said, putting a big smile on my face. “This is so fun!” I tried to push all thoughts of a real, warm, wiggling puppy that would be mine, all mine, from my mind. No real puppy… stuffed purple poodle instead.

  “Thank Ellie, too,” Daddy said.

  “Thank you, Ellie,” I said politely, and she leaned down and kissed me. I recognized her perfume: Chanel No. 5. My father used to give it to my mother. I wondered if Ellie knew.

  “Okay,” Dad said, standing up. “Now we’re off to Nantucket.”

  I felt my heart jump. “We are?” I almost screamed.

  Ellie and my father looked at each other awkwardly.

  “No, honey,” said my dad. “I meant that Ellie and I are off to Nantucket. Your mother would kill me if I took you away from your birthday party.”

  Yeah, I’m sure she would notice, I thought bleakly. “I understand,” I said, trying hard not to cry on the spot. “It’s just that I love Nantucket. I really, really love Nantucket. And so does Michael.”

  “We’ll go there again, Jane. I promise,” my father said. “And your friend Michael can come, too.”

  I’m sure he meant it, because my father never said anything he didn’t mean. But it made me so sad to see him help Ellie on with her coat.

  “You going to be okay?” Ellie asked. Actually, I liked her. She was always very kind to me. I hoped my father would marry her soon. He needed hugs, too. Everybody does. Maybe even Vivienne did.

  “Of course. It’s my birthday. Who’s not okay on their birthday?”

  We hugged one another. We kissed one another. We said good-bye, and then my father and Ellie got into the elevator and were gone into the night, on their merry way to Nantucket.

  The opening night party was in full swing. It was as if no one had even sung “Happy Birthday” just a few minutes ago. There was no point in me staying.

  I wove through the crowd of grown-ups and finally ran down the long, thickly carpeted, silent corridor that led to my bedroom. I slammed the door behind me and flung myself on my bed, burying my face in my pillow. Here, with no one to see me, I started to weep like the world’s biggest crybaby.

  Then the door opened.

  It was Michael. Thank goodness, it was Michael, come to save me.

  Seven

  JANE WAS SOBBING on her bed all by herself when he came in. She sure didn’t look like a birthday girl. But then, why would she, poor kid?

  Michael sighed, then sat down beside her and wrapped his arms around the little girl who didn’t deserve to be hurt like this. No child did.

  “It’s okay, honey. Let it all out,” he whispered against her hair, which always smelled of Johnson and Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. It was now one of his favorite scents.

  “Okay. But you asked for it.”

  Snuffling, her small face streaked with tears, Jane pulled off her shoes and dropped them on the floor.

  “I think Vivienne totally forgot my birthday,” she said, and she shuddered with leftover tears. “And my dad came, which was good, but then he left in about two minutes. And he was going to Nantucket, my favorite place in the world! Without me! And I didn’t get a puppy, either.”

  Jane held the purple poodle against her cheek. He had noticed that she often cuddled objects close to her—a winter coat, a pillow, a stuffed animal. She had a lot of hugs to give, but not enough people to give them to.

  “You’re a good listener,” she said, with one last sniffle. “Thanks. I feel better.”

  Michael looked around her room. It was pure Jane: stacks of chapter books written for much older kids. A real saxophone in the corner. A large poster with vocabulary words—in French. Over her desk, an autographed picture of Warren Beatty. Vivienne had brought it back from a three-month business trip to Los Angeles, during which she hadn’t come home once to see her daughter.

  Now Michael had to talk to Jane. The place—her cozy room, away from that stupid party—couldn’t have been better. The timing—right after she’d been hurt by both of her parents on her birthday—couldn’t have been worse.

  “You are an amazing, amazing girl,” Michael said. “Do you know that? You must.”

  “Sort of, but only because you tell me every other day,” she said with a watery smile.

  “You’re beautiful, inside and out,” he went on. “You’re incredibly smart. Well-read. Funny. Considerate. And generous. You’ve got so much to give.”

  Suddenly Jane looked very alert. He had just said she was smart—and she was about to prove it to him, wasn’t she?

  “Michael, what are you trying to say? What’s going on? Something bad.”

  His legs weakened and his eyesight blurred. Why now? Why Jane? Why him?

  “You’re nine now,” he forced himself to say. “You’re a big girl. And so… and so—I’m leaving you tonight, Jane. I have to go.”

  “I know you do. But you’ll be back tomorrow. Like always.”

  Michael swallowed. This was impossible. It was breaking his heart.

  “No, Jane. The thing is, I’ll never be back again. I don’t have a choice in this. It’s a rule.” Just saying the words made him feel worse than he ever had. Jane was special. She was different. He didn’t know why, he just knew she was. For the first time, the rule about when to leave a child struck Michael as stupid and unfair. He would have rather died than cause Jane this much pain. But it was true that he had no choice. He never had.

  She didn’t cry, didn’t move a muscle in her face—just like Vivienne. She looked Michael squarely in the eyes and said absolutely nothing. There was an awful stillness about her that he’d never seen.

  “Jane, did you hear me?” he finally had to ask.

  There was a pause that seemed to go on forever.

  “I’m not ready for you to go,” she said, and large tears started to roll down her cheeks again. “I’m really not ready.”

  When she grabbed a tissue to wipe her nose, he saw that her small hands were shaking. And that just killed him. Those delicate little hands trembling uncontrollably. It was unbearable.

  Damn it, he thought. Then an idea came to him, but this was something he’d never done before, not with any other child.

  “Jane, I’ll tell you a secret. It’s a secret I’ve never told anyone, and you can’t ever tell anyone either. It’s the secret of imaginary friends.”

  “I don’t want to hear your secrets,” she said, her voice wavering, but Michael kept going.

  “Children have imaginary friends to help guide them into their lives. We help children feel less alone, help them find their place in the world, in their families. But then we have to leave, have to. It’s always been that way, and it will always be that way, Jane. That’s just… how it works.”

  “But I told you, I’m not ready.”

  Michael let her in on another secret. “Once I leave, you won’t even remember me, sweetheart. No one ever does. If you ever think of me, I’ll just seem like a dream.” It was the one thing that made any of this acceptable at all.

  Jane grabbed his arm and held on tightly. “Please don’t leave me, Michael. I’m begging you. You can’t—not now, not ever! You don’t know how important you are to me!”

  “You’ll see, Jane,” he promised her. “You’ll forget me, and it won’t hurt tomorrow. Besides, you said it yourself: Love means you can never be apart. So we’ll never be apart, Jane, because I love you so much. I’ll always, always love you.”

  And with those words, Michael began to fade out of the room, in imaginary friend–style, and as he did he heard sweet little Jane’s last words.

  “Michael, please don’t go! Please don’t! If you go, I’ll have no one. I’ll never forget you, Michael, no matter what. I’ll never forget you!”

  Which brings the story to today.<
br />
  Not an imaginary today either.

  The real one.

  PART TWO

  Twenty-three Years Older, but

  Not Necessarily That Much Smarter

  Eight

  ELSIE MCANN LOOKED as pale as the froth on a latte, panic-stricken, and possibly close to a fatal stroke. So what else was new? After all, Elsie had been the dragonlike receptionist at my mother’s production company, ViMar Productions, for twenty-eight long and stressful years, and here she was, still breathing, if not exactly breathing fire anymore.

  “Oh, thank God, you’re finally here, Jane,” she said, relief flooding into her voice.

  “It’s barely ten o’clock.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong, but Vivienne’s been out here a hundred times, asking about you.”

  “Well, tell her I’m here now.”

  But Elsie wouldn’t have to. I could already hear Vivienne’s stiletto heels clicking down the corridor.

  “Where have you been, Jane-Sweetie? It’s practically noon,” she asked, a split second before she actually came into view.

  “It’s ten o’clock,” I said again.

  “And where have you been?” she said, then kissed me on the cheek, as she always did. My morning kiss.

  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.