by Kylie Adams
“I think it would be good for him to spend some special time like that with his daughter,” Finn said. “And I say that without a moment’s hesitation.”
Tilly breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you, Finn. I don’t know why I needed to hear that. I’ve trusted a kleptomaniacRussian whore with my daughter for days on end, but I second guess the child’s father and the man I married. Go figure. I’ll call him. Hopefully, we’ll be able to stop screamingat each other long enough to work out the small details.”
“I hope it works out.”
Tilly was uncharacteristically silent. “Me, too,” she finally said.
“Try his cell,” Finn suggested. “Wherever he is, I know that he’s got it with him.”
“Finn,” Tilly began hesitantly. “Has he ... has he talked about us?”
Now it was Finn’s turn to hesitate. “Tilly, I can’t be put in the middle like that. It’s not fair. We’ve talked about a lot of things. I’m not taking sides here, but I have to honor his confidence.I owe him that allegiance.”
“Of course,” Tilly said quickly, obviously stung by the rebukebut recovering fast. “It was stupid of me to ask.”
“Tilly—”
But before Finn could get another word out, she had alreadyhung up.
He wavered between calling her back and letting it go, ultimatelydeciding on the latter. After all, the only way to spare Tilly’s feelings would be to lie. It seemed cruel to pass along the news that Dean Paul was resigned to a divorce, that in his heart and mind he had moved on, that he was already plottinga relocation to Miami. Better to allow her to go on thinkingthat he might be quietly devastated.
Five rhythmic knocks rapped the door.
Finn checked the peephole to see the new and definitely not improved Benji Patt standing outside his door.With great annoyance, he flung it open. “You should call first.”
Benji gave Finn a diffident shrug and brushed passed him to enter the apartment, smugly surveying the surroundings. “Everything looks pretty much the same.”
“Well, I did have the place fumigated after you left,” Finn said pointedly.
Benji appeared unfazed by the remark. His eyes zeroed in on Dean Paul’s gym bag, which was carelessly slung on the living room floor, its contents sloppily spilling out. “Hmm ... apparently, it didn’t take.”
“What do you want?” Finn demanded.
“A friendlier hello for starters.”
“This is as good as it gets.”
Benji spied his mobile phone on the coffee table and stepped over to retrieve it. “I never got around to signing up for new service. Do you mind?”
Finn gave him a ho-hum look of disapproval. “I don’t care. It hardly ever rings. You must not be very popular. Anyway, the movie’s been deleted.”
Benji rolled his eyes. “Anything to protect your straight and married boyfriend, right? That relationship must be so fulfilling.” He settled onto the couch. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
“No.You’ve stayed too long already. Now, again, what do you want?”
“A plan,” Benji announced. “You promised to reintroduce me to the right people in New York, make some business connections.” He looked up expectantly. “I’m ready.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not. I’ll call you. Maybe this weekend. There’s a big thing at Stereo.”
“I want to start my own blog,” Benji announced. “Gossip items, pictures of me with celebs, that sort of thing.”
“Just what the world needs.”
“If that fat queen Perez Hilton can do it, why can’t I? I figure all I need is a new laptop, a photographer to follow me around, and some decent connections.”
Finn felt a moment’s pure sympathy for the man currently known as Benji. His desperation for celebrity access seemed worse than ever. It was pathetic to see someone pushing to create a life that resembled nothing of his own. What a loser. And to think that Finn had once been in love with the guy. Frightening. Must have been the fierce looks. Finn had always been such a goner for beauty. That explained Benji then. It explained Dean Paul now. But Benji’s presence was having no effect on him. The total lack of substance was countervailing his physical appeal. A sure sign of growth if ever there was one.
Finn gestured to the door. “Keep Saturday night open for now. I’ll let you know about Stereo.”
Benji made no move to leave. “I need to meet someone with deep pockets. How much does it cost to open a nightclub?”
“More than you have and more than you can get.”
Benji’s eyes lit up. “I hear everyone complaining about the club scene. Bloomberg’s pissing all over it. The tight asses with their neighborhood noise ordinances are shutting down hot spots. Trash from New Jersey buses in to perpetrate on the weekends. And is there really a quality joint for A-listers? You know, a place where Paris and Lindsay can’t bring their juvenileshit?”
Finn just looked at Benji. “Unfuckingbelievable!”
Benji stared back, his expression stunned and vacant.
This only intensified Finn’s anger. “We’ve had this conversationbefore, asshole!” He pointed to the bedroom. “In that bed! Only it was me saying those words ... practically verbatim!You might as well be lip-synching right now!”
“That was, like, a year ago,” Benji argued lamely. “I can’t remember who said what.”
“You didn’t say anything!” Finn roared. “It was my idea! I’ve dreamed about opening a club since my days at Brown! Have you ever had an original thought in your whole stupid life?”
Benji appeared bulletproof. “It’s not like opening a club is the most original idea in the world. Do you own the patent on it?”
Finn tried to shake off the urge to punch Benji in the face. “You’re giving me a headache. Please go.”
“We could do it together.”
Finn glared at him.
“As business partners,” Benji clarified. “Nothing more.”
“More like nothing at all,” Finn hissed. “And what exactly would classify you as a business partner? You have no capital to invest, and you don’t know shit about the club industry—excepthow to get kicked out of one after they wise up to your drink-and-dash routine.”
There was the sound of a jangling key. And then Dean Paul walked through the door. He halted right away. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”
Finn waved off the concern. “He was just leaving.”
Benji made no move to get up. “I don’t have to.” He gave Dean Paul a hardcore, lascivious look. “I’m game for a three-way.”
Finn grabbed Benji’s forearm and roughly pulled him to his feet. “It’s time for you to go. Seriously.”
“Okay, okay,” Benji whined, shaking free of Finn’s grip. “You want him all to yourself.” Another lewd stare at Dean Paul. “I can see why.”
Dean Paul made eye contact with Finn.
“Trust me. Introductions are not necessary,” Finn explained, red hot with embarrassment and pushing Benji toward the door.
“I’ll keep Saturday night wide open,” Benji shouted, more for Dean Paul’s benefit than for Finn’s. “Don’t forget to call me!”
Finn slammed the door and double bolted the lock, then leaned against it with a deep sigh of relief. He glanced down at the floor, barely able to make eye contact. “Long story.”
Dean Paul cracked a smile. “Next time we get hammered, you’ll have to tell me all about it.”
Finn loved it whenever Dean Paul spoke in the future tense. His trust in the relationship ... the friendship ... whateverit was ... never managed to solidify. Part of him always feared that Dean Paul might end things automatically. And the recent talk of a Miami move only heightened that fear.
“Tilly called,” Finn announced, anxious to bury the topic of Benji.
Dean Paul nodded. “That’s why I’m back. Looks like I’m moving back in.” One beat. “For a night or two at least. She’s got this big modeling thing, and the nanny bailed.” He
shook his head, deep in thought. “It’s crazy.”
“Yeah, she told me.”
“This will be the most time I’ve ever spent alone with my daughter. I think it’ll be cool.” He stepped over to his gym bag and began to push the overflowing contents back inside. “Anyway, thanks for the crash pad. I’ve probably cramped your style long enough.”
Finn’s heart sank at the reality of Dean Paul leaving. Because having him here—sleeping on the couch, junking up the place with his dirty clothes and wet towels—was just like a fantasy ... and probably the closest thing to the kind of relationship Finn dreamed about that would ever be realized.
“I found a realtor in Miami,” Dean Paul announced casually.“She sounds like a go-getter. I’ll probably head down there in a few days and look at some places.”
The news killed Finn a little bit. His stomach was instantlyin a million little knots ... and his mind was instantly in hyper-drive, thinking of a way to keep Dean Paul in New York.
THE IT PARADE
BY JINX WIATT
Fill in the Blanks
If ever there was a sign that feminismmight be a lost cause, then it is any young woman engaged in a relationship with a certain hip-hop mogul. This urban high roller fancieshimself as a modern-day king of decadence. It’s his world. And the women in his court are just living in it. Hopefully that too-lovely-for-wordsBlack American Princess (she’s a buzz beauty with some seriouspersonal finance issues) will rememberthat Helen Reddy (“I Am Woman”) came before Britney Spears (“I’m a Slave 4 U”).
24
Simone
“This is too tight. Bring me the next size up.”
“What do you have on now?” Simone asked.
“An eight.”
Simone sifted through the Wal-Mart clothing racks. Apparently,ten was a popular size in Franklin, New Jersey. There were plenty of fours, sixes, eights, twelves, and fourteens, but no tens. “I can’t find a ten!” Simone called back to the fitting room. “Let’s try another style.”
“But I like this one!” the woman yelled.
“Then lose some fucking weight,” Simone muttered under her breath.
“What did you say?”
“I said ... you’ll just have to wait and see if more tens come in,” Simone answered.
This was a career low point. Perhaps the very lowest. Schlepping to a Wal-Mart in New Jersey to play celebrity personal shopper for a lousy two thousand five hundred dollars.
“It’s easy money, sweetheart,” Sue Hotchner had assured her. “You’re just helping people shop for an afternoon. It’ll be fun. I bet it won’t even feel like work. I’ve got another client who’d do this all day long if I let her.”
The woman stepped out of the fitting room, a fleshy white leg jutting out of a barely wrapped polyester wrap dress. “Somethingmust be wrong. I can usually wear an eight.” She looked to be on the verge of tears. “How did I get so fat?”
“Some garments are cut differently,” Simone said, trying to be kind. “It’s probably a very small eight.” She gave her a comforting smile.
“Either that or I’m really a nine—on the fast track to a ten.”The woman shook her head. “This was a bad idea. I took vacation hours at work to be here, because I never have any time to shop for myself. I’ve got three kids and a husband who travels all the time for his job.” She shrugged miserably. “I thought you could work some star magic and make me look pretty. It probably wasn’t meant to happen here anyway, but a Wal-Mart dress is about the only thing I can afford.” Self-consciously, she closed the gap in the dress and shuffled back through the flimsy curtain of the fitting room.
“Does this look too slutty?”
Simone turned to see the thirteen-year-old she had been assisting earlier. The girl stood there in a skirt so small that it looked as if she had been squeezed into a sock with the toes cut off. “Too slutty? Sweetheart, there are no varying degrees of appropriate sluttiness. Any and all should be avoided. But the short answer is yes. Too slutty.”
The girl flounced away, disappointed, maybe, but also bettereducated.
An obese woman stepped into Simone’s personal space zone. “I had my colors done by a professional colorist, and she said that I should only wear peaches and browns.What do you think?”
Simone took a reflexive step backward. “I think black is naturally slimming. It’s also a wardrobe basic that nobody should avoid.” A gnawing feeling of guilt kept ricocheting in Simone’s mind. “Excuse me for a moment.” She returned to the wrap dress rack that she had rummaged through just minutes before with barely a glance. This time she carefully checked the tag on each garment, and she was delighted—after all—to find a size ten. She rushed over to the fitting room. “Look what I found! Try this one!”
The expression on the woman’s face was pure hope and gratitude.
And so on it went for another two hours, after which Simone was exhausted and slumped into the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car being transported back to New York. In a way, the experience had humbled her. She had been complainingabout the meager money she was set to earn from the appearance only to meet a woman whose shopping trip to Zanzibar was a twenty-dollar Wal-Mart dress. The realization provided some keen perspective.
But now, speeding back toward Manhattan, Simone was once again preoccupied with her own woes. Though grateful for the Target and Wal-Mart appearance money, it failed to add up to much after Sue chopped out her cut (twenty percent)and another twenty-five percent was tucked away for taxes. What remained hardly put a dent in Simone’s money problems. They had grown that severe.
Her anxiety over her finances had triggered a sleeping disorder that prevented her from resting through the night. Even Tylenol PM could not knock her out, and usually she reacted to those over-the-counter treatments as if she had been given a heavy narcotic. And The Beehive rumors were hardly a reason to sleep peacefully. Gossip was swirling that major changes were imminent.What with Sutton having missed the last few shows and hushed talk about Emma quitting, Simone had no idea what to think. Even with none of the whispers zeroing in on her, she felt no sense of job security. Critics still pointed her out as a disposable set piece, and everyoneon set from Jay to the grips seemed to regard her with a certain degree of ambivalence.
So her bank account was a wreck, her career was shaky, her ex-boyfriend was stalking her, she had stumbled into the role of Girlfriend Number Whatever to Kevon Edmonds, and her most trusted confidante was Tilly Lockhart, who rarely listened to a word out of anyone’s mouth that was not about her.
Simone’s cellular jingled. And who else would it be but Tilly calling to discuss Tilly. Simone had already been held hostage as she droned on about the nanny crisis. At almost every point in the story, Simone kept waiting for even the faintest sign of sympathy for Veronika’s predicament. But apparentlyhaving a kidnapped sister in a German prostitution ring guaranteed you nothing from Tilly Lockhart. “Hi,Tilly.”
“Where are you?”
“In a car on my way back from New Jersey.”
“Oh, how awful!” Tilly cried. “I’d ask why, but I’ve had enough distressing news for one day. Listen, I wanted to let you know that I spoke with Dean Paul, and I’ve agreed to let him take care of Cantaloupe while I’m away. I see no other recourse, and I think it will be a good exercise for him to act like a responsible parent for once. I wish I didn’t have to go, but the 24/7 people are paying me buckets of money, and the travel is first class, so it’s hardly a root canal. Anyway, we had a civilized discussion. I suppose he might make a decent ex-husbandafter all. Although he did try to defend his dance floor romp with that bleached sack of bar trash by saying I had lost interest in sex. Can you believe that?”
“Have you?” Simone asked, grateful for the moment to be tackling someone’s problems other than her own.
“Have I what?”
“Lost interest in sex.”
“Simone, I’m a smart woman with two homes, a career, and a young baby. Of course, I’ve l
ost interest in sex. Plus, I take Lexapro to keep the edge off, and that medication really messes with your ability to climax. It takes forever. Trust me. And frankly, I don’t have forty-five minutes to lay there while Dean Paul works harder than an illegal immigrant day laborer to prove that he can make me come. I mean, honestly. Just forget it. I’d much rather have the sleep than the orgasm. Now why on earth are you coming back from New Jersey?”
Simone simply did not have the energy to think up a lie. “Sue booked me for an in-store appearance at Wal-Mart, becauseI need the money.”
For several long seconds, Tilly was silent. Finally, she spoke. “Your agent is a hack, Simone. Dump her.”
“Tilly, I—”
“I’m serious. She thinks too small. If you’re going to drag yourself to New Jersey and stomp through a Wal-Mart, then at least be there to promote your own product. You should have your own line of cheap clothes or something.” Tilly let out an exasperated sigh.“Please. Listen to what I’m saying. Sue could never make any of this happen. And you have to act now while The Beehive is hot. Every single one of those Queer Eye boys made out like bandits. And several of those Trading Spaces people did the same thing. Laurie Smith has her own line of fabric. And now she’s designing lamps.”
Simone just sat there waiting for the insult to drop.
“You know what? I’m going to break my personal policy and tell my agency about your situation. I can’t stand by and watch you wallow in the kind of low-rent promotional opportunitiesthat are meant for reality show stars. I mean, we’re closely associated with each other, and this could be damagingto my reputation as well. So I’m going to have a conversationwith Michael about someone’s career other than my own.”
“How selfless of you,” Simone sniffed, simultaneously touched, grateful, and irritated.