by Bailey Thomas, Cynthia,Thomas, Peter,Short, Rochelle,Saunders, Keith
Our Nonstop Flight
Copyright © 2013 by Griffin Scott Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.
The Real Housewives of Atlanta is owned and licensed by Universal NBC Bravo. The views, opinions and recollections expressed within this book are those of the authors and do not represent Universal NBC Bravo.
ISBN: 978-0-9897526-0-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013946379
Printed in the United States
Published by:
Cynthia Bailey Thomas & Peter Thomas
For my Noelle
I love you,
Mom
For my girls
Porsche Thomas and Blaze Tiangco Thomas
I love you,
Dad
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, we would like to acknowledge God, the driving force in our lives. We are truly just along for the ride; without Him, there would be no us.
We are forever grateful to our families for their encouragement and for giving us an amazing support system to do what we do. You are constant and always there when we are in need. Our journey will always be all about family.
We would like to extend a special thank you to our base of loyal, amazing friends. There are far too many of you to name, but you know who you are. Your friendship means everything to us.
We would also be remiss if we did not thank those who made this project possible:
Griffin Scott Press, our publisher
Rochelle Short , our amazing editor
Derek Blanks, our talented photographer, business partner and friend
Keith Saunders, our incredible cover designer
Nataki StarTaki Hair, Cynthia’s hairstylist
Jeremy Dell, Cynthia’s makeup artist
The Bailey Agency School of Fashion
The Real Housewives of Atlanta cast
Double XXposure Media Relations
Caliber Enterprises
True Entertainment
Bravo
Last but not least, we want to acknowledge our fans for all your unconditional love and continued interest in all we do.
We love you all,
Cynthia & Peter
Contents
Chapter I
Prepare for Takeoff - Our Beginning
CHAPTER II
Companion Pass - Our First Date
CHAPTER III
Frequent Flyer - Our Courtship
CHAPTER IV
Fasten Your Seatbelts - Our Reality Show
CHAPTER V
Three-Hour Layover - Our Wedding
CHAPTER VI
Blackout Period - Our Financial Loss
CHAPTER VII
Overbooked - Our Exes & Careers
CHAPTER VIII
Connecting Flights - Our Blended Family
CHAPTER IX
Mile-High Club - Our Intimacy
CHAPTER X
Prepare for Landing - Our Next Chapter
Chapter I
Prepare for Takeoff
Our Beginning
Peter’s Aisle View
People assume Cynthia and I met a few years before joining our reality show, but our relationship has been a cat-and-mouse chase spanning twenty years. The first time we met was in 1988 at Nell’s Supper Club. It was the most exclusive club in downtown New York and a playground for the Who’s Who of A-list celebrities. You could always find the house packed with musicians, rappers, actors and models, but no one ever asked for pictures or autographs. It wasn’t a place where entertainers felt like they were the shit, because anything with a pulse inside of Nell’s was hot.
Nell’s was actually infamous for turning away the famous, but getting in the mix wasn’t just about being a celebrity. You could’ve been the coolest cat on your block or a star on the rise and still could mingle with Nell’s rich and famous. You had to have the right flava and swag or you basically spent the night waiting in line. It was an “it” factor that couldn’t be defined in words, people wore it, but the doorman had to believe the hype too.
Nell’s doormen guarded the roped-off, front entrance like the gates of Buckingham Palace. They would walk a line of people that ran almost the entire length of the block, handpicking who went inside. They most definitely had the power to make your night or fuck it up. You were completely at their mercy. Even money couldn’t get you through the doors – you could forget about slipping a doorman $500 and sliding inside. Nell’s was all about power and status and if you didn’t have one (sometimes both), you didn’t cross the threshold. It was the Studio 54 of our time, without the drugs – at least not openly.
I was the suave, boss-type who fit the bill. For me, getting into Nell’s was never an issue. One of the doormen and I were cool because we lived in the same Brooklyn neighborhood. Regardless of having him as a hookup on the door, I had the pull and arrogance to get in just on the strength of my confidence. My vibe was always, “I’m supposed to get in, and I’m going in.” I knew it, and everybody else did too.
Sunday nights at Nell’s was always crazy poppin’ with a massive wait. The night I met Cynthia, Prince was performing, which made it even more of a madhouse. I arrived pretty early that night, hollered at my boy on the door and right as I was about to go in, a second doorman put the brakes on me. I could see he was about to give priority access to a long, shiny, black limousine that pulled up. I was like, “What the hell? This must be Prince if dude was blocking the door for anybody over me.”
The limo driver got out and opened the back door for a grocery bag of drop-dead, fine girls who strutted out one by one. They were all fly as hell and moved in sync like the cast of Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” video. At the time, I didn’t realize they were all models. I distinctly remember there being about seven white girls and Cynthia was the lone, black stallion pulling up the rear. Let’s be clear, though, I noticed her because she was the most striking, not because of the color of her skin. I was feeling her the minute I laid eyes on her. Inside the club, I made it my business to find this chick that stood out from her pack.
I found her seated at a table with her model entourage and offered to buy her a drink. She accepted but asked if I would get a round for her harem of friends too. Being Peter Thomas and feeling myself to the fullest extent, a request to buy drinks for a table of girls never fazed me. Besides, I knew I couldn’t get closer to Cynthia without hooking up the rest of her crew.
Realizing she was young and green, I decided not to push up on her. She seemed like an upstate girl, and I knew for sure that she wasn’t from the city. Girls from upstate were different from round the way girls – like comparing liver pâté to fried chicken. Not to forget, Nell’s was the kind of joint where lions went to get lambs. But on the real, back then Cynthia was too young of a lamb, even for me. She appeared inexperienced and not worth the kill. Basically, she was at an age that would’ve taken all the thrill out of the victory. So I kept it moving and went home with the bartender that night. She was my supermodel stunt double for the evening. Damn, what was her name?
Cynthia’s Aisle View
As strange as it sounds, I don’t have a clear memory of meeting Peter that first time at Nell’s, but his rendition seems familiar. The first encounter I remember was in 1992, on a flight from Miami to New York. I had just wrapped shooting a commercial
for Macy’s and was on my way back home. I was sitting in first class and recognized Lyor Cohen, an old friend I’d met through my ex-boyfriend, Russell Simmons. Lyor was the former president of Def Jam Records and was traveling with Peter. He introduced us and suggested we get to know each other. Figuring Lyor was up to some mile-high matchmaking, I went with the flow and switched seats with him.
I remember sitting next to Peter, trying to be as cordial as possible, but the whole time I was thinking, “Wow, what a smart and interesting guy.” We had great, stimulating conversation that flowed effortlessly. I was a little surprised when he didn’t ask for my phone number at the end of the flight. I don’t remember if I was in a relationship at the time, but getting his number was out of the question for me. That just wasn’t my style. Peter was also very vague about his personal information, giving me the impression he had a situation (or two) going on.
From our in-flight conversation, it was apparent we had a lot of mutual friends. In the back of my mind, I anticipated bumping into him at some point in our social circles. Much to my astonishment though, we spent the next fifteen years more like two locomotives steamrolling past each other in the night. Both being industry people, we were always attending the same events and rubbing shoulders with the same people – but never at the same time. There was some sort of divine intervention that kept us one step behind the other.
Peter’s Boarding Pass
When Lyor introduced me to Cynthia, I felt like I had the upper hand because I had more backstory on her than she had on me. I knew she was the girl who had kicked off record mogul Russell Simmons’ model obsession. I didn’t know if they were still together, so I didn’t try to get her number or make anything pop off.
We shared a lot of the same friends and associates, and my top go-to guys in the industry knew her well. I’d never heard anything bad about her. She stood out to me because she wasn’t all extra and over the top. The models I’d met and dated were either really smart or really stupid. Cynthia was in the smart minority. I saw her as a powerful, strong, African American woman who was wrapped tight. SOLID.
The only time she lost points with me was when I heard through the industry grapevine that she was dating this record company executive. He was a dopey, inexperienced kind of dude. Nice, just not a sharp guy who could hold his own, and damn sure not the caliber of guy I thought Cynthia would date. On the other hand, Russell was a crazy, hunter-type; I knew him to be a visionary and a leader. This record executive cat was like the prey Russell would eat for a light snack. I could never see the correlation between Cynthia and that dude. They just always struck me as an odd combination, like eating caviar on a hotdog bun.
Some people sip from the fountain of destiny – I shower in it. I never doubt that what is meant to be will eventually be. Several years after sitting next to Cynthia on that flight, I met up with our mutual friend, Melrose. In their younger days, she and Cynthia modeled together in New York and Paris. Melrose and I were having lunch and she asked if I remembered Cynthia Bailey. Did I remember her? Of course I did! How could I forget The Cynthia Bailey? That beautiful girl from Nell’s who I’d shared a plane ride with to New York.
Over the years, I felt like I’d been watching Cynthia from a distance as her career blew up. I would constantly see her face gracing the cover of magazines, catalogs and billboards. I’d also heard that she and Russell were no longer together. Word on the street was that she was a successful woman who only dated brothers that really had it going on. She wasn’t out there riding the gravy train, though. By all accounts, Cynthia was an independent woman, doing her thing and signing her own checks.
Melrose was temporarily working for me and knew I was looking for a vehicle. I was two years out of a five-year relationship with the mother of my youngest child. It was a bad breakup, and I wasn’t trying to hop into another relationship with anybody. I’d just moved to Atlanta from Miami, and my focus was on handling my business affairs. I was in a new city, meeting new people and starting a new life. Getting my head right and life on track was priority one.
In a weird twist of fate, Melrose told me Cynthia was storing a Range Rover in Atlanta that she didn’t need in New York. She mentioned to Cynthia that I was looking for a ride, and Cynthia gave Melrose permission to pass along her number. Who would have known that my car search would be the catalyst for face time with my elusive mystery woman?
I felt like “The Man” that first time I dialed her number and heard her voice on the other end. Somewhere in that initial conversation I asked if she was dating anybody. I knew she had a child with actor Leon Robinson, and I wanted to assess her situation right off the top. The New York social scene was a tight group. If you even casually mentioned a dude’s girl by name he was quick to pee and mark his territory in case a predator came sniffing.
I didn’t have those boyish, bullshit insecurities because I was always surrounded by gorgeous females. Whether the relationship was romantic or platonic – beautiful women liked being in my world. I was a man accustomed to dining at five-star restaurants and having the finer things at my fingertips. Cynthia was on the level, but I wasn’t going in with the fullness until I knew her status.
Her vibe was smooth as hell, and she always made me feel like I could ask her anything. The tone of her voice was so soothing, borderline hypnotic. No hype. No urgency. I would ask a question and she would give a straight answer. Even if I was being intrusive, she kept it cool as a grape Kool-Aid. The longer we talked, the more it came back to me how calm and collected she’d been on the plane ride we shared.
I was never one of those guys to do hours of pillow talk on the phone with females, unless they had something I wanted. In that case, I would do whatever I needed to do until I got what I was after. With Cynthia, I found myself restless for those late-night talks, and I wasn’t shy about initiating calls on the regular. I was drunk with curiosity and wanted to know everything she was willing to tell me about her, and more.
After my first call, we talked on the phone almost daily for six weeks. Melrose would get mad and remind me, “I’m hooking you up to get a damn vehicle, not a date.” I never knew why the hell it mattered to her. My dealings with Melrose were only on a business tip and we never had any intimate ties. She had a baby with a popular dude in the recording industry, but they had split up. I was just trying to be a shoulder for her to lean on, help pay her rent, keep the lights on or whatever she needed. It was clear that she liked a brutha and wanted more between us, but I wasn’t on that page. I was checking for the supermodel.
Cynthia was scheduled to come to Atlanta on two occasions to finalize my purchase of her truck. She postponed the initial visit because her fortieth birthday had her locked down in Vegas. It felt like she was partying out west for weeks. The more she delayed her trip to Atlanta, the more interested I became. I kept putting my anxiety to see her on needing transportation. Real talk, it was never about buying the Range Rover – I was falling hard for Cynthia.
Whenever we spoke, I was relentless in trying to pin her down on a solid date for her visit. I was deflated when she canceled the second time and said it would be another week before she could come. It wasn’t an emotion I was used to feeling, especially for a woman I hadn’t had sex with. I was feigning to see her so badly that I went to her modeling agency’s website to check out her portfolio. I was like, “Damn, I don’t remember her looking this hot!” I didn’t think it was possible. She was so different.
My two previous relationships were with Latin women and the last one left the taste of cyanide in my mouth. The breakup had me completely checked out of the relationship scene. Coming to Atlanta in my mid-forties and dating twenty-something-year-old girls was like spraying Lysol on shitty carpet. I went from bad to worse. After going out with a dozen or so women in that age group, you realize they’re basically all alike: same age, same schooling and same amount of brain cells.
Each with a kid (or two
, or three, or four), three-bedroom townhouse, nice mid-size car and not a goddamn idea where they want to be in ten years. They’re all a fucking headache waiting to happen. Any real dude wouldn’t hesitate to admit that his worst nightmare is getting into a relationship with a woman who is about to go through some drama he’s already been through. So after a few months of testing the waters in Atlanta, I wasn’t hyped about swimming in its dating pool. If I had a change of heart to kick it with someone exclusively, a woman like Cynthia would be my only exception.
Getting to know her was tripping me out. Just a couple of years before we hooked up, I was riding the subway in New York and saw her on a Virginia Slims cigarette poster. Even then, I wondered why this gorgeous-ass woman kept popping up everywhere I went. She was so pretty. The ad had me fantasizing the whole train ride home.
I typically daydreamed on my commute anyway, but that day I couldn’t take my eyes off the black beauty plastered on that print ad. It was one of those crazy kind of ads that no matter how I turned or repositioned, her eyes followed me. It freaked me out! Before I got off that train, I had to glance back one last time at those alluring eyes that had stalked me the entire time. I could still see hints of that young lamb from Nell’s, who’d shown me no real interest the first night we met. Now, years later, here she was standing in a sultry pose, smoking a cigarette and staring me down. All I could think was, “Oh! Okay, now honey wanna sweat me.”
Cynthia’s Boarding Pass
I guess the third time must really be the charm – or at least it was with me and Peter. I’d been working in New York since graduating from high school in 1985. I was busting my ass and making a crap load of money, so in 2006 I decided to treat myself to a new Range Rover. It didn’t take long for me to realize you don’t need a Range Rover in New York City. I eventually found someone in Atlanta to take over the payments in a sublease, but the leasee defaulted on the payments. Until I could figure out a plan for the truck, I had my cousin (who lived in Atlanta) store it in his garage.