Sundays at Tiffany's Read online

  From behind the planter, Michael heartily agreed. Jane had been stood up! He was now absolutely positive it was his Jane, from so long ago. He’d have known her voice anywhere. It was more mature, deeper, but recognizable all the same. And after all this time, she was still getting hurt, wasn’t she? People were still letting her down, not treating her like the special treasure she was. What was that all about? How could anyone stand to hurt her?

  Actually, Michael had been one of those people who had let her down, he acknowledged with shame. He’d hurt her. But he’d had no choice! There had been nothing, zero, zip, that he could do about it! Anyway, she’d forgotten him the next day. It almost made his hurting her not really count. Not like this schmuck McGrath.

  But why had Michael run into her again?

  But she had gone into her building now, and suddenly Martin the doorman was by the planter, looking down suspiciously at Michael.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Michael winced and stood up straight. “No—ah, thank you. I doubt it very much. I’ll just be on my way.”

  “Yes, sir. I was thinking the same thing.”

  Fourteen

  MY MOTHER HAD DONE everything but physically throw her body in front of the door to keep me from moving out of her apartment and getting my own place after college.

  “Move out? Nonsense! Why on earth would you want to move out? Raoul is here! I’m here! Jane-Sweetie, with me and Raoul and the Chinese restaurant on Lexington, you have everything you could possibly want.”

  Yes, Mother. Everything but privacy, a life, and perhaps my sanity.

  “You can’t manage without me!” Vivienne had insisted. “Who will help you pick out your clothes? Remind you to stick to your diet? Help with your practically nonexistent love life? Oh, which reminds me. My friend Tori gave me her cousin’s number, and I really think you should call him—apparently he’s an ear surgeon and very successful. But, Jane-Sweetie…”

  So that pretty much convinced me.

  As the movers were taking my Biedermeier dresser out the door, Vivienne had admitted a partial—and only a partial—defeat. “We’ll try it for a few months, Jane-Sweetie. And when it doesn’t work out, you can sublet it and come back.”

  No matter how much I might come to hate my new digs, I would not be moving back. Not even if I cried myself to sleep in my lonely pillow every night. It would still be my pillow in my apartment, and no one would be walking in on me to ask which earrings went with what outfit.

  Vivienne had then decided to make the best of it, in her own way. When I was away on a two-week business trip, she had completely redecorated my new place. I came back to my private little haven to find that my bedroom and living room were white on white, just like hers. The kitchen, which I used exclusively for reheating take-out food, was equipped like a restaurant: professional stove, warming ovens, two dishwashers, the glass-door Sub-Zero refrigerator with the pretty display lighting. There was a lone container of fat-free yogurt showing through the glass.

  I’d been too overwhelmed to undecorate or redecorate the redecoration. But I had managed to add my own touch: a photo of my mother, my father, and me, when I was very small. We were in Greece, standing at the foot of the Parthenon, and we were actually smiling. Had we ever really been that happy as a family, even for that one day? Even for an instant? I liked to believe that we were.

  So I’d hung the photograph in the front hall. My mother had spotted it immediately on her next visit. She’d sniffed and said, “If I give you one of my lesser Picasso drawings, would you consider replacing that sentimental trash?”

  Every time I came home and looked at that photo, I smiled.

  But not tonight.

  A little tight from the drinks at Babbo, hurt because of Hugh’s continuing thoughtlessness, and guilty about eating too much, I switched on the hallway light and looked at that happy family at the Parthenon. But for some reason, it didn’t make me feel any better.

  The answering machine in my bedroom told me I had three new messages.

  I pressed the Play button. Come on, Hugh. Redeem yourself. Tell me you’re in the hospital. Cheer me up.

  “Jane-Sweetie. Where on earth are you? Are you there… listening? Pick up, darling. Come on, pick up. I just had the most brilliant thought—”

  I pressed Erase and moved on to the next message.

  “This is a reminder from The Week magazine. Your complimentary six-month subscription—”

  Erase again.

  One last message. It was my old college roommate.

  “Jane, it’s Colleen. Are you sitting?”

  I sat on the edge of my bed and eased my shoes off.

  “Okay, here’s the rather unexpected news. I’m getting married. After Dwight and I divorced, I thought I would never meet anybody else, or want to. But Ben is great. Honestly. Cross my heart! Wait till you meet him. Never been married, works as a lawyer here in Chicago. The wedding is September twelfth, and you have to be a bridesmaid. I’ll try you again tomorrow. Hope everything’s going okay with you, too. I love you, Jane. Oh yeah—I’m writing short stories again too. Yippee! Hope you’re well.”

  I was happy for Colleen, I really was. All she’d ever wanted was to write fiction and raise a family, and now she was getting another chance at both. Yippee, indeed. I was happy for her. Really. Mostly.

  I walked into the bathroom and took off my eye shadow and mascara with those little “non-oily hypo-allergenic” eye pads. I washed my face with Caswell-Massey almond soap. (“If it was good enough for Jackie Kennedy,” my mother had told me, “it’s good enough for you.”)

  Then I climbed into bed and clicked on my laptop. I began making contract notes for my movie. I would forward them to Vivienne’s attorney tonight, and then he could draft a formal legal proposal to send to Karl Friedkin.

  An hour later, I shut off the computer. I was too tired to think straight and hoped the notes made sense. Getting out of bed, I padded through the quiet apartment. In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of water that my mother had shipped over from Sweden. I took several virtuous sips, but already my fingers were tingling with longing. I put the water down.

  Jane, be strong.

  I looked at the cabinet doors, the ones beneath the farmhouse slab sink.

  I reached my hand out.

  Don’t go there, Jane. Don’t do this.

  I opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink.

  You are now officially staring into the abyss. Step away! It’s not too late!

  I knelt. And since I was getting ready to worship, it was appropriate.

  Behind the Brillo pads, behind the Windex, behind the Soft Scrub, I took out my secret box of Oreos. Written on the box was: “For Emergency Use Only! This Means You!”

  I felt that tonight qualified. I ate four Oreos slowly, relishing every bite, every perfect combination of crunchy, chocolatey goodness mixed with sweet, creamy filling.

  My ritual complete, I headed back to bed.

  With two more Oreos in my hand.

  The extra Oreos were gone before I hit the pillow.

  Fifteen

  MICHAEL’S APARTMENT was in SoHo, one of his favorite parts of New York City, or any city, for that matter. Like everybody else, he had a certain amount of free will, could make most of his own choices. He just had a job to do, a mission—to be an imaginary friend to children. It wasn’t a bad job, by any means. He sometimes said out loud, “I love my work.”

  Still, he enjoyed these sabbaticals between assignments, between his kids. There was no telling how long they might last, so he’d learned to make the most of every day, to live in the moment, all that good stuff people liked to talk about, especially on TV, but often weren’t very good at putting into action.

  That night he got back to his brownstone at about 11:00, totally shaken up about having seen Jane, the grown-up Jane. It had been a huge shock. Jane Margaux. Wow.

  By the time Michael had hit the second landing, on the way to his fou
rth-floor walk-up, he could feel rock music drumming down from above, vibrating through the stairs. No doubt as to where it was coming from: Owen Pulaski’s apartment.

  Owen Pulaski. Michael wasn’t sure what to make of that devil-may-care, happy-go-lucky lug of a man-child. He was certainly friendly enough, outgoing, always made an effort. In fact, as Michael got to the fourth floor, Owen was just greeting a couple of women at the door of his apartment. The women were tall, slender, inhumanly gorgeous, and they were laughing at whatever Owen had just said to them. Owen was about six foot three, burly, with a boyish grin that Michael assumed was hard to resist.

  “Mikey, c’mon to my party. Don’t insult me now. Don’t you dare insult me,” Owen called across the hall.

  “Thanks, thanks, I’m kind of beat tonight,” Michael said, but Owen was already crossing the space between them, and then he had his arm wrapped around Michael.

  “This is Claire de Lune, and this is Cindy Two,” Owen said, nodding at both stunners. “They’re brilliant students at Columbia—I think it’s Columbia—who moonlight as beautiful models. Ladies, this is Michael. He’s great. He’s a surgeon at New York Hospital.”

  “I’m not a surgeon anywhere,” said Michael as he was dragged into the packed, loud, overheated party at Owen’s place.

  “Hey, hi,” said one of the women, a tall brunette whom Owen had called Claire de Lune. “I’m Claire… Parker. Owen is, well, Owen.”

  Michael turned his wince into something resembling a smile. “Hi, how are you, Claire?”

  “Not great, but let’s not get into that. We just met, right?”

  Michael sensed trouble inside the girl, and he couldn’t resist; he’d never met a lonely, depressed soul he didn’t want to try to help somehow. Was it his fatal flaw? The way he was made? He had no idea, and he had stopped worrying about things he couldn’t control. Well, mostly he had stopped.

  “No, it’s okay. I’m interested,” he said to Claire.

  “Sure you are.” She laughed. Someone passing by pressed drinks into both of their hands, and she laughed again. “Guys love to hear about our problems, our inner feelings, all that stuff.”

  “No, I do, actually. Let’s talk.”

  So Michael listened to Claire Parker’s life story for well over an hour in a tiny corner of the hallway leading to the kitchen. She was conflicted about wanting to be a teacher, which she was in school for, and all the money she was suddenly making as a model with the Ford Agency.

  Finally she looked into his eyes, smiled very sweetly, and said, “Michael, even though you’re not a surgeon, and I’m not Claire de Lune, do you want to come home with me? My roommate is on a shoot in London, and my cat isn’t the jealous type. You up for it? Say yes.”

  Sixteen

  TO BE HONEST, candid, whatever, it wouldn’t have been the first time something like this had happened to Michael, mostly on his sabbaticals, but sometimes during work stints as well. After all, he was able to make choices, he had a life, and he wasn’t impervious to beauty.

  What he said to Claire was “Actually, I live right across the hall.”

  Michael’s place was a sublet, fairly tidy and nicely furnished, the apartment of an anthropology professor at NYU who was in Turkey for the semester. Michael had a knack for finding great apartments, another perk of the job.

  “Your turn to talk,” Claire said, curling up on the sofa. She tucked her long legs under her and didn’t pull her skirt down to cover her knees. She patted the cushion next to her. “Come. Sit. Tell me everything.” Michael sat, and Claire traced one finger down his cheek. “Who is she? What happened? Why are you available? Are you?”

  Michael laughed, mostly at himself. “Funny you should ask. There was someone, sort of. I lost track of her for a long time. And then tonight, I think I found her again. Sort of. It’s kind of complicated.”

  “It always is.” Claire grinned. “I am interested, and we have all night. You have whiskey? Spirits of some kind?”

  In point of fact, Michael did (at least the professor did), very nice wine, which he would replace before he left. He opened a bottle of Caymus, then a second bottle—ZD—as he and the lovely Claire de Lune talked and talked until 4:00 in the morning, at which point they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms, in their clothes. And that was all right. Perfect, actually.

  In the morning, gentleman that he was, Michael made Claire a breakfast of whole wheat toast, eggs, and coffee. He prided himself on his coffee. This week it was shade-grown Kona. When she was leaving, she turned and draped one arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Thank you, Michael. I had a wonderful time.” She leaned in—they were almost the same height—and kissed Michael on the lips. “She’s a lucky girl.”

  “Who?” asked Michael, not understanding.

  “Jane. The one you were talking about last night, during the second bottle of wine.” Claire gave him a resigned little smile. “Good luck with her.”

  Seventeen

  AT 7:15 AM, I, the boss’s daughter, was the very first one in at ViMar Productions (with the exception of the mail boy, a tap-dancing British teenager, who I think was actually living under the sorting table in the mail room).

  It was 4:00 in the morning in Los Angeles, so I could send only e-mail and voicemail there. But it was noon in London, and that meant I could connect with Carla Crawley, the production head of the London company of Thank Heaven. The play was an even bigger hit in London than it had been in New York. The sets, the actors, everything was better quality over there.

  “Jane, I’m so glad you called. We’re having a slight problem. Seems that Jeffrey doesn’t like the new girl we’ve cast.”

  Jeffrey was Jeffrey Anderson, the British heartthrob who was playing Michael.

  “Jeffrey says he doesn’t relate as well to this new little girl. But believe me, Jane, the girl is brilliant, a real heart-tugger. Best of all, she’s eleven years old, but looks eight, so she can talk.”

  “Look, call Jeffrey’s agent and suggest they reread the part in his contract that says he has to play opposite a three-legged monkey if we want him to.”

  “I’ll pass the word along, Vivienne Junior,” Carla Crawley said, chuckling. A shudder shot down my spine. Vivienne Junior. Oh God, say it isn’t so.

  Eighteen

  AT 9:00 SHARP, my personal assistant, MaryLouise, showed up at the office. MaryLouise: totally honest, totally sarcastic, with the toughest, thickest Bronx accent this side of the Throgs Neck Bridge.

  “Morning, Janey,” she said as she dumped a pile of mail and phone messages on my conference table. “You get Employee of the Month again.”

  “Morning,” I said. “I know. I am totally pathetic, aren’t I? Please don’t answer that.” I started going through the phone messages, placing the “fires—must be put out” in one stack, the “smoldering—keep an eye on” situations in another stack, and finally the “call if you feel a need to punish yourself” slips in another stack.

  “By the way, the lights aren’t on yet in Godzilla’s office.” MaryLouise cracked her gum loudly.

  “You know Vivienne gets her hair touched up at Frédéric Fekkai on Tuesday mornings.”

  “You mean that neon yellow with pink undertones isn’t natural?” MaryLouise snorted. “You need coffee?”

  Before I could answer, I heard two unmistakable voices outside my office. My mother and Hugh. Instantly, my stomach started churning.

  “You sweet Hughie, you, you, you,” Vivienne was saying in that little-girl voice that made me cringe. “Where were you when I was looking for husband number three?”

  Probably in grade school, I thought.

  Then Vivienne was standing in front of me, with Hugh, who had a bouquet of white roses that must have set him back two hundred dollars.

  “Look who I brought. Quite possibly the handsomest man in New York,” Vivienne said, leaning over to give me my morning kiss on the cheek.

  She wasn’t completely wrong about Hugh. Standing there with t
ousled blond hair, wearing faded jeans and a gray hoodie, Hugh looked exactly like a leading man should. He was definitely a dreamboat, a hunk, a catch. And, in theory at least, he was mine.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Jane,” he said, managing to sound half-credible and sincere.

  Even though I wanted to punch out his lights, I decided to play it a little cooler than that.

  “What are you so sorry about?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Last night, of course. Are you kidding? I never made it to Babbo.”

  “No big deal,” I said. “I had a very nice meal. Caught up on some work.”

  “I forgot I had a squash game.”

  “No problem. Squash is your life.” Not even close. Mirrors were his life.

  MaryLouise took the bouquet from him. “I’ll go find a swimming pool to put these in.”

  After some meaningful, sixth-grade-style throat-clearing and pointed eye-rolling, my mother finally left too. Hugh locked the door behind her, and I frowned. What was this? Then he took me by both shoulders and kissed me on the lips. I sort of let him, and that royally pissed me off about myself. I bet even Doormats Anonymous would turn me down. Oh, but Hugh was a good kisser, with those beautiful brown eyes up close and personal, Hermès Something Sexy misted on his neck and collarbone.

  “I really am sorry, Jane.” His hand moved up and down my back, and his smile was adorable. “You do know I love you, don’t you?” His voice was warm, his eyes ultrasincere. Maybe he was possibly telling the truth.

  Leaning forward, he feathered kisses against my neck. Suddenly I felt safe and warm all over, the way I used to feel with Michael. Why on earth was I thinking about Michael?

  I dragged my mind back to Hugh, Hugh, who was nuzzling my neck. Ridiculously handsome, charming, insanely romantic-when-he wanted-to-be Hugh.

  Then I remembered something.