“What about him?”
“If you’re all about positivity, why can’t you be in the same room with me without insulting me or my family? What is it about me, Mr. Richards, that irritates you so much?”
“Maybe if you didn’t always feel the need to huff and puff and blow the brother down, we’d be cool.”
“And maybe if you knocked that boulder-sized chip off your shoulder, you’d realize that disagreeing doesn’t mean disrespecting. It doesn’t really matter, because I am blowing you off for the last time.” Felicia turned and walked away. Men! First Trace, now Lexis Richards—the hell with ’em!
Lexis felt a smile tugging at his lips as he watched Felicia gracefully maneuver herself through the crowded room and to the podium. He was perplexed by the reaction she caused in him. She was attractive enough, if you like the thin, redbone type. The Jada Pinketts and Halle Berrys of the world did nothing for him. He preferred his women the color of dark chocolate, with natural hair and a generous behind. With her light skin and long hair, Felicia epitomized the coveted, wanna-look-white image of many black women—an image he was out to destroy. Additionally, the lifestyle Felicia represented—summers in Martha’s Vineyard, BMWs in the driveway, and perfect pedigrees—repelled him. No, it wasn’t her looks or her lifestyle that intrigued him. It was Felicia’s spunk and mental agility that impressed Lexis the most.
“Hi, sexy, can I interest you in a quickie?” Stephanie offered, pulling Jack into an isolated corner and kissing him with erotic desire.
“Not now. We’re in public,” Jack said, gently pushing her away.
“You didn’t say that in the bathroom at Le Bar Bat three weeks ago.”
“We were both pretty wasted. Steph, we need to talk.”
“Talking is not quite what I had in mind,” Stephanie cooed.
“Look, you’re a great girl. I don’t feel right keeping you all to myself,” Jack said, trying to let her down gently. “Maybe we should see other people.”
Stephanie winced at the rejection. “You don’t want to see me anymore?”
“We can still go out from time to time. I just think we need to slow things down.”
“But I …” love you. The words died in her throat. “What if I don’t want to see other people?”
“Steph, you deserve more than take-out food and a wild romp in the sack.”
Stephanie felt her world spinning apart. He doesn’t mean it. Even if he does, I can make it all right again. “Jack, tell me what I did wrong and I can fix it.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s me. Look, maybe we should talk about this later,” he suggested. Stephanie looked as if she was about to lose it, and he didn’t want her making a scene. He stepped aside as a young man wearing a black suede jacket brushed past them. Jack followed the man with his eyes, mainly to avoid looking at the tears welling up in Stephanie’s.
“Can we get together after the party? Jack?” she pleaded.
“What? Sorry. That woman, the one over in the corner. She looks familiar.”
You just broke up with me and already you’re on the prowl, Stephanie thought, turning around to see who was captivating Jack’s attention. She couldn’t believe it. With all the big names occupying the room, Jack’s eyes were glued to the one corner that held Gabrielle Donovan. She was standing there looking statuesque and perfect with an attractive, European-looking man. He was doing most of the talking, while Gabrielle stood listening and smiling bashfully. Nearby was the man in the suede jacket who appeared to be listening intently to their conversation as he studied one of the sculptures.
“Oh, her. Isn’t that dress a scream,” Stephanie said, hoping her eyes had played a nasty trick on her, but knowing by Jack’s appreciative stare, they hadn’t.
“Do you know her? Is she a model?”
“No, she’s just some girl we hired for the night. Let’s go get a drink,” she suggested. Stephanie wanted to get him on the other side of the room before Gabrielle wandered over.
“Steph,” Gabrielle called out as she hurried over to join them. Excitement radiated from every pore on her face. In her hand she held a business card.
Too late, Stephanie thought. “Hi,” she answered flatly. Almost immediately Stephanie could once again feel herself developing an acute case of the “terrible too’s.” It happened every time she was around Gabrielle. No matter how good she felt about herself, once Gabrielle appeared she immediately felt too short, too fat, and too terribly average.
“Hi. You must be Jack. Stephanie has told me a lot about you,” Gabrielle said, smiling broadly. “I’m Gabrielle.”
“You’re Gabrielle? The same Gabrielle that lives with, uh …” Jack lost his train of thought, his attention drawn to her mouth. Her succulent lips framed a pearly-white smile that was absolutely devastating. It was the kind of smile that, once bestowed, would make you forget things—like what time it was, what state you were in, or your current lover’s name. This woman was nothing like the naïve country bumpkin Stephanie described.
“Stephanie,” Stephanie interjected flatly. She could see the twinkle of adoration in Jack’s eyes and the way he gave Gabrielle that half-cocked, sexy-beyond-belief, you’re-the-only-woman-in-this-room grin. Stephanie felt the bile rising in her throat. He was giving it to Gabrielle with both guns loaded, and right in front of her no less.
“Is there something you need?” she asked with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Not at all. In fact, everything is great. I wanted to tell you first. See that guy over there, the one with the ponytail talking to Susan Taylor? He’s a photographer. He said he knew some people in the business and could help me get started modeling.”
“That’s great,” Stephanie said with phony verve, “but I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you. This kind of thing happens all the time in New York. Who was that other guy, standing next to you?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there.”
“Probably his partner in crime. They must be some kind of flimflam artists.” Stephanie took great pleasure in watching Gabrielle’s bubble slowly deflate.
“Did he mention money? Any kind of fees?” Jack asked with concern.
“Not at all. He just asked if I ever thought about modeling and said he’d love to take some test shots of me.”
“Really, Gabrielle, I can’t believe you fell for that old line. Let me guess, he wanted you to come over to his place and pose for some lingerie ads.”
“No. He gave me his business card and told me he’d call to set up a session at his studio.”
“May I?” Jack asked, reaching for the card in Gabrielle’s hand. After a quick look he smiled broadly. “You just met Miguel Reid.”
“Yeah, so?” Stephanie said, annoyed by his enthusiasm.
“Mig Reid is one of the biggest fashion photographers in the world. He’s right up there with Herb Ritts and Steven Meisel. Ever heard of Tatiana Krmpotic?”
“Who hasn’t? She just signed some big deal with Revlon.”
“Yeah, like a five-million-dollar big deal. Mig discovered her, too.”
Gabrielle let out an audible gasp of excitement.
“If you want to be a model, you’ve impressed the right man,” Jack told her, reveling in her delight.
“Then he’s on the up-and-up?”
“Miguel is as up as they come. Hey, why don’t we all have a drink and I can tell you all about him,” Jack suggested, flashing his rejection-proof, come-hither smile.
“Maybe another time,” Stephanie chimed in, eager to break this twosome apart. “Gabrielle is here to work, not socialize. Besides, she’s not old enough to drink.” And wipe that fucking drool off your chin, you dickhead. Better yet, let me grab the nearest chair and do it for you.
“Stephanie’s right on both counts. I don’t drink alcohol, and I do have to get back to work,” Gabrielle admitted, looking the photographer’s way. Now that she knew he was legitimate, she intended to wor
k her way right back over to Miguel Reid’s corner and seal this deal.
“After the party, then,” Jack insisted. “Stephanie and I would love to buy you a Coke,” he added, smiling.
Two hours ago she would have sold her right arm to hear Jack speak of the two of them as a couple, but tonight it was clear that the woman putting the gleam in his eye and the bulge in his pants was Gabrielle.
“Jack is right. A night like tonight calls for a drink. Let’s go find the bar,” Stephanie said, thinly masking the bitterness welling up inside her.
10
Stephanie shoveled another teaspoon of sugar into her third cup of morning coffee and returned to her chair at the kitchen table. The table’s surface and the floor below it were covered in newspapers. The coffee was an attempt to jump-start her body after a sleepless night spent obsessing over Jack, and the papers were meant to keep her mind off the many questions infiltrating her brain. Why had he left her? What had she done wrong, and how could she get him back now that Gabrielle had her hooks in him?
Just thinking about last night caused Stephanie to shudder in disgust. After the party when Jack had insisted they go have drinks at—of all places—The Mad Hatter, Gabrielle had played it cute and coy, deferring to Stephanie, practically ignoring Jack, knowing all the while that every man loves a chase. And Jack, that prick-for-a-brain son of a bitch, you’d think the way he was stepping all over himself trying to be charming that he was in the presence of Christy Turlington or Amber Valletta. Somebody famous. Somebody worth fawning over. Not a dimwitted former muffin maven. Jack had spent the entire evening playing the unabashed fan, filling Gabrielle’s brain with illusions of grandeur. He’s mine. She can’t have him. Oh, stop it, Stephanie commanded her brain. It will work out. I’ll make sure it does. Because one thing is for certain: There is no way in hell Gabrielle is going to take Jack away from me.
She forced herself to concentrate on the task before her. She’d spent the last hour combing the papers looking for press on last night’s party. From the New York Times to the Daily News, the reviews thus far were very positive. Nearly every reporter in attendance gave the affair, with its historical and philanthropic twists, two thumbs up.
Stephanie picked up Star Diary. She peeled away the paper’s outer pages, like the leaves of an artichoke, until she reached its heart—“The Grain Harvest.” She skimmed through the first column and was halfway through the second when she spotted what she was looking for. Her eyes grew large with amusement as she read Harry Grain’s account of the previous evening. He had saved the best for last.
What excuse did film director Lexis Richards have for his sloppy, grungy attire at last night’s opening of the Montell Spirits art exhibit? Richards showed up at the Studio Museum in Harlem wearing a washed-out T-shirt and torn jeans. This man, whose movie, Southeast, is making tons of money despite the fact that it’s raising havoc on city streets, was either too cheap or too tired from cleaning out his garage to change.
Tinseltown’s newest darling was definitely outfitted to match his disposition, as he launched into an angry tirade when asked by this reporter to explain the shootings and violence that have occurred in several theaters where his movie is playing. In fact, his harsh verbal assault would clearly have turned physical if not for the interference of Felicia Wilcot, proprietress of the little-known public-relations firm Wilcot & Associates. Ms. Wilcot was retained by the Montell Spirits Company to coordinate last night’s exhibit, which highlights African-American participation in the Old West.
Despite many famous faces in attendance—including diva songstress Vanessa Williams, megastar Bill Cosby and wife Camille, tapmaster Savion Glover, and Oscar winners Denzel Washington and Robert De Niro—the party was DOA. Masquerading as a scholarship benefit, this “gala” event was merely a tacky attempt (and I do mean tacky, darling, from the dreary Western theme to the brown-and-serve hors d’oeuvre) by Wilcot to sell wine coolers. One has to wonder how Ms. Wilcot was able to convince the “wine of our times” mogul Peter Montell to take part in this fiasco. Perhaps her power of persuasion is one of the two talents she possesses. The other being her ability to pick out the help.
“Felicia’s going to have a cow,” Stephanie snickered aloud. She, on the other hand, was fascinated by Harry’s professional audacity. He wasn’t hamstrung by the concept of journalistic impartiality. The fact that he had a national byline gave him carte blanche to call things exactly as he saw them. I want the power to influence people’s opinions. I want folks dying to know what I think about something or someone. Stephanie felt a new surge of purpose course through her body as she continued to read.
The big buzz going around town is that fashion photographer Mig Reid has found his latest diamond in the rough, an unnamed working girl hired by Ms. Wilcot. Mig, who can spot a megamodel-in-the-making, is famous for picking and plucking (read into it what you will, darling) new talent for the mannequin market. As with his past discoveries, Tatiana Krmpotic, Roya Kirsten, and the showstopping Eva G., the man has mined gold once again. Trust me on this one, my dears, Miguel Reid’s newest gem is pure Tiffany.
“Pure Tiffany my ass,” Stephanie said angrily. Wasn’t it enough that Gabrielle had obviously caught Jack’s attention last night? Did Harry Grain have to torture her wounded ego further with his enthusiastic remarks?
How did the reporter know about their meeting anyway? she wondered. Felicia had already kicked him out by the time Gabrielle met the photographer. Who told him? Who was Harry Grain’s spy, and how much had he got paid for this piece of fantasy?
“Good morning,” Gabrielle said, heading straight for the coffeepot.
“Hey.”
“Why all the newspapers?”
“I’m looking for press clippings about the party.”
“I thought it was the most fabulous party I’d ever seen. All those famous people, the television cameras—it was wonderful. My mother would have loved it,” Gabrielle added wistfully. “What did the papers say about the party?”
Stephanie thought about telling Gabrielle about her mention in “The Grain Harvest” but quickly decided against it. Why make her head bigger than Jack and that Mig character already had?
“For the most part everybody thought it was great.”
“It was great, and I can’t thank you enough for asking me to work. If it wasn’t for you, I would never have met Miguel.”
“Look, it was no big deal. I needed help, you needed a job. There’s nothing to thank me for,” Stephanie remarked impatiently. “Now can you leave me alone so I can finish clipping these articles before I leave for work?”
Gabrielle was taken aback by Stephanie’s hostility. She’d been like this since last night when the two of them went out for drinks with Jack Hollis. Poor Jack, he’d tried to keep the evening light and upbeat, but Stephanie’s dour mood kept it from being anything but long and painful. Tired of trying to understand her moody housemate, Gabrielle went back to fixing her breakfast. Their uneasy silence was broken by the ringing phone.
“I’ll get it,” Stephanie volunteered, hurrying into the hall. Please be Jack.
“Hello.”
“Stephanie, hi,” Jack said. Shit! He’d hoped Gabrielle would answer the phone.
I knew he’d change his mind. “Hey, Jack.”
“Uh, thanks for inviting me last night,” Jack said, sounding as awkward as he felt.
“I’m glad you could come.”
“I’ve been reading the papers, and the reports look very positive.”
“Yeah, everything went off pretty well.”
The two lapsed into momentary silence, Jack not knowing how to ask for Gabrielle and Stephanie reluctant to bring up last night’s discussion.
Enough of this trivial chitchat. Just come out and say it: You made a mistake and you want us to stay together.
Enough of this crap, Jack told himself. “Ah, Steph, is—uh, I’d like, um …”
This is so cute. He really is nervous.
&nb
sp; “Is Gabrielle there?” Jack braced himself for Stephanie to erupt in an avalanche of emotion.
She didn’t dare utter a single word. Stephanie pulled the receiver from her ear and tightened her grip until her knuckles turned white. The receiver shook uncontrollably in her hand as she glared with rage at the instrument of betrayal. Her breath came shallow and fast, and soon she began to feel lightheaded.
Stephanie fought to keep her voice steady. “It’s for you,” she said, walking back into the kitchen. Her eyes, full of resentment, followed Gabrielle out into the hall.
Jack held on in amazement. He’d expected hysterics or at least a good tongue-lashing. Instead he got controlled politeness. Before he had a chance to ponder Stephanie’s reaction further, Gabrielle’s eager voice was singing in his ear.
“Hello.”
“Morning, this is Jack Hollis. How are you?”
“Oh, Jack. Hi.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I thought it might be Miguel Reid.”
“Understandable. Don’t worry, he’ll call. Like the paper said, he’s found his next diamond in the rough.”
“Paper? What are you talking about?”
“There’s a write up in Harry Grain’s Star Diary column about you and Mig Reid.”
“My name is in the paper?”
“Not exactly, but there’s no mistaking Harry was talking about you.
As Jack read the “Grain Harvest” clip aloud, Gabrielle’s excitement bubbled up within her.
“So what do you think? You’re famous.”
“An unnamed working girl could be anybody.”
“Ah, but we both know it’s you—a Tiffany gem. I’ll save the paper for you.”
“Thanks.”
“I could give it to you when we have dinner tonight.”
“The three of us?” Gabrielle asked, sounding confused.
“I guess Stephanie didn’t tell you. We broke up last night.”
“She hasn’t mentioned it yet, but that explains her mood.”
“She’ll be fine. Stephanie Bancroft is one tough lady. So how about dinner?”
Read Between the Lies Page 7