The Accidental Diva

by Tia Williams

  Vida was a hotshot publicist at Manhattan’s trendiest PR firm, Below 14. Her accounts ran the gamut from celebrity-owned restaurants, hipster clubs, and socialites to rappers, cell phones, accessory lines. At the moment she was persuading Sam C. to host the launch party for his new perfume at Heaven, the uber-trendy club/lounge she represented. Vida always knew what was sexy and “right now.” And everyone took her word for it. She was out every night until 4 A.M. Vida didn’t believe in sleeping. She also didn’t believe in sleeping alone. An ornery rapper named Git TaSteppin was currently sharing her bed.

  Billie had met her two best friends, Vida Brannigan and Renee Byrd, on the first day of freshman year. They were the only three black girls in the “B” line at registration. Renee was a no-bullshit spitfire from North Carolina, with a boyfriend named Moses, who’d followed her from high school to Duke. She thought he was irritating and precious. She didn’t know how to shake him, though, so she supposed she loved him. He waited on her hand and foot, and gave marathon head (she called him “Go Down Moses” behind his back). Renee wore her hair in a sexy Halle Berry shag, and never needed makeup on her even walnut skin and soft brown eyes. When she wanted something, she’d tilt her head down, then look up at you through her eyelashes. Then she opened her mouth and became Dee from What’s Happening.

  Renee was most comfortable when people were afraid of her. She was not afraid to fight, either. Man, child, 7-Eleven clerk, whatever. The only time she was docile was when a book was in front of her. She could take a book, disappear for hours, and return smiling and rosy-cheeked. In this, she and Billie were soul mates. Their junior and senior years, they would sit up all night reading the same book together. Periodically, they’d stop to ask each other where they were in the story, and then launch into a passionate discussion about the plot. Moses tried to sit in on one of their unofficial book club meetings, but Renee had no patience for lip-reading (Moses was a math major), so he was ousted.

  Vida found books both boring and annoying. She was a six-foot-tall sexpot from Bermuda—all tits and ass and thick, wild ringlets, the ends of which she dyed purple (for Prince). The daughter of some West Indian real estate honcho, she was really, really rich. She hated being rich; it embarrassed her. She harbored a bit of liberal guilt upon coming to the U.S. (she’d gone to British private schools her whole life), when she became aware of the underprivileged state of many black Americans. Vida made it her mission to “rescue the black man from the clutches of disenfranchisement.” She dated only local boys, because the middle-to upper-middle-class black boys at Duke made her nauseous, especially when “they tried to act all gangsta, knowing Renee could take two of ’em out at the same time.” Her father could buy and sell Duke, but that was no matter to her. She became completely obsessed with hip-hop culture, and flirted with the idea of becoming a rapper. For a time, she tried to get people to call her V-8. She even cut her own demo tape, but everyone agreed that her West Indian Princess Di accent was distracting. Next, she begged her father to fund a summer in New York taking DJ lessons. It was an eventful summer—not only did she begin shadowing New York’s famous DJ, Funkmaster Flex, she also landed a gig as the unapproachable hottie in a few LL Cool J videos. DJ Tri (short for Bermuda Triangle) returned triumphant her sophomore year and proceeded to become the premier house party DJ at Duke.

  The three of them were inseparable. For the first time, Billie felt totally comfortable, like she was in her element. The day they met, the girls decided to take over the world. And that was that. By the end of the four years, Billie had become the executive editor and lifestyle editor at the university newspaper. Along with her duties as DJ Tri, Vida was the president of the Black Student Association. Renee founded the university’s award-winning literary magazine, Railroads. By graduation, they’d decided to move to New York together to make it big. Never once did they consider being black a hurdle they’d have to overcome. Their whole lives, they’d been the only (or maybe one of a couple) black faces in the “smart” classes. This didn’t make them feel inferior. It made them feel invincible. They had much practice proving they were not in the room because of a handout. (One of Billie’s high school classmates sniffed “affirmative action” when Billie was accepted early decision into Duke. Billie offered that maybe if she’d gotten straight A’s and been class president instead of spending her time letting the Latin Society fuck her in the ass, she too would’ve been accepted.) They’d never come across something they couldn’t do, and no one ever told them no. They didn’t doubt for a second that they’d be successful.

  * * *

  • • •

  At two o’clock, Billie finally returned to the behemoth building in Times Square. The first twenty floors housed some of the country’s leading magazines, and the top thirty belonged to a fancy technology outfit. The lobby was intense. To gain admittance, employees had to prove their identity beyond a shadow of a doubt. Once the security guards decided that you were who you claimed, you had to insert a magnetic card into a machine that unlocked a turnstile. Only then did you have access to the elevator banks.

  Approaching her cubicle on the eighteenth floor, Billie heard her phone ringing and rushed to her desk. She missed it. Exhausted, she plopped down in her chair and let her bag slide to the floor.

  “Anyone need a green Fendi baguette?” she asked no one in particular, and got to work.

  2.

  getting her culture on

  The Sam C. show started an hour late. The tent was bristling with anticipation, as the last show often determined the success of the season. At the far end of the catwalk, a huge cluster of photographers struggled to get the best possible view. Movie stars, rappers, and fashionistas were air-kissing as if they hadn’t seen each other three times a day for the past week. In a carefully boxed-off DJ booth, Boy George was spinning eighties dance music. Nu Shooz’s “I Can’t Wait” gave way to Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me,” and he grinned naughtily at the crowd’s collective scream of delight.

  A-list actresses were graciously explaining their outfits to CNN Style’s Elsa Klensch and Fashion TV’s Jeanne Becker. The air was thick with Sam C.’s new unisex perfume, Thrust (the party favor placed under each chair). A slutty teenaged It-Girl/heiress was spraying it at cameras and grabbing her crotch, praying for Page Six. Near the entrance, a crowd of sound bite–hungry gossip columnists swarmed until the crowd eventually parted, revealing all four of the Sex and the City ladies, plus their fuchsia-haired stylist, Patricia Fields. Personalities were on full-blast.

  Finally, at 8:50, the Bryant Park staff (pompadoured fashion boys wearing baby tees and headsets) started tearing the industrial-strength protective paper off the catwalk. People began moving to their seats, which was a show in itself. The front row seated the likes of Sean Puffy Combs, Madonna, Courtney Love, and Gwyneth Paltrow. Also awarded VIP seating were several middle-aged celebrities with their model daughters, including Donald and Ivanka Trump, Mick and Elizabeth Jagger, and Steven and Liv Tyler. Interspersed between the stars were “the Fashion Mafia,” the high-ranking editors from Du Jour, Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Elle, and WWD. They had the programs in their laps and their pencils poised.

  Billie and the rest of the beauty editors were three rows back, or standing room, depending on the status of the magazine. They were the stepchildren of Fashion Week—invited to observe the trends in hair and makeup, which were obviously secondary to the fashion. Billie had been seated in a row that included Kim, Monica, and some of the other girls from that morning’s event. Billie scanned the rows for Vida, but she couldn’t spot her in the crowded tent.

  The lights went down and a hush fell over the audience. Billie’s heart was racing. She would never get over the thrill of fashion shows. She loved everything about them. The rampaging bitchery, the costumes, the supermodels. It was campy and glamorous and burlesque, like a movie.

  The lights and Chaka Khan’s “
I Feel for You” came on at the same time. Out strutted uber-model Kate Moss in complicated cornrows, stilettos, and what looked like a Phat Farm jersey transformed into a minidress. The audience’s head turned slowly from right to left as she walked. A delighted murmur bristled through the crowd. (She’s out of the clinic? Oh, she looks ravishing!) Next came Naomi, Shalom, Amber, and Gisele, all cornrowed and sporting variations of Kate’s dress. The next set of models stormed the catwalk in frayed denim miniskirts, fishnets, work boots, and rhinestone “SC” pasties over their teeny nipples. Their intricate braids were gathered into pony-tails. The rest of the show followed the same street sexpot motif. More than one member of the Fashion Mafia scribbled “ghettofabulous!” on her program. For the finale, two little boys emerged from nowhere and stood on either side of the start of the runway. As the models stepped out from backstage in flesh-colored bikinis and enormous sunglasses, the boys defaced their bodies with fuchsia and orange spray paint. The graffitied models stopped at their marks and posed in various stages of studied funkiness. Then Sam C. came bounding down the runway. “It’s all over! Everyone go home!” he shouted, blowing kisses and accepting a large bouquet. The self-described “faerie queen” then pirouetted, curtseyed, and stuck his tongue down Kate’s throat. Everyone screamed in ecstasy and a million flashbulbs went off. It was a Fashion Moment. The giggling Kate grabbed his ass, and all the models began dancing around him to the strains of Prince’s “1999.” Thus ended the last New York Fashion Week of the twentieth century.

  * * *

  • • •

  Backstage was bedlam. Naked models flitted about trying to find their clothes while dressers gingerly rescued Sam C.’s ensembles from the floor. Hollow-chested Model Boyfriends chain-smoked and cursed in French on cell phones. International fashion journalists jostled to get a quote from Sam C. Behind a clothes rack, a very young model was believing everything Mick Jagger said. Q-Tip’s “Vivrant Thing” was on repeat. Boy George delivered a salacious punch line and tore his corner of the room down.

  It was 9:45, the time she’d meant to be heading home for bed when she’d run through her schedule in the car on her way to the office from the Azucena event. But she’d blanked out on the promise she’d made to Renee to see Nutz & Boltz. Now she was going to be late meeting Renee.

  She’d just interviewed the makeup artist but couldn’t leave till she found the hairstylist. Billie was prepared to be annoyed when whoever this Madison Ave. stylist was informed her that cornrows were “coming back,” despite black girls having worn them for a million years.

  Instead, she spotted Gisele’s hair being unbraided by a very fly black woman. Billie grinned and felt all warm inside. Notepad in hand, she stepped over a hairdryer extension cord, squeezed past Lil’ Kim, and approached the stylist.

  “Hi, excuse me. I’m Billie Burke from Du Jour? I’m the senior beauty editor. Did you style the hair for the show?”

  “Mm-hmm, yeah. Nice to meet you,” she said, smiling brightly at Billie. She gave her a proud look like “Do your thing, girl,” which Billie returned. It was a sort of unspoken code among black women who found themselves one of the “onlys.” The woman was cute in a pixie way, with a short, spiky haircut. It was dyed orange with streaks of red woven through it and made her head appear to be on fire. Billie thought it looked incredible. The stylist untangled her fingers from Gisele’s masses of hair and shook Billie’s hand. “My name’s Pandora.”

  “Good to meet you,” said Billie. “Great work. Honestly, I know how arduous a good cornrow job is. I can’t imagine doing fifteen girls at once.”

  “Seriously, girl. Look at my fingers, they’re still shaking.” She held out her hands.

  “It was certainly well worth it! Pandora, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “No, no, no. I’m just gonna finish unbraiding her hair, but go ahead.”

  Billie realized there wasn’t much to talk about. She asked her standard “what was your inspiration” question, but the answer was obvious. She stuck to questions about technique and styling products. Starving Gisele ignored them both, chomping on a turkey sandwich and reading the Portuguese translation of Interview with the Vampire. Her always-in-tow Yorkshire terrier was mesmerized by the cherries painted on Billie’s pedicure.

  “So, what salon are you with? Or are you with an agency?”

  “I’m not with an agency. I have my own salon, Fresh Hair.”

  “Really?” Billie was interested. Most runway stylists were plucked from top salons or A-list agencies.

  “Yeah, it’s just a small salon, but I got a following.” Pandora looked humble but proud. “Christina Aguilera’s manicurist is one of my regulars. When she got called to do her ‘Make It Hurt’ video, she referred me to do the hair. They wanted a really street look on that one. Next thing I know, I’m on the phone with Sam’s creative director. It’s crazy!”

  “You know? But that’s how it happens,” said Billie. “Listen, congratulations, you did an amazing job. I can’t believe this was your first show. Do you mind if I contact you later if I need more quotes?” Pandora told her she could call whenever she wanted. She jotted down the number to her salon, then fingered Billie’s long, glassily straightened hair.

  “You get your hair blown out at those Dominican salons up in Spanish Harlem, don’t you?”

  “How’d you know?” Billie asked, self-consciously tucking her hair behind her ears. She went every Friday, the day she took a lunch break.

  “They make everybody’s hair look like cellophane.”

  Billie didn’t know how to take this.

  “You should wear your hair natural sometime. I bet it’s mad cute.”

  “Well, that’s the problem. It makes me look twelve.” Billie was sort of insulted but played it off. Pandora finished unbraiding Gisele’s hair and moved on to the next head. Wrapping it up, she told Billie she could come in to Fresh Hair for free, anytime. Billie thanked her for the interview and the invitation and said goodbye. On her way out, she grabbed a clip off the makeup counter and pulled her cellophane hair into a ponytail.

  Billie ran into Vida at the craft-services table. She was chatting up a cute blonde with a Reese Witherspoon chin. Vida’s rapper boyfriend, Git TaSteppin, was molesting the picked-over vegetable tray. He looked like he needed a nap. Vida looked stunning. She was wearing a low-cut denim mini and a paisley sari she’d converted into a halter top. Slung around her hips was a belt whose buckle spelled out “Vida Loca” in rhinestones.

  “Vida Brannigan!” called Billie.

  “’Sup, baby!” They kissed each other on the cheek. Since Vida had met Git a month before, they’d seen a lot less of each other, mostly just on their Sunday brunch dates with Renee.

  “What’s up, Git?” said Billie.

  “Just tryin’ to live, man, just tryin’ to live.” He always acted as if invisible forces were blocking him from his general rights as a human being.

  “Billie, this is Diana Golden, Sam C.’s publicist. Diana, this is Billie Burke from Du Jour beauty. She’s my best friend—basically my sister.”

  Air kisses were exchanged. Diana was delighted at the chance to plug Thrust to an influential beauty editor. “Oh, hi! I just sent Thrust to your office last week. What did you think? Am I going to see it on your pages?”

  “Oh, please! It’s already on the lineup for a January fragrance roundup. How could we not cover it? I want to pour it on everything I own; it’s so delicious.” Not to mention that Sam C. pays thousands for advertising space in Du Jour, she thought.

  Diana looked euphoric. Vida was grinning proudly—she loved to watch her friend work it.

  “I’m trying to convince Diana to have the Thrust launch party at Heaven,” said Vida.

  “Fabulous!” said Billie.

  “I just have to check with Sam, but it sounds perfect to me,” gushe
d the publicist. “You’ll come, yes?”

  Billie smiled. “Wild horses couldn’t stop me.”

  “Great, great! Well, I have to go rescue Sam from the French press. He’s so fey they eat him alive. See you ladies later! So cute you two know each other!” She gave them air kisses and disappeared.

  “Jesus,” said Vida.

  “I’m saying! Subtlety is so not her strong suit. What did you think of the show?”

  “I haven’t formed an opinion yet. ‘Cultural rape’ is the phrase that pops to mind, but I don’t know. I need time to build on it. Kate Moss looked fucking fly, though.”

  “You know?” Billie agreed. She checked her watch; it was 9:57. “Oh shit, I’m so late meeting Renee downtown. Are you coming with me?” Billie quickly explained Nutz & Boltz and its importance to Renee.

  “Ooh, I’m there. Git.” Git’s head was bobbing to a beat in his head. Vida punched him in the shoulder. “Git!” Disrupted, he jerked his head in Vida’s direction.

  “What?”

  “You trying to get your culture on?”

  “I’m down for whatever, ma.”

  This meant yes, so Vida, Billie, and Git rushed outside to get a cab.

  * * *

  • • •

  Renee was angry. She’d been waiting outside the Public Theater for twenty minutes. Impatiently, she whisked through the entrance to see if any seats were left. By now, it was standing room only. The suspicious ticket guy, certain that she’d been trying to sneak in without paying all night, tapped her on the shoulder and pointed outside with his thumb. Renee shot him a withering glance and exited. Billie was so lucky it was a warm night.

  At 10:08, she saw her diminutive friend, her Amazonian friend, and a swaggering boyfriend exit a cab a block away. Tottering on mile-high stilettos and lugging a huge shopping bag, Billie scurried down Astor Place in the wrong direction. Vida and Git blindly followed her. Despite her annoyance, Renee burst out laughing.