This Life: A Novel

by Maryann Reid

  “Sorry, what did you say?” Antonio looked up from the daily crossword of The New York Times. He was a riddle to Blake: The man had an Ivy League MBA in Economics, so why in the world was he working as a bodyguard?

  “I thought after buying the Wishman Spears I’d have no trouble finding a new publicist.” Blake poured herself a tall glass of pomegranate juice and took a sip. I’ll be damned. The man even does the crossword in ink. His brain is wasted in his line of work. “But all I’m getting is a bunch of excuses.”

  “Weird.” He laid the crossword aside and leveled a speculative gaze at Blake. “How many publicists have you called?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Before saying anything else, Antonio picked up his mug of coffee and drank it dry. His eyes never left Blake’s. She thought she could almost hear him analyzing the problem.

  “You’ve been sabotaged. I’d bet a month’s pay on that, if I were a gambling man.”

  “Sabotaged? How?” Blake took a seat across the table from Antonio.

  “Now that, I couldn’t say, not without doing some investigation. I’m cross-trained for that, but it’s not really my thing. Want me to call the office, ask them to put someone on finding out why you’re out in the cold with the publicist crowd?”

  Blake shook her head. “No. When you put it like that, I’m fairly certain about what’s happened. I want to make sure, though, so I’m going to get dressed, and then we’re taking a cab to chat with the last publicist who refused to meet with me.”

  The car that Blake hired parked in the cramped lot behind a renovated brownstone mere minutes before 11 A.M., when early lunchers would slip out of their offices to go in search of food. Antonio inspected the street-front side of the building while Blake negotiated with the taxi driver to wait for them.

  “She didn’t turn you down because she can’t use the work,” Antonio remarked to Blake, scrutinizing the windows over the top of his Ray-Bans. He pointed to a residue of grime accumulated on the glass. “Looks like she hasn’t spent money on a window washer for a while. Windows of the office next door are sparkling, though.” He motioned at the other building.

  “Well, let’s go ask Ms. Marsha what’s going on.” Blake pushed open the swinging glass door, and a little bell tinkled to herald their arrival.

  A mousy receptionist darted out of the first door on the right in the hallway. “Good morning! Do you have an appointment?”

  “I do now,” Blake said. “Which one is Ms. Grayson’s office?”

  “I can’t let you—”

  “Relax, you’re not. I’m bigger than you, and my bodyguard is bigger than both of us together. When I push past you and he follows me, you never stood a chance of stopping us.”

  The receptionist’s mouth dropped open and worked like a guppy’s. Blake strolled by her without even needing to give her a “back off” look, and Antonio trailed after her. Judging by the plaques hanging on the doors, this building accommodated multiple businesses. Ironically, first on the left was a private investigator. Blake grimaced, fighting a temptation to hire him to investigate his neighbor’s finances. She kept her eyes on the prize, however, and opened the second door on the left, on which a large sign proclaimed Grayson Relations.

  Although the exterior of the building suffered from some neglect, Grayson’s office reflected well on her. It was decorated in shabby chic, and Blake recognized one of the French designer names as one of her own favorites. Behind a refurbished rolltop desk sat the willowy brunette who must be Marsha Grayson.

  “Good morning,” said Grayson, throwing a puzzled glance at the door. Antonio seemed to fill every inch of the aperture. He grinned and waved at Grayson, who turned her attention to Blake. “I’m afraid I don’t know you. If you need to hire a publicist, I’d be glad to speak with you, but I’m expecting an eleven o’clock appointment with a client. Would you be able to come back—”

  “No, because you already refused to talk to me, and you’re probably about to do that again. I need to know why.” Blake settled into one of the three plush chairs fronting the desk. “I’m Blake Bertrand.”

  “Oh.” Grayson didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands.

  “You are one of seventeen publicists who said no to a meeting with me, when I called to arrange one. I just want to know who is responsible, my ex-husband or my ex-publicist.”

  “Oh,” Grayson said again, and studied the floor as if she’d never seen it before.

  They sat unspeaking, Blake watching Grayson, who no doubt tried to think of a way to get rid of her without telling her anything. A minute ticked by, then another.

  Blake pulled her wallet out of her purse, slid out a hundred-dollar bill, and held it out to Grayson. “How about I hire you for sixty seconds. Not even that. However long it takes you to say either Lang Bertrand or Sherry Greene.”

  Grayson lifted her gaze to the crisp slip of currency. “She tells everyone you’re a monster to work with,” she said at last, taking the hundred. “That you expect celebrities to greet you everywhere you go, that you fight every penny of expenses, that you have temper tantrums if you’re not front-page news at least once a month, that you try not to give raises…” Her voice trailed off and she glanced at the wall clock. “Please go now. I’ve got a client coming in any minute.”

  Blake stood and nodded in response to Antonio’s quizzical gaze. “That’s all I needed to know. You have a good life, Ms. Grayson.”

  Outside the brownstone, Antonio slid his Ray-Bans back on and asked, “Any of that actually true?”

  “Twist a claim enough and anything is true, I suppose. I wouldn’t let Sherry Greene charge her clothes and hairstyles and such to her expense account for reimbursement, because I don’t get to charge my wardrobe to buyers when I resell a property. I got angry when she offered to invite celebrities to an event I was hosting and later I learned none of them showed up because they never actually got an invitation. Everything she said has some tiny basis in truth. She just blew it all out of proportion when she gossiped to other publicists.”

  He opened the taxi door for her, and she climbed in. When he was seated next to her and the cab merged with traffic, Antonio asked, “So what will you do now?”

  Blake shook her head. “I haven’t worked that out yet.”

  #

  March 3

  New York, New York

  Blake still hadn’t worked out her publicist problems when her BlackBerry played a verse of “Sophisticated Lady” at nine o’clock the next morning, alerting her that her best friend was calling. “Margot! I thought I’d hear from you before now. Thomas told me at the Wishman Spears closing that you’re in New York with him.”

  “Oh, honey, I thought you’d be busy setting up press conferences and that sort of thing. I didn’t want to take up too much of your time.” Margot’s voice always made Blake think of how sunshine would sound, if human ears could hear it.

  “As it turns out, I’m not. I can’t seem to find a new publicist to represent me.”

  “What? That makes no sense. You’re all over the business news these past few days, and some of the mainstream news too. It’s easy money for a publicist to go to work for you right now.”

  Blake nodded to Antonio, sitting at the kitchen table with her. He was drinking coffee and doing the crossword as usual, while Blake ate an orange and a bagel with cream cheese. She opened the sliding glass door onto the terrace, with its grand view of the Empire State Building.

  “I know, but I’m told nobody wants to work for a miserly shrew, which is what my former publicist says I am.” It was a chilly morning, and her breath came out in cottony puffs. She enjoyed the nip in the air, however. Although not as fond of cold as her mother, Blake did relish temperatures in the forty-five to sixty-five range. Which are rare in Miami, she reflected with a wry smile. Maybe I should move north one day.

  “That Sherry Greene. I never understood why you tolerated her as long as you did. She got full-time pay for part-time work, an
d never appreciated how lucky she was. And her taste in clothes!” Margot clucked her tongue before finishing, “Ghetto fabulous.”

  Blake laughed full-throated for the first time in months. “Margot, you do my soul good. How much longer will you be in the city?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m calling. Today is our last day. Our flight back to Miami leaves early in the morning. I was hoping we could get together for lunch today, if you don’t have any other plans.”

  “Even if I did, I’d reschedule them for you. Do you have a restaurant in mind?”

  “No, Thomas doesn’t bring me to New York nearly often enough to know what’s here. You choose. I’ll pay.”

  “The Four Seasons at noon? Does that sound good?”

  “Girl, that sounds better than good. I still have fond memories of that place from however many centuries ago Thomas last brought me to New York.” In the background, Thomas groaned.

  Blake laughed again, seeing clearly understanding the theatrics her best friend’s husband was putting on. “I’ll see you in the Grill Room.”

  “See you there and then!” Margot ended the connection, and Blake went inside to dress for the occasion.

  In the mood to walk, Blake opted for a layered strategy. She wore slim Armani slacks and blouse with Gucci ballet flats, plus a hip-length Gucci leather jacket to keep out the cold. Antonio dressed like the Ivy League business grad he was, in a blue suit and striped red power necktie. They waved good-bye to the doorman at eleven and kept a leisurely pace, detouring somewhat as they neared their destination so that Blake could show Antonio the Rockefeller Plaza, Radio City Music Hall, and Saks.

  Even though they arrived early, as usual for Blake, Margot Mills was already at the Four Seasons. She was enjoying a cocktail, and she’d taken the liberty of ordering a Grand Marnier Sidecar for Blake. They hugged each other tight, and Blake introduced Antonio.

  “Would you ladies like me to sit out of hearing range?” he asked them, after shaking Margot’s hand.

  “Certainly not!” gushed Margot. “I haven’t laid eyes on such a handsome young man since Thomas and I first met.”

  “Good thing he’s not here to see you ogling my bodyguard,” Blake teased.

  “Oh, Thomas and I agreed a long time ago that being on a diet doesn’t mean we can’t look at the menu.”

  They all requested warm spinach salad for an appetizer, and for their main courses Margot ordered the Veal Four Seasons, Blake the Dover Sole, and—after a wince—Antonio the Sirloin Burger. “I can’t believe any burger is worth nearly forty dollars,” Antonio muttered as their waiter walked away.

  “Everything here is excellent,” Margot promised him. “And don’t worry. If I can’t afford it, your boss can.” She winked at Blake and the two laughed like schoolgirls.

  “Now, I’ve been doing some thinking about you being without a publicist,” Margot confided after she finished off her highball. “You’re getting publicity right now from the Wishman Spears purchase, even without someone setting up press conferences and such for you. Just keep that ball rolling, girl. Start a new project that everyone would be interested in, and reporters will spread the word for you.”

  “Interesting idea,” Blake said, meditating over her Sidecar. “I’ve been planning to get more involved in charity, even start one of my own. Maybe I should get started on that.”

  “Perfect! And I even know a celebrity who might agree to be a spokeswoman for your charity.” Margot leaned in close to Blake, and spoke barely above a whisper. “Thomas and I vacationed in Jamaica for New Year’s, you know, and guess who else was there then?”

  Blake shook her head. “Too many possibilities, Margot. I have no idea.”

  “Lanre, that’s who!”

  “I know she was a shining star of R&B for a couple of years,” Blake said, jabbing her fork into her salad without truly paying attention to it. “But I haven’t heard anything about her for quite a while.”

  “True, she said she had creative differences with her record label and ended up breaking her contract with them. Now she’s got material for a new album and plans to make a comeback. It seems to me you’d be helping her as much as she’d be helping you. Should make for a loyal and enthusiastic spokesperson, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe.” Half a generation has gone by, or at least that’s how it feels. Will anyone in the younger end of the age range I want to reach even know who Lanre is?

  “Well, here, I’ll write down her phone number for you. Use it or not, as you see fit. But if you want my advice, I think you should use it.” Margot tore a page off the pad of Post-it notes she kept in her purse, scribbled a number she looked up in her cell phone’s contacts list, and handed it to Blake.

  Blake looked at it before sticking it inside her wallet. “What about you, Margot? How are you keeping yourself entertained these days, whenever Thomas is away on business?”

  For the first time since Blake walked into the Grill Room, Margot didn’t seem to know what to say. She signaled their waiter to come to their table, and ordered another highball. “Every day is different,” she said at last.

  She said it to her highball, not to Blake.

  #

  March 19

  New York, New York

  Though Blake hated waiting while attention to her Wishman Spears purchase faded, Lanre wasn’t available for a New York meeting until two-and-a-half weeks after Blake’s lunch with Margot. She put the intervening time to use as best she could, interviewing contractors for her Wishman renovation plans and consulting with attorneys who specialized in forming and administering charitable organizations. Finally the day came when Lanre was in the city to spend a few days in a recording studio and perform at two local clubs.

  Lanre suggested that she and Blake talk over brunch the morning after her arrival in New York. She requested they meet at Madiba, a Brooklyn restaurant specializing in South African cuisine. Blake and Suki, with whom Antonio had traded shifts so that he could see a dentist, were waiting outside the restaurant when the doors opened at eleven o’clock.

  At half past, when Lanre still hadn’t shown up, Blake tried to call her but only reached voicemail. I get the feeling this isn’t going to work out. With a strained smile, Blake said to Suki, “As long as we’re here, we may as well eat.”

  “I’ve never tried South African food before. Got any idea what’s good, Boss?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Blake studied the menu, and was trying to decide between a safe lamb curry or an adventurous boerewors roll when at last a stern-faced, middle-aged brown-skinned woman marched up to Blake’s table, with Lanre slouching behind her.

  “Blake Bertrand?” demanded the older woman, oblivious to Suki’s appraising stare.

  “I am,” Blake agreed, looking past the woman at Lanre. The singer appeared to be in the throes of a wicked hangover.

  “Let’s get down to business, then.” The woman impatiently waved Lanre into a chair, and plunked her own ample hiney onto another. “How much are you offering to pay my daughter to hype this charity of yours?”

  “I haven’t decided on a specific amount yet.” Again Blake gazed at Lanre, bewildered by the younger woman’s total silence. I’ve had some hangovers in my time, but I could still speak if I needed to. What’s up with this girl?

  “Well, that’s something we’ve got to know up front. My daughter is going to be extremely busy in the next few months, working her way back to the top of the R&B charts. Her time is valuable, and any time spent away from advancing her music career must be well compensated. Isn’t that right, Lan?”

  The older woman looked at the younger, who apparently found the tabletop fascinating. “Uh,” Lanre said after a moment. An achingly long second later, she added, “huh.”

  “Please excuse me for a few minutes,” Blake said, keeping her voice quiet as a courtesy to the afflicted singer. “I really need to visit the bathroom.”

  “Where my boss goes, I follow,” Suki informed the tw
o, and accompanied Blake to the ladies’ room.

  Blake retrieved her wallet from her purse and found the business card on which the old fellow from the Miami-to-NY flight had written the name of his own publicist. She keyed the number into her BlackBerry, listened as the other end rang twice, and breathed a sigh of relief when a silky woman’s voice answered, “Vickie Sharp PR, this is Vickie speaking.”

  “A client of yours gave you a glowing recommendation, and I need a good publicist as soon as possible,” Blake answered. “I’m Blake Bertrand. Please tell me we can meet sometime in the next few days!”

  Chapter Five

  March 20

  New York, New York

  When Blake emerged from a morning spent consulting with attorney Susan Golden about zoning restrictions on the Wishman Spears building that she’d need amended before proceeding with her plans, she powered on her BlackBerry and immediately regretted it. An email from Charles was waiting for her. Its subject line:

  “Damn it all.” She opened the message, took a deep breath, and let the bad news sink in.

 

  “That doesn’t make sense.” Blake frowned at her BlackBerry, as if the device were to blame for the disappointing news.

  “What doesn’t make sense?” Antonio stood between Blake and the curb, watching for the taxi the law firm had called for them.

  “I’ve been trying to buy three properties in Little Haiti. They have low market values, but based on their locations and history and other factors I could use them to remake the neighborhood as one of the most desirable places to live and work in the United States. I’ve been dreaming about it for years, almost as long as I dreamed of renovating the Wishman Spears. Up here,” Blake tapped her forehead, “I’ve got plans for the whole neighborhood for the next ten years, but I need those three properties. Some idiot bidding anonymously is offering so much for them that they couldn’t possibly break even for at least five years.”