Black Diamond

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  “Well, I’m delighted you’ve found a positive, healthy outlet, babe. I’m right there with you. But…are we not going to get back in the bed?” The corners of his mouth twitch.

  “Again?” Her voice sounds dramatic. “Didn’t you get enough last night?”

  “Not nearly enough. Besides, it’s a new dawn. It’s a new day.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re feeling good. Calm down, Bublé. Oliver, we barely slept. You woke me at the crack of hell to Jackie Chan me. And now I’m sore in places that don’t get sore from a regular workout.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Your body appreciates the nice things you do for it.”

  “My body is taking the day off. Time out. Come back soon. Hasta la vista.”

  He rubs the tip of his nose on hers. “Are you sure you really want that?” He kisses her, letting it linger.

  When he pulls back abruptly, leaving her lips cold and lonely, a pair of dimples indent her cheeks as a smile blossoms on her lips. Sophie can feel him teasing her. It’s giving her goose bumps and her heart is starting to pick up speed.

  “What’s going on with you today? You’re restless and being extra frisky.”

  “Perhaps there’s something in the air.”

  “You mean filth?” she asks, matter-of-factly.

  “I’ll have you know, the city’s air is less polluted today than it was fifty years ago.”

  “Okay, then what?” She crosses her arms, gazing at him directly.

  “Well.” He moves her hair to one side, and runs his fingers over her collarbone. “I’m more of a show guy.”

  “Stop flirting, Oliver. Take a bath.”

  “Join me.”

  “God, you’re insatiable,” she says with a laugh.

  Oliver smiles a smile that means he knows just how aroused he’s making her.

  As Sophie is giving a pillow a good fluffing, Oliver stops her in her bed-making tracks, takes the pillow away, and flings it across the room. “Take me or leave me,” he says before pushing her to the bed.

  MEANWHILE, KIM PRICE—the most tireless, industrious woman in the pantheon of agents—is in the living room, stomping her ankle-wedged boots back and forth in front of the 65-inch TV. She’s been on the phone with the media for the past fifteen minutes.

  “I understand there is a frustration level among your colleagues, Tom,” she tells FOX 5 News. “Unfortunately, there is no confirmation on a statement regarding this awful incident yet. Hopefully, Sophie will be talking soon.”

  A banquet of eggs, waffles, and fresh fruit is served at the dining table. Oliver is stirring his black Americano, whilst reading The Guardian on his iPad.

  Across the table sits Sophie, tense and blank, trying not to listen to Kim or the news. Her two-week media fast has ended, and she’s not excited about the lack of privacy this means for her.

  “Listen to this,” Oliver says, his gaze locked on his phone. “New Black International CEO pockets a twenty-five per cent pay raise even as company profits fall.”

  “I’m sorry, babe,” Sophie says.

  Oliver tosses the iPad onto the table. “Sorry for what?”

  “I was trying to comfort you.”

  Words no guy wants to hear when his work is out of whack. “Don’t.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  He looks at her.

  “I mean, screw that guy!”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy. The new guy.”

  “Gordon Flynn?”

  “I don’t know what his name is. But he sounds like nothing more than a common thief.”

  “Using my company for his own bent purposes.”

  “Capitalism sounds a lot like cannibalism. Ever think of that?” She grabs a multigrain bagel from the platter. “People are being cannibalized like raw, economic meat right before our eyes.”

  “Capitalism itself is not bad. Capitalism, throughout the years, has been perverted.”

  “Right. Greedy capitalists have destroyed an otherwise good thing.” She glances at him as she smears cream cheese on her bagel. “What are you going to do? I know you’re no longer head of the company, but you still essentially own it.”

  “Not that I didn’t expect you to know that, but how do you know that?”

  “I read, Oliver.” She waves her knife around as she talks. “I read about poverty and war. I read about the economy and people losing their jobs. I read about how to cope after being kidnapped and go through online message boards. I only read discussions…never actually comment on them. I also read about you.” She grins and sticks a piece of bagel in her mouth.

  Oliver returns the smile like he’s won the lottery. Thea comes through from the kitchen carrying a crystal pitcher and a pour over kettle.

  “Coffee or fresh-squeezed organic juice today, Miss Sophie?” she asks.

  “Orange juice, please,” Sophie replies. “Wait, no. Coffee. Coffee would be great.”

  “Just give her both,” Oliver says into his coffee before taking a sip. “She needs to replenish after such an intense burst of activity.”

  “Don’t start with me, Black,” she warns with a hint of teasing. “The endorphins are wearing off.”

  “I started with you awhile ago.” He grins and gives her a wink.

  “What about some tea, or skim milk?” says Thea. “We really have a well-stocked kitchen here.”

  News anchor Tom goes on in the living room. “Not talking to the press and not grappling with questions contributes to suspicion.”

  “I’m sorry, what’s the question?” Kim shoots back.

  “When will Sophie speak to the press? At least for clarity’s sake. Her silence is damning. I’m being totally honest, it doesn’t look good.”

  “What is she—a politician? I wish that you would respect her privacy. She’s getting back on her feet. I promise she’ll talk, and when she does, I’ll let you know.”

  Sophie shakes her head, unhappy. “How about a tall glass of someone-turn-the-TV off? Do we have that?”

  “Kim is responsible for you.” Oliver slices up his mushroom omelet. “She’s only doing her job.”

  “Lovely. This is what my life has come down to.”

  As Sophie is about to reach for the cup of black Joe before her, Thea warns, “Careful, it’s hot,” and turns it so she can grasp the handle.

  Sophie looks up at her, grateful. She takes in every single detail—the laughter lines from her gift for being cheery all the time and her pretty red curls that bring out the green specks in her eyes. Thea is a very good and kind old dear, always doing something from cooking to solving crossword puzzles to helping set up tables at the food bank on Sundays. Oliver’s parents brought her to the US, along with her culinary skills and thick accent, after the invasion of Czechoslovakia, where she served as an army cook. She has been a part of the Black family since Oliver was a few years old.

  “You’re a life saver, Thea,” Sophie says, inhaling the rich ascending steam coming from the brew. Thea stands at attention, her body erect, heels touching.

  “Is there anything else you need?” Oliver asks. Thea served in the war for a long time ago, but still waits for orders like a soldier.

  Sophie puts her cup down and laughs uneasily. “Oh, no,” she replies quickly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. Thank you, again. Food’s great. I’m great.”

  Thea gives a nod and some kind of half sigh. She knows Sophie doesn’t quite know what to do with a chef hanging around all the time. But Thea likes her; she’s funny and unpretentious. She already has her favorite foods and snacks in the house.

  Kim’s war of words with Tom the news anchor seems to die down. “On behalf of Sophie, I’d like to thank fans, TV viewers, and the fashion industry alike for the love and support they have shown her.” She wishes him a good day and ends the call.

  Thea disappears back into the kitchen, Oliver excuses himself from the table to answer his ringing phone, and Kim sinks into a chair next to Sophie. They become e
ngrossed with the trappings of the news on TV once more. Quickly and smoothly, Tom moves on to say, “Our reporter Nolan is at the courthouse in Manhattan this morning. Over to you, Nolan.”

  “Thank you, Tom. If movie star looks are the result of having lucky genes, then John Henry Bridges certainly won the throwing of genetic dice. See all these women behind me? These are lovesick fans lining the steps outside the court where Bridges sat before a judge moments ago. That’s right, folks. Fans. Not only that—bundles of fan mail are forwarded to the felon every day from his lawyer. Marriage proposals, nude photographs…women who claim they love him, women who want him to get back to them. Let’s have a talk with one of these women here.”

  He approaches a blonde woman holding a sign that reads, “We love you, John!”

  “What is your name?”

  “Vanessa.”

  “Vanessa, do you think John Henry Bridges is innocent?”

  “Of course. I have no doubt.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “It’s something in his eyes,” she responds. “He’s not a killer. People don’t understand him. I want to reach out to him. Let him know he’s not alone. I’m here for him. I know he’s the one.”

  “There you have it, folks. The John Henry Bridges fan base. Sources say Bridges welcomes the love letters and responds to fans, even offering advice to their problems. Social media is buzzing with opinions on the case, and hitting record numbers. Cavall and Bridges-related hashtags are trending on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. It’s turning into something bigger than the OJ Simpson case back in ’95. Fan clubs. Fan pages. More and more women flocking to the scene. Bridges isn’t the first convict who’s had women swooning; plenty have charmed and seduced mates, especially those with a high media profile. The accused is set to be arraigned in a few days, here in New York. Guilty or not guilty? We will find out. If he doesn’t admit to guilt, the trial of the century is in view. Back to you, Tom.”

  Sophie shakes her head, not letting the news get to her. She’s strong; she can bear it. More importantly, she’s not dead in some lonely grave. That’s the thing getting to her, thinking about all those girls whose lives Bridges took. If only violence and abuse would die with him.

  Kim turns off the TV and says, “So…how was Canada?” trying to defuse the tension hanging in the air. “Anything interesting happen?”

  “They smoke weed for breakfast and ride polar bears to work.” Sophie bombards her banana waffles with a generous explosion of maple syrup.

  Kim looks up from her coffee, feigning surprise. “Well, how about that? I’m moving out there first chance I get.”

  “It was nice. Relaxing.”

  Kim’s gaze shifts to Sophie as she jams a big hunk of waffle into her mouth. Like a chipmunk, her cheeks bulge from both sides. “I can’t believe you’re doing that.”

  Sophie swallows and cuts another square of waffle. “Doing what?”

  “Eating like that. Why are you eating like that? Who is chasing you? Are you nervous about something?” She looks Sophie over. “You’re looking a little pudgy today.”

  Sophie breathes out a laugh. “Are you saying I’m fat?” She knows she’s been packing in more calories than usual. There was a time when eating meant survival and most of the day was spent doing things in order to live. That’s what Sophie wants, to live and feel and experience, and never think back to the hard days. So she chooses to eat.

  “No. No. Fluffier.”

  “Fluffier?”

  “Sturdier.”

  Sophie rolls her eyes. Oliver says she’s gaining muscle.

  “Just…just take it easy, okay? Anyway, it’s obvious everyone’s been calling me non-stop about you.” She pokes an egg yolk with her fork. “They demand to know when you’ll be making an announcement. The media is going on a frenzy over this story.”

  Kim watches Sophie chew slowly, deliberately, then swallow.

  “They want a tell-all?”

  “Yeah, a panty-dropping, tea-spilling tell-all. Passionate, intense, and overflowing with suspense. Almost ten million people watched the news when authorities revealed you had been found. Do you have any idea how many people that is?”

  Sophie yawns. “I’m sorry, I’m really sleepy. Oliver woke me up at—”

  “Did you hear me? Pull yourself together! You’re famous!”

  She washes her food down with a sip of orange juice. “I heard you. People in Connecticut heard you. Here’s how we’ll do it. I’ll start off with a press conference, let the media hype it up a little.” She surprises herself by even thinking it. “Then I’ll do interviews. Then I’ll open up and talk.”

  “Okay, slow down a minute. You’re going to burn through all that creative energy very quickly. We can’t do a press conference today. It’s Monday.”

  Sophie glances up from her plate, puzzled. “And?”

  “And a typhoon devastated the Philippines, Amanda Bynes had a meltdown, Hawaii legalized same-sex marriage…there are more pressing matters. Monday is not a good day for a press conference.”

  “I thought you said I was famous.”

  “Which works to your advantage here. Trust me, the world will wait.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right. I’m always right. I’m promising them a fresh, juicy steak, not half-priced appetizers at the Applebee’s. I have to dangle the right bait, and the hungry fish will come. It’s a selling scheme. The media does run the world, you know.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Kim.”

  “You’re a keynote speaker in demand. December is busy. You’ve got The STOP Foundation, The Women’s Foundation of America, The—”

  A few feet away, the door to the elevator dings and opens. Sophie and Kim crane their necks to see who it is. It’s a young man as far as Sophie can tell. He’s carrying a light-colored box with the words KRIKOR JABOTIAN embossed across it, and it’s so big it blocks the view of half his body.

  “Ronnie!” Kim shrieks, quickly getting up from the table. “What are you…what are you doing here?”

  Walking cautiously about the foyer because he can’t see his own feet, the man who Sophie will in a second know to be as Ronnie peeks his black head to the side, looking confused. “You said to drop off the—”

  “No,” Kim interjects. “No, no, no, no. Now’s not a good time. I haven’t told her yet.” She starts around the table and shoos him with a wave of her hand as if he were a persistent pigeon. “Leave. I’ll call you.”

  Ronnie looks baffled. “What am I supposed to—?”

  “Wait a second. Nobody move.” Sophie pushes to her feet, holding up a finger. “Who is this?”

  “This is Ronnie, my assistant. Haven’t you met? He was just leaving.”

  “Excuse me? Wardrobe consultant and personal shopper.”

  Kim glares at him. “Now.”

  “All right. Okay. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

  Ronnie spins around and crashes into Oliver with such force that the box tumbles to the ground. The lid partially comes off to reveal the contents. Still as a pole, Ronnie’s heart quickens as he takes in the tall, mighty man standing before him. Holy God who knows what he’s doing, he thinks, up close he’s hotter than on TV.

  “You all right?” Oliver asks, showing concern for his clumsy slip up.

  “So fine,” Ronnie thinks aloud.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Ronnie comes back to this world. “I mean fine. I’m fine.” He leans over to lift the box, but then Sophie squats down and gets a hand on it first.

  “Don’t open that,” shouts Kim. “Don’t—”

  Too late.

  “Shit.”

  Sophie pries the lid off the box and looks it over. Out emerges a sparkly frock of chiffon and tulle. It’s an exquisite golden embroidered gown, fitting into the box neatly and snugly, each fold buffered with tissue paper to prevent creases. There is so much to feel faint with wonder at.

  Sophi
e puts her best offended face on. “A dress?”

  “And shoes,” Ronnie says.

  “What does he mean, Kim?”

  “What do you mean, ‘What does he mean?’” Kim frowns slightly.

  “You know what I mean!” Sophie huffs, becoming impatient and wishing she were at the table finishing her waffles. “Why did you get me a dress?”

  Oliver chimes in, taking over as he always does. “It’s Alana Edelman’s birthday today. I was on the phone with her just now. She’s having a party and wants us both to be there.”

  “It’s more of a small get-together, really,” Kim says, her words very far from the truth. “Okay, fine! It’s a party. One hell of a party. No expense will be spared. Alana is friends with the Wolfe family. They’ve graciously offered their 8-acre home in Westchester for the event.”

  Sophie doesn’t know if she’s more affected by the surname Wolfe—as in, the heiress to the Wolfe hotel dynasty, Madison, and her brother Luke—or by the mentioning of a party. “Kim, are you serious?” She looks to Ronnie. “Is she serious?”

  Ronnie bobs his head up and down rapidly. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Who has a party on a Monday?”

  “Rich people,” Oliver says.

  Kim adds, “People who don’t have anything to do Tuesday mornings.”

  “Frat houses,” continues Ronnie.

  Sophie sighs.

  “Bottom line is anybody who is anybody will be at this event,” Kim says. “You are personally invited to the cool kids table.”

  “When were you planning to tell me?”

  “Well, now. I didn’t want to say anything too soon. I know you just got back and all. I didn’t want to hassle you…right away.”

  “Well, thanks for the invite. But no thanks. I don’t do Westchester.”

  “Why not?”

  “No cell service. The air doesn’t smell. My skin breaks out whenever I go to the suburbs. I don’t know! Take your pick.”

  “Take a deep breath, Cavall.”

  “I hate yoga.”

  “Will you listen? This is your big entrance.”

  “My big entrance?”

  “You’ve been laying low. If you go to this party, there is a ninety-nine percent chance no one will be expecting you. That’s a huge benefit.”