Sundays at Tiffany's

  Nineteen

  MICHAEL HAD NEVER DONE anything like this—not even close—but that morning he’d trailed Jane at a safe, non-nutjob distance as she walked from her apartment to an office building on West 57th Street. He wasn’t sure what he was doing; he knew only that he felt compelled to do it. On 57th Street, he immediately recognized the building as the place where Vivienne had housed her production company, and apparently still did. Oh, Jane, don’t go in there! Not into the lair of the Wicked Witch of the West Side! She’ll trap you with her dark arts!

  But in Jane went.

  And then, against his better judgment, so did Michael. What are you doing? he thought, and he nearly said it out loud. This is the time to walk away. Right now, right here. This is where you stop the madness.

  But he didn’t. He couldn’t. And as he scanned the lobby directory, it became clear that Vivienne was more successful than ever. ViMar Productions now took up two entire floors. She must be wickeder than ever.

  He watched the grown-up Jane as she made her way through the lobby. She waved to at least half a dozen people, and they waved and smiled back, or chitchatted briefly. It hit him that she hadn’t really changed: She was still getting let down by people, and yet she was friendly and warm. Clearly she was well liked by everyone who knew her. Everyone except the schmuck who’d stood her up last night.

  Then Jane disappeared into an elevator, and he watched the floors rush from LOBBY to 24 in a matter of seconds.

  That’s when Michael made the fateful decision to wait for Jane. Why? He didn’t know. Would he even try to talk to her? No, of course not. Well, maybe. Just maybe. In the meantime, he had passed a Dunkin’ Donuts about a block away, and he was thinking about a couple of Bavarian Kremes.

  After the doughnut break, he went back and hung around Jane’s office building, feeling stupid for lurking but unable to tear himself away. At about 12:15 the elevator doors opened, and out she stepped. She wasn’t alone. Unfortunately, a very good-looking guy had his arm around her waist. Jane removed the arm, and Michael guessed that this was the loser himself: McGrath.

  They went out the front door, and he was right behind them. Even if Jane happened to glance back, she wouldn’t recognize Michael. She’d forgotten him. That was how it worked. Trying to look nonchalant, Michael stayed close enough to catch bits of their conversation. She and McGrath were talking about something called Thank Heaven, which Michael assumed was one of Vivienne’s productions.

  “Jane, Thank Heaven is the key to everything I’ve worked for, and I don’t think you’re treating it seriously,” Michael heard McGrath say, or, rather, whine.

  “That’s not true, Hugh,” said Jane. “I am taking this seriously. You know how passionate I am about Thank Heaven.”

  Hugh. This guy’s name was Hugh. What was she thinking? Never trust a Hugh. Jane was with a man who had the most ridiculous name on the planet, a name that was always, always misunderstood. How are you, Hugh? Baby, it’s Hugh. Hugh never know. It had to be Hugh.

  Shaking his head, Michael stayed with them as they turned into the Four Seasons restaurant. Inside, Michael went to the bar, ordered a Coke, and watched them be seated, knowing beyond a doubt that trailing Jane wasn’t a good idea to start with and was getting worse by the minute.

  Michael watched their table across the restaurant with growing irritation as Hugh did all the talking, Jane all the listening. When he wasn’t lecturing her, the creep was working the room. Hugh shaking hands with a magazine publisher. Hugh hugging a talk-show host. Hugh pontificating over the wine list. What did she see in this jerk?

  Then, as Hugh and Jane were about to begin lunch, a pretty young waif of a woman approached their table. She apologized for interrupting but held out a piece of paper and pen for Hugh to autograph. That meant he was some kind of celebrity. Like, an actor-slash-model? A weatherman? Maybe he’d been in Saw II or something?

  He stood up, flirtatious, charming, nauseating. Michael watched and couldn’t believe it. Jane’s face and neck had gone red. She was clearly uncomfortable, but Hugh didn’t seem to notice.

  Finally Michael just couldn’t stand it anymore. He paid for his soda, then left Jane with her Hugh. He didn’t know what Jane was doing, but she was a big girl. If that was the kind of stupid, superficial relationship she wanted, then maybe she and Hugh deserved each other.

  Twenty

  WHILE HUGH FLIRTED with an obnoxiously pretty and pathologically thin fashion model who had seen his play four times, I pretended to study the dessert menu, which, sadly, I knew by heart. God save me, right then I would have killed for a piece of Chocolate Dome Cake.

  But I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t. I really, really couldn’t.

  Take your mind off it. Okay, I had to get back to the salt mines for a Thank Heaven preproduction meeting. I needed to introduce our possible financier, Karl Friedkin, to some of the creative people—casting agent, costume designer, set designer. No Dome Cake for you, I told myself sternly. Ix-nay on the ome-day ake-cay.

  Hugh air-kissed his skinny, doting fan, while I paid the fat check for our lunch.

  “Mind if I don’t go back with you, Jane?” he asked. “I need to hit the gym.” Unconsciously he preened in the mirror over the bar, stroking his perfectly smooth cheek and checking out his different angles. Of course, I have the kind of face that doesn’t even have angles, from any direction.

  “No, that’s fine, Hugh,” I said. “I’m good.”

  Actually, I was telling the truth. The less he knew about the behind-the-scenes development of the movie, the better. Since he’d played the role on Broadway, Hugh definitely thought that he should play the lead in the movie. So did my mother. The two of them had been lobbying hard for me to contract him for the part. I pretty much disagreed with every fiber of my being. Hugh was all wrong for movie close-ups; he just wasn’t that kind of an actor. He just wasn’t Michael.

  Hugh gave me a kiss on the cheek, remembering only at the last second to make it real and not an air kiss. “Later, babe,” he said, and then he was gone, glowing smile, glowing tan, slicker than a snake on a rainy day.

  Firmly dismissing the longing to get a piece of ake-cay to go, I hurried back to 57th Street, arriving right on time, of course. How very Jane of me. After making sure everyone knew everyone else, I started the meeting. Once I began talking, my nerves settled, and I felt pretty much in charge of the project.

  “We’re all very excited by the way the film is shaping up,” I said, encouraged by everyone’s rapt attention. “An A-list director is just about on board. I believe we’ll have the formal studio go-ahead by the end of the week.”

  Everyone spontaneously burst into applause, and it warmed my heart. I knew this project couldn’t mean as much to my creative team as it did to me—how could it?—but I relished their enthusiasm and support.

  Then the conference-room door flew open.

  “No need for applause,” Vivienne said in sugar-sweet tones. “I’ll just sit here quietly and listen. Go ahead, Jane-Sweetie. Proceed.”

  My heart sank, but I straightened my shoulders, determined to carry on despite knowing that the likelihood of my mother sitting and being quiet—or for that matter, listening—was about the same as some weird comet suddenly striking Earth and melting the fat from everyone’s thighs. It would be nice, but it wasn’t going to happen.

  “I’d like to talk about the sets,” I said. “Clarence? What are your thoughts?”

  “I think we’re going to have to build an exact replica of the Astor Court,” Clarence said.

  “I was hoping that we might actually shoot at the St. Regis,” I said. “Both to save money and for added authenticity. Couldn’t we? Somehow?”

  “If I could jump in for a second, Jane-Sweetie,” my mother said, “I think we should build the set. It’ll give us more control over the camera angles and lighting.”

  Of course she was right, and suddenly there were sage nods around the room. Nobody ever disagreed with my mother.
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  The costume designer spoke next. “I was thinking that the little girl should always wear white when she’s with her imaginary friend at the St. Regis.”

  White would perfectly capture the idea of childhood innocence, I thought. “Yes, that sounds good,” I said. “And it’s the sort of thing the actual little girl did wear.”

  Vivienne interrupted again. “Janey, you have to remember, this isn’t a biographical film. I think variety in the wardrobe would be better and would add color and texture to the screen. I’m certain of it, actually. Trust me on this. I have no ego. I only speak the truth.”

  And here’s a “well, duh” realization: It was suddenly clear to me that my mother and I had entirely different approaches to making this film. Also, my mother was determined to exert her influence over what was supposed to be “my” project. What a shocker that was.

  “I have a question,” said Karl Friedkin.

  I turned to him in relief. “Yes?”

  “So who will be playing the make-believe man?” Friedkin asked.

  “Well, he wasn’t exactly make-believe,” I said. “More imaginary.”

  A moment of silence ensued. Oh, great, I thought, trying to come up with a quick way to backtrack and finding nothing. The silence stretched on. Very uncomfortable. I began to blush. Now they probably thought I was crazy. Excellent: a perfect end to a perfectly heinous day.

  My mother rose, smiled thinly, and walked to the door.

  The casting agent said, “I floated the role past Ryan Gosling’s agent, and she was very positive. Of course there are so many other excellent choices: Matt Damon, Russell Crowe, Hughs Jackman and Grant. Even Patrick Dempsey.”

  My mother turned in the doorway, knowing every eye was on her. Looking right at me, she said, “You play the Hollywood name game as much as you want, kiddies, but I have a feeling that the perfect leading man is right under your noses.”

  Everyone looked confused. Except me.

  I’d just had lunch with the Hugh who Vivienne had already chosen for Thank Heaven, and it wasn’t Jackman or Grant.

  Twenty-one

  YEARS AGO when he and Jane had wanted to escape from her constrictive and smothering Park Avenue world, they would take the crosstown bus to the Upper West Side. What a terrifically funky and eclectic world it had been back then, before the baby boomers with their Maclaren strollers. Wide-eyed, Michael and Jane had explored secondhand clothing stores and West African restaurants, Spanish bodegas and Jewish delis, all mixed together and coexisting in harmony.

  Now, Michael couldn’t help thinking, that same neighborhood had all the character and charm of a suburban mall in central Ohio. Goldblum’s Dry Cleaners had become a Prada. Johannsen’s Hardware was a Baby Gap. The “World’s Best Bagels” place had turned into a fancy soap store. As Michael thought of those hot, terrific bagels now, all he could taste was soap.

  Only one really terrific place remained from the old Jane and Michael days: the Olympia Diner, at the corner of Broadway and 77th. It was run by third-generation Greeks who still managed to serve up the greasiest eggs, the fattiest bacon, and coffee so strong you had to brush your teeth after you had a cup. Michael thought it was quite possibly the best food in all of New York, way better than Daniel or Per Se.

  It was worth a visit just for the sign in the window: YES! YES! YES! PANCAKES ALL AROUND YOUR CLOCK!

  Since Michael had been back in New York this time, the Olympia had become a Saturday-morning ritual. Today he was there with Owen Pulaski, as payback for the party at which he had met Claire de Lune. He’d had a really nice time with her—talking about Jane, apparently.

  “So, what happened, Mike?” Owen asked as they walked to a booth on the Broadway side of the diner. “I saw you letting the lovely Claire talk your ear off. Then, poof, the two of you were gone off into the night.” He grinned and punched Michael’s arm.

  “We talked,” Michael said. “That’s all. Just talked till about four or so. She’s terrific. Only twenty-two and wise beyond her years.”

  “Talked, eh?” Owen gave Michael a knowing glance. “I bet. I bet you were up all night, talking about women’s shoes. Or maybe the Yankees, right? Not the Jints. You dog.”

  Owen leaned across the table, and there was that irresistible smile of his, probably the same one he’d had since he was a boy. “Tell you the truth, Mike. I’ve never been with a woman who wasn’t a sex object for me. And, buddy, I was married once. For. Two. Years. Which should qualify as a first and second marriage.”

  “Really?” Michael asked in astonishment. “All women are sex objects to you? Seriously?”

  That smile of Owen’s was back, the twinkle in his eye. “Now, don’t be judging me, Michael. Don’t be judging me.”

  “No, I’m not, Owen. It’s just… I don’t know… there’s so much more to women than that. Sure, the physical, but also that connection between two people. I think that love can be great.”

  “Ah, you think,” said Owen, seizing on that. “But you don’t know, do you? So there’s a little bullshit tossed in there? Just a little?” He pinched his big fingers together, giving Michael the devilish Owen smile. The twinkle, the dimple. Michael almost felt seduced.

  Owen laughed. “It’s great, isn’t it? The look! My secret weapon. Years of practice, son. Years of practice.”

  Michael turned his attention to the morning crossword while they waited, and Owen took the sports section, occasionally snorting and muttering out loud about teams, athletes, and horses who had personally let him down.

  “Give me a five-letter word for ‘feel deep love,’ ” Michael said a couple of minutes later.

  Owen didn’t look up. “Horny.”

  “And we’re surprised you’re single?” said Patty—shapely, very cute, long blond hair—who often waited on Michael at the Olympia and whom he was crazy about.

  Owen laughed, not at all put off. “What’s good today, honey? Besides you?”

  Patty raised one eyebrow and took out her pad.

  Michael said, “What makes you think he’s single?”

  “Get the eggs Benedict,” she told Owen. “Real Holland rusks.” Turning to Michael, she said, “He’s got that look.”

  “What look?” Michael asked. This was the kind of stuff he loved, the get-to-the-heart-of-humanity info.

  “That single look,” she said, tucking her pen behind one perfect, shell-like ear. She looked Owen up and down as if he weren’t conscious. “Kind of hungry.”

  Owen gave her his killer grin. “Hungry for you.”

  Patty rolled her eyes, and they ordered. She nodded and swept off, blond and graceful, as Owen watched her every motion.

  “Patty’s very sweet. Single mom, has a little girl who’s four,” said Michael pointedly as soon as she was gone.

  Owen smiled. “Only one kid? I always wanted to find a single mom with at least three or four.” He winked at Michael. “Just kidding, podjo. Don’t be judging me, Michael. I like Patty. She just might be the one.”

  Suddenly Michael was sorry that he’d brought Owen, his grin, and his twinkling eyes to the Olympia.

  “Don’t go and hurt her,” said Michael. Not quite a serious warning, but almost.

  “Don’t be judging, Mikey,” said Owen.

  Twenty-two

  I STARED AT MYSELF in the bathroom mirror, feeling like a soldier marching off to war. The pressure was on, but I had done it to myself this time. I had less than forty-five minutes to do a complete Elle makeover, and I needed the works—hair, clothes, makeup, accessories. If they had a pill that made you lose fifteen pounds in forty-five minutes but shaved five years off your life, I would have taken two.

  I was meeting Hugh at the Metropolitan Museum, and I needed to look my absolute best, which in my case equaled, well, presentable. There was a cocktail party and reception there for a Jacqueline Kennedy fashion retrospective. I would be on Hugh’s arm, which meant that I would be watched closely, even jealously in some circles.

  Okay,
first, set the mood: I put John Legend’s Once Again in the CD player and cranked it. If that didn’t inspire me, I was SOL. Ah, yes! That was much better.

  Second, face the enemy. In my bathroom was a cabinet that held nothing but unopened makeup. Here were the bottles and tubes, lotions and potions, that Vivienne regularly gave me. After thirty-plus years, she was still somehow hoping that I’d turn from ugly duckling into gorgeous swan. Not going to happen, Viv. Not today, not any day.

  Third, arm yourself. I took a deep breath and opened a package of Clinique Dramatically Different moisturizing lotion. I smoothed it into my skin in clockwise circles, as directed. So far, I was not seeing a dramatic difference. But I persevered. Next came a thin base of Barely There foundation, which was guaranteed to give me a perfect, porcelain finish. Hmm. With the blotches hidden, my skin looked, oh, let’s say twenty percent better. Not exactly great but an improvement, at least to my psyche.

  Finally I did the best I could with Bobbi Brown mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick. Was Bobbi Brown a man or a woman? No clue.

  Fortunately, and amazingly, I had good hair color, a kind of bubbly blond, and, because of my mother’s relentless urging, I could rest assured that I had a very good haircut. “Without a good haircut, everything else is for nothing,” said Vivienne. Then, of course, she had added, “And you need all the help you can get.”

  Throwing caution to the wind, I took a few big scoops of Calvin Klein styling mousse and ran my fingers through my hair. The curls fluffed up and framed my face. I don’t know whether it looked good or bad, but it looked different… and modern… and not like Plain Jane.

  Suddenly my mind flashed back to when Michael and I were inseparable.

  “War paint,” Michael had said that when he’d seen Vivienne dressed to the teeth for a Tonys ceremony. I’d giggled, but Vivienne had been dazzling, a slender blond goddess whom I could never hope to resemble.

  Now, looking at myself in the mirror, I saw with surprise that in fact I did have hints of Vivienne in my face. I had her cheekbones, or at least I would if I lost twenty pounds. My eyes were larger, rounder, and blue, but I had her long, thick eyelashes. My nose was more pronounced, but it was definitely more like hers and not my father’s.