Alex stayed quiet in the meeting. She knew better than to throw out ideas here. Every person at the meeting was gunning to write a story. No matter what they actually did at the magazine, they all wanted the glory of seeing their names in print. Alex was the only person who was solely a writer. If she spoke up, Maria might assign the story to her on the spot, which might anger the other editors, who all hoped to get one. Her job was just to pay attention, take notes, and give her opinion if asked. While an intern talked about a new Ras Bennett song that seemed to have potential, Alex went to her bag to find her ideas book. As she moved things around, she saw a copy of Sounds of Carribean America peeking out. It was the issue with Josephine Bennett on the cover. The story Birdie had begged her to write had just been published and he’d given her a copy that morning. Alex looked around the room while she stuffed the magazine back into her bag. It wasn’t like she was on contract with Vibe. And S.O.C.A. had a tiny print run. But she still didn’t want to take any chances on anyone seeing her with the story and asking her how she had ended up writing it. She found her notebook and starting flipping through it.
“Does anyone know anything about Ras Bennett’s wife?” an editor asked the room. “I think her name is Josephine?”
Alex looked around. For a split second she thought she’d somehow said something about Josephine aloud during the brief moment when she spaced out. But she replayed the conversation that had been taking place and realized the staffers were discussing women who were married to rappers.
“I don’t know anything about her,” said Julie. “But I do know Beth Saddlebrook; she’s married to Z.”
The conference room dissolved into a chorus of groans and tongue clucking.
“I feel so sorry for that girl,” said an Asian girl with a platinum buzz cut. “How many kids does he have by other women?”
“Like, four!” said an intern.
Maria shook her head and took another sip of her coffee. “Think she’d talk to us?”
Henry, the art director, raised his hand. “If you do a story on women in relationships with rappers, you’d have to talk to Kipenzi Hill.”
Julie snorted. “She and Jake won’t even admit they’re a couple.”
“Exactly,” said Henry. “And I’d like to know why.”
“I heard she doesn’t want to alienate her fan base by being associated with a hard-core rapper,” said a young woman seated next to Alex.
“Bullshit,” Henry said. “She’s a woman. Women want to be claimed.”
Alex instinctively used her thumb to rub the heavy platinum circling her ring finger. The women in the office sucked their teeth and rolled their eyes at Henry. But they all knew he was right.
“I like this idea,” said Maria, looking down at her sneakers. She wiped a speck away and then sat up. “We get a writer to spend some time getting to know these women behind the scenes …”
Alex felt a few eyes dart her way.
“Alex’s getting married soon; she should do it,” said Julie.
Maria squinted in Alex’s direction.
“She could give her perspective, as a woman who is about to get married herself …” said Julie.
Maria started biting the inside of her cheek, which she always did when she was deep in thought. “Alex, when are you getting married?”
Alex cleared her throat. “June.”
“We could do this for the May issue. You could hand it in right before you get married.”
Ana, the managing editor, pointed at Alex. “So she’d write it in the first person, right? And reflect on how their lives as girlfriends and wives differ from her own.”
The fashion editor raised her hand from the back of the room. Ana nodded in her direction.
“She could maybe get relationship advice from the women and use their tips as a sidebar to the story.”
“Yeah,” said Julie. “I’d love to know just what to do when my husband comes home and tells me he’s having a set of twins by a woman he met at a concert.”
There was a ripple of laughter and people jotted notes and talked among themselves. Alex sat, frozen. She thought that if she didn’t move at all, she could melt into the office chair and seep into the carpeting. And somehow they would forget Alex Sampson Maxwell ever existed and she wouldn’t have to take on a story that was just a little too close to her own life. She had successfully kept her relationship with Birdie a secret to everyone in her professional circle, and though she knew people would find out eventually, she wasn’t ready to deal with it at the moment.
But the Cleo factor was even more distressing. She was in the middle of ghostwriting a book for a woman who was making a living by sleeping with married rappers, athletes, and entertainers. That book plus this story were just too close together.
“Let’s come up with a wish list,” said Maria. “Who would we love to have in this story?”
Alex tried to keep her breath from coming in too ragged. She kept her eyes on her notebook.
“Beth Saddlebrook,” said Ana. “I gotta know why she stays with that crackhead.”
“What about Beth and Z’s son, the one who does the YouTube videos with his girlfriend?”
“Zander,” said Maria, clicking her pen in and out. “He’s dating Bunny Clifton, next big thing. They’re both dope.”
“What about Fatin and Aja from Kindred,” someone said.
Ana shook her head. “Not sexy. A happily married couple with kids who make great music? Pass.”
“It would give us a balance from some of the crazy stuff,” said Maria.
“Why would we want that?” Ana asked. “We want all crazy stuff.”
Maria turned to Alex and pointed.
“Chante Moore and Kenny Lattimore?” Alex offered, looking down at her notebook.
Maria looked over at Ana.
“Um, no,” Ana said.
Henry raised his hand and Maria pointed at him.
“What about Snoop and Shante?”
Maria and Ana both nodded, signaling to Alex to write it down.
There was a lull for a moment, as the staffers mumbled to each other and tossed out names quietly. Jessica, a designer in the art department, raised her hand.
“What about Birdie? I think I heard he’s married.”
Alex felt the contents of her stomach shift and come up to her throat. She willed herself to relax. Instead of throwing up, she sneezed. She stood up, covered her mouth with her hand, and signaled to the group that she needed to be excused.
In the bathroom, she washed her hands and then splashed a handful of water over her face. She stood at the mirror, her hands still on her face, and slowly slid them down.
“You knew it had to happen eventually,” she said to her reflection.
ALEX LIKED TO PRETEND THAT SHE MET BIRDIE AT THE SUPERMARKET. She’d lied so much that the story about seeing him squeeze an apple to check its freshness actually felt like it had really happened. Birdie went along with it. And they never talked about the night at the House of Blues. Alex with her tape recorder and her notebook, sitting next to Birdie backstage, interviewing him after he opened for Erykah Badu. They never discussed the way he leaned in close so that he could hear her questions over the din of the crowd chanting Erykah’s name or the way she showed him how she could pop the cap off a beer bottle on the side of a table. They never reminisced over rolling a fat blunt in the car on the way to her hotel room, a waterfront deluxe with a patio, and splitting a six-pack while the sun came up over Lake Buena Vista.
The fact that they had sex—four times in a row—on that very first night was absolutely not up for discussion.
Alex had never forgiven herself for breaking the cardinal rule of journalism. Five years later she and Birdie were committed to each other, engaged, raising Tweet. But still, it was wrong, tainted. And Alex was ashamed. Hiding the relationship was difficult. Only her closest confidantes knew about Birdie. And she was skittish about making new friends because of it. She never wanted anyone to thin
k that Birdie got press from any magazine because of her. Or that she got access to any of his rapper friends because of him. Somehow she’d never been assigned a story on Birdie. (During the first six months that they were dating, she was asked twice to interview him. She was able to turn the assignments down on the basis that she’d recently covered him for Vibe. Neither editor knew she turned the stories down from Birdie’s bed.)
They were able to stagger their entrances and exits to parties and concerts. She smiled and nodded her head while rappers dissed Birdie as she interviewed them. She played dumb in editorial meetings when his name came up for possible stories. And her face always managed to go blank whenever anyone asked her if they knew who he was dating. Alex pulled herself together and repeated the words Breathe deep in her head. She walked back into the conference room just as the meeting was ending and everyone was streaming out into the workspace. Julie grabbed her elbow and guided her to the back of the room.
“You’re on, Alex,” she said with a wide grin. “ ‘The Secret Lives of Rappers’ Wives.’ It’s going to be incredible!”
Alex managed a smile. “Who do you want me to get?”
“We narrowed it down to four,” said Julie, flipping through a notebook. If Birdie was one of the four, Alex was ready. She had an arsenal of responses on her lips. I don’t think he’s in the country. I heard he’s not doing press right now. Didn’t you hear? He’s gay.
“Here it is,” said Julie. She turned around to stand next to Alex so that she could see the page as well. “We want Z’s wife, Beth Saddlebrook; Jake’s girlfriend, Kipenzi Hill; and Ras Bennett’s wife, Josephine Bennett. And then see what Bunny Clifton has to say about dating Zander. She’s not a wife and she’s really young. But it’s a unique perspective.”
Alex nodded and smiled. “Sounds awesome,” she said, hoping her face made it seem like she believed it.
“Someone on the staff has a contact for Beth,” said Julie. “To get to Kipenzi, we’ll have to pull some major strings. And Josephine, I think you should be able to get in touch with her.”
Julie took out a copy of S.O.C.A. from her bag and held it up.
Alex’s eyes widened and she gave Julie a sheepish smile. “Oh. You saw that?”
“Yeah. But don’t worry about it. It’s not like they’re a direct competitor.”
“Where’d you find it anyway? I haven’t seen it on the newsstands.”
“My mother’s house,” Julie said. “She subscribes. Like I said, not quite our competitor. Start setting up your interviews. I’ll send you a word count and an assignment letter next week.”
“I’m on it.”
“Oh, Alex,” Julie called out as Alex began walking away. Alex stopped and turned around. She knew exactly what Julie was going to say.
“There’s a rumor going around that some chick named Cleo is writing a book about all the rappers she’s slept with. Find her. I’ll bet there’s some overlap between her book and this story.”
Alex smiled with her mouth closed, nodded once, and pushed the button for the elevator, her eyes on the ceiling.
Overlap. Nice, simple way to put it. She was now writing a feature on the wives and girlfriends of rappers. And simultaneously ghostwriting a book for a woman who was most likely fucking all their husbands. Yes. Overlap was a perfect word for it.
On the subway ride back home, Alex did not transform. She did not begin to relax as the train emptied at the Chambers Street station. She did not start thinking about making dinner or picking up Tweet from day care. She did not make a note to remind herself to get Birdie’s clothes from the dry cleaners. She did not slip her feet out of her shoes the way she usually did for the ride. She stared straight ahead, barely paying attention to each stop. She thought about how her worlds were about to collide. And she wondered if she’d be able to get the story on the life of a rapper’s wife without revealing that she was on the verge of becoming one herself.
IN THE SUMMER OF 1989, RAS AND JOSEPHINE’S FIRST DATE TOOK place in Montclair, New Jersey. Ras was an immigrant from the slums of Denham Town, Kingston. He had crooked front teeth and a wicked smile.
He rode his sister’s scooter bike from his parents’ crowded two-bedroom apartment on New Street, where the poor folks in Montclair lived, to the front door of the well-kept brick-front colonial where Josephine Beauchamp lived with her parents and two younger brothers in upper Montclair.
Josephine had no idea who Ras was. On her way to a meeting with a modeling agency in Nutley, her keys jingling in her hand, her mind moving a mile a minute, when Ras parked his scooter in front of the house. She looked out the front window and then called out for her youngest brother, assuming Ras was there to see him.
“No, ma’am, I’m here to see you,” Ras said, coming up the front walkway but stopping two steps away from the porch.
Josephine rolled her eyes and smiled. “Little boy, you are not here to see me. I promise you that.”
“Can I show you the house I’m going to buy for you?”
Josephine turned around to see if there was someone else in the doorway that this young boy with the dusty hair may have been talking to. She turned back to look at him and shook her head.
“Are you friends with Pierre? You want me to call him for you?”
“He’s in my algebra class,” Ras said. He came up one step, keeping his hand on the railing. “But I’m here to see you, Josephine.”
“See me for what?”
“I’m going to marry you.” Ras didn’t seem to notice that Josephine recoiled in horror. “And I wanted to know if you could take a walk with me to come look for a house.”
“Where are you from?” Josephine asked.
“Denham Town, Kingston.”
Josephine winced and nodded once. Five generations of understanding were exchanged in a millisecond-long glance. Josephine’s mother had taken her to Jamaica as a child, to accompany her as she did some missionary and nursing work in the poverty-stricken neighborhood on the island that was just an hour-long plane ride from the Dominican Republic.
Josephine was only eight. But she’d never been able to forget what she saw in the slums of Denham Town. Children in diapers and nothing else wandering the streets, crying and begging for milk. Mothers with blank eyes, nursing babies in doorways of leaning shacks. It was in Denham Town that Josephine first realized the difference between light and dark. She could see the people casting long glances at her ivory skin and bone-straight hair, features she’d never paid attention to at home. And she’d realized that her mother was dark. Like the people in Denham Town. The dawning was immediate: this was why her father’s relatives sniffed at his choice in women. Her father, part French, was a light-skinned Dominican man. And the line was supposed to be kept light.
“Your family’s from Boca Chica,” Ras said.
“Who told you that?”
“My mother said your parents have a big house on La Matica, right on the water. Why are you all here?”
“My father’s teaching at Montclair State for the semester,” said Josephine, tossing her jet-black, shoulder-length curls back. “I have an appointment. You’ll have to excuse me.”
Ras extended a hand up to Josephine. She would have to take just one step down to place her hand in his. She did not.
“I’ve seen pictures of the house in Boca Chica,” Ras said. “I will provide you with something just as beautiful here in New Jersey. Or more so. I stake my life on that.”
Josephine stifled a laugh. Among other things, he was on some kind of self-propelled motorless scooter. He was still in the throes of puberty. At eighteen, she was probably only three years older. But it felt like they were worlds apart. He had lint in his hair. He was Pierre’s age. He was riding a scooter. His family was from the slums.
But, most important, Josephine was Dominican, with the ivory skin color of the peninsulares who’d come to the island from Spain in the 1500s. Her father had already broken custom and married a negra Dominican woman, one w
ho refused to straighten her hair or lighten her skin. Her father’s parents prayed that their child would not be dark. Their prayers were answered when Josephine was born, just as pale as her father. Her paternal grandfather gave her a French name as a constant reminder of her special blend. Her grandparents never missed an opportunity to remind her how lucky she was to be born with her father’s coloring.
Josephine knew her grandparents would die if she married someone from Jamaica. The country was a hundred percent black. And the people were not just black. They were blue-black. Purple almost. Hair like nests.
So although Ras seemed very confident for such a young man, and he was handsome, despite his blue-black skin, Josephine knew it would be a cold day in hell before she’d ever date someone like him.
She wouldn’t dream of risking a dark child with a noir like Ras. It just wasn’t done. And she was sorry that it was so. He was a lovely boy and had obviously endured a lot to get from Denham Town to Montclair. And if he was a classmate of Pierre’s, at a private school like MKA, then surely he must be intelligent. Smart enough to understand how silly it was to step up on her front step, hand outstretched, as if she would ever even think of—
And then Ras spoke. And when he was done, Josephine went back into the house, rescheduled her appointment, found a heavier sweater in the front hall closet, and locked the door behind her.
Seven years later, they were married at The Manor in West Orange. There were eight hundred guests, fifty people in their wedding party, and the celebration lasted for a full three days. She lost her virginity on her wedding night in Peau de Ville, France, at her grandmother’s chateau.
Platinum Page 11