Sundays at Tiffany's

  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 look. “It’s how the game is played.”

  “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 chocolate pudding kind of thing on it. I remember the waiter placing a small cup of espresso and a plate of biscotti on the table.

  “I’ve put the check on Ms. Margaux’s tab,” the waiter said. “It was so nice to see you again. I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

  “Everything was wonderful.” Maybe not everything.

  I walked out of the restaurant into a chilly spring night in Manhattan. Alone. My cheeks were burning, but
whether it was the Bellinis or the humiliation, I couldn’t tell. I was living that old cliché: When your own romantic life is falling apart, everyone else’s looks fabulous. Did I really need to see a middle-aged couple chatting quietly and holding hands in the park? Or the teenagers who decided to stop and kiss eagerly just a few feet away from where I was walking? No. I did not. Why was everyone in New York City suddenly madly in love while I was walking alone with my arms folded across my chest?

  My cell phone rang.

  Hugh! Of course it was Hugh. And his excuse for tonight would be… what?

  “Hello?” A little too breathless, maybe? Too Bellinified?

  “Jane Margaux?” the voice on the line said.

  “This is Jane,” I answered, not recognizing whoever it was.

  “This is Verizon Wireless, and we’d like to tell you about our exciting new calling plan.”

  I flipped the phone closed and dropped it back into my bag. I wished I was the kind of person who was reckless enough to throw it into the nearest trash can. Of course, if I did, I’d only have to fish it out again, and of course someone I knew would be walking by right at that moment, when I was pawing through the trash, and then this day would be complete.

  I swallowed hard and felt hot tears behind my eyes. Perfect. Crying on the street. A new low, even for me.

  I was a pathetic loser. The sooner I faced it, the better. The facts were that I was on the wrong side of thirty, I worked for my mother, and I was the kind of woman whose gorgeous, too-good-for-her boyfriend stood her up at their favorite restaurant, and that was the way it was.

  Twelve

  MICHAEL WAS POLISHING OFF his second hot dog, savoring every juicy bite, every burst of flavor in his mouth. Man, was he ever hungry! Starved! Ravenous! And thank God, he didn’t have to worry about what he ate.

  Here he was, between assignments, back in New York, killing time. He was hanging out, having some fun, waiting to hear what was up next for him. He’d seen just about every movie released, gone to the best museums (like the Museum of the American Indian), plus visited most of the doughnut and coffee joints on the island of Manhattan in single-minded pursuit of the best old-fashioned cake doughnut known to man. And, oh yeah, he was taking boxing lessons.

  Yes, boxing lessons. Over the years he’d discovered so many activities that he loved, a lot of which he’d thought he wouldn’t like at all. Such as boxing. But it was terrific exercise, and it really built up the self-confidence. Self-awareness, too. Also, it brought him closer to people, in a weird sort of way. Sometimes a little too close.

  Two nights a week, in a seedy second-floor gym on 8th Street, an old black guy with whiskey and peppermint on his breath taught him how to throw reasonably crisp punches, how to guard himself against attack, how to get in close and slam left hooks into the body of an opponent.

  He’d pretty much gotten used to eighteen-year-old black and Hispanic kids banging his nose till blood oozed out. And being called “old man” by his sparring partners, who seemed to like him anyway. Hell, everybody liked Michael. That was his job, right?

  But he still wasn’t used to the wicked appetite he had after every workout. The post-workout hunger was so fierce it could be satisfied only by three or four hot dogs and at least two chocolate Yoo-Hoos from a Manhattan pushcart.

  Tonight he’d ordered his hot dogs and Yoo-Hoos and was thinking how nice it was to be back in New York. He’d just finished a Seattle assignment with a six-year-old boy whose parents were lesbians. The problem had been that the two women were way too involved with little Sam. He took too many music lessons and too many acro classes, had too many tutors, and heard the question “And how do you feel about that, Sam?” much too frequently.

  Michael’s “Polite Assertiveness Training Lessons” were put into action, and the two moms had ended up actually liking Sam’s feisty new behavior. Michael had helped Sam to be who Sam was. Then, of course, he’d had to leave the boy, and Sam no longer remembered him. But that was how it worked, and Michael had no control over it.

  Now Michael was sort of on vacation, enjoying himself, looking at girls, bicycling in Central Park, eating whatever he wanted. He did whatever the hell he felt like doing, ate what he wanted and never put on an ounce, and got his brains bashed in twice a week. How could you beat that?

  As he took the last slug of his second Yoo-Hoo, a woman passed by, and his eyes automatically followed her, appreciating her curves. Nothing new there. He was always noticing women in New York. He fancied that she looked as if she were trying to be brave, to make the best of it, and he smiled, suddenly remembering the way little Jane Margaux…

  But then…

  A certain tilt of her head…

  The walk… kind of “breezy.”

  That was weird, but, nah… It couldn’t be.

  But the swing of her arms…

  Well, maybe… A glance his way. Those eyes. No, not those eyes!

  It was her! Had to be. But there was no way.

  Was there? Could it be?

  Her hair wasn’t as curly as it was when she was a kid, but it was still blond. She wore a loose black coat and carried a big leather bag—half briefcase, half pocketbook.

  Michael’s jaw dropped. It was completely impossible, but it had to be Jane!

  Oh God, it was his Jane Margaux! She was right there, not fifty feet from him.

  Michael lunged away from the cart after her, causing the hot dog vendor to stare at him suspiciously.

  This had never happened, Michael marveled. Never, ever, had he run into one of his kids as a grown-up!

  Jane was walking slowly, seeming lost in her thoughts. So he walked slowly too, trying to decide what to do next. He was at a loss—for words, ideas, everything.

  At the corner of Sixth Avenue and 8th Street, she hailed a cab and got one immediately. She ran a few steps and got in, pulling the door shut after her. Michael hung back. He knew what he should do now. Let her go, file it away under “bizarre coincidences.”

  But that wasn’t what he did. Instead he flagged down the next taxi speeding along Sixth Avenue. He said something he’d always wanted to: “Follow that cab!”

  Follow Jane.

  He had to.

  Thirteen

  THE CABDRIVER OBLIGINGLY stomped on the gas, and Michael’s head flew back against the seat. This was so strange. Why bump into one of his kids, all grown-up? Never happened before. So why now? What did it mean? Closing his eyes, he said a silent prayer, but, as usual, got no answer. In that way, at least, he figured he was just like everybody else: put here for a reason, but damned if he could figure out what it was. One thing, though: The longer he was here, the more “human” he felt. Was that a clue, that he was becoming more human? And was that a good thing?

  After all, what did Michael know about himself? Not as much as he wanted to, for sure. He had a limited memory of the past, was able to recall only fuzzy faces, indistinct periods of time. He had no concrete idea of how long he’d been on the job or exactly how many kids he’d looked after. He knew for certain that he loved what he did, except, on average, maybe one day a month. Also on average, he would stay with a child for four to six years. Then he’d have to go, whether he wanted to or not, whether the kid wanted him to or not. Then there would be a little break for him, a sabbatical, like the one he was on now. One day he’d wake up in a different city, and in his mind he would know the next boy or girl, and he would go to them. Otherwise, all his needs were met. He wasn’t exactly human, he wasn’t an angel—he was just a friend. And he was damn good at it.

  Meanwhile, the cab with Jane inside was shooting straight up Sixth Avenue.

  It turned right on Central Park South. Michael’s cab followed.

  Left again on Park Avenue.

  Was she going to her mother’s apartment? Oh, Jane, no! Don’t tell me you’re still living with your mother! He winced, now sure that following her had been a terrible idea. He remembered Vivienne Margaux, her huge ego, her larger-than
-life personality. She’d spent Sunday afternoons with Jane, and occasionally kissed her cheek, but that was about it. Jane’s school had been a block and a half from the apartment, but Vivienne had never once taken Jane there.

  Michael groaned when Jane’s taxi stopped at 535 Park Avenue—but she didn’t get out.

  Instead the doorman came up to the cab’s rear window, and Jane handed him two large manila envelopes. He seemed happy to see her, giving her a big smile and tipping his hat. Jane smiled back at him, looking less sad. They even slapped five.

  Then Jane’s cab took off again.

  Okay. At least she wasn’t still living with Vivienne. Michael’s cab followed as Jane’s taxi stopped again at 75th and Park. The building’s doorman walked up to the cab and opened the car door for her.

  Michael quickly handed his driver a twenty-dollar bill, keeping an eye on Jane. She gathered her briefcase and folded her black coat over one arm.

  She looked, well, terrific. Very grown-up. Very attractive. So strange, to see little Jane Margaux looking like this. Like a woman. Jane smiled warmly at this doorman, and he smiled back. She was Michael’s same old Jane. Kind to everyone, friends with everybody. Always a smile for the world.

  Michael stayed behind a huge cement planter, feeling ridiculous, like a kid playing a spy game, but something was compelling him to stay. He heard the doorman say, “Mr. McGrath stopped by. He said if you came home to tell you that he would probably miss dinner tonight.”

  “Thanks, Martin. He made it to dinner after all,” Jane said. But she bit her lip.

  The doorman paused, his hand on the heavy glass lobby door. “He didn’t, did he, Miss Jane?”

  Jane sighed. “No, Martin, he didn’t.”

  “Miss Jane, you know what I think.”

  “I know, I know. I’m a sap. I’m an idiot.”

  “No, Miss Jane,” the doorman said repressively. “It’s Mr. McGrath who’s the idiot, if you’ll forgive my saying so. You deserve better than him.”