1
Not the next morning.
For Jane has all sorts of at-home activities planned none of which require anything but the couch or the new Haastens mattress with Pratesi bedding monogrammed T.J. in navy that were spirited in through the servant's entrance.
But the morning after that.
We leave the apartment.
Actually, Mr. Jane, as everyone reverentially calls him, is gone when I open my eyes.
It's Bunny who wakes me by sitting down on the edge of the bed.
"Wake up, lucky lucky girl."
I look in his pretty hazel eyes. It hits me that he's tempted to ask how it was being with Jane. Bunny loves Jane. Maybe has for years. We have a lot in common.
But Bunny doesn't ask. "Time to make you Mrs. Jane," he says briskly.
In a trice, Teeny, the chubby bee, has me immersed in the deep heavily veined marble tub. It looks a lot like Napoleon's sarcophagus and may well be a fitting monument to the memory of Teresa Lisbon.
She hands me a bar of Acacia soap by Rance'. Aha. This is the faint scent I often detect mixed in with all the Jane-ness. I emerge smelling like a Jane.
Teeny spritzes me with Mure et Musc, Jane's chosen perfume for me. Wonder what the history is on his choice? I don't know if I want to know.
Then I get a low bun and diamond studs as big as my front teeth.
Mrs. Jane, it seems, wears Chanel. This morning, a winter white sleeveless dress with gold buttons up the side with matching three-quarter length coachmen's coat also with gold buttons and a pair of slim flats, camel leather with black cap toes. Old school. And finally, the oversize #255 bag, black leather, quilted, chain-handled and eternally wait-listed is hung on my shoulder by Bunny himself as the elevator doors open.
Seems that for Mrs. Jane (and maybe, Kate Middleton), there is no wait-list. For anything.
Jane's there in the lobby. His eyes light up taking in every detail. He kisses my hand and leads me to the front door just as Alberto opens it. At the last second, he repositions my necklace so the cross hangs hidden down the inside back of my jacket.
"No public affiliations, Teresa. Not wise."
There's a throng of press and photographers outside all hoping to get a word from the "Mystery Man" seen kibbutzing at the UN the day before yesterday.
Yves expertly hip checks some who get too close, inserts us into the car and we speed off down Fifth Avenue.