The Accidental Diva

by Tia Williams

  “Why didn’t he tell me that? I’m his editor!” Renee was talking very fast. “That’s like built-in publicity for the book. Oh shit, he’s about to blow up!”

  Vida looked thoughtful. “You know, Billie, Jay might need a publicist. Someone to manage his exposure beyond the book. Look at how successful he’s been on his own—getting write-ups in the hottest magazines, building a cult following. With my help, he can be huge.”

  “She’s not wrong.” Renee nodded. “Our publicist only deals with book reviews, Barnes & Noble readings, stuff like that. Vida can make him a superstar outside the literary world.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Billie said, making a face. “Jay’s not really like that. He doesn’t want to be a star, he just wants to be a writer. He’s too real for a publicist.”

  Vida sniffed. “Baby, this is Manhattan. Ain’t nobody too real for a publicist.”

  “Just run it by him,” said Renee.

  “And while you’re at it, invite him out.” Vida’s whole face brightened. “Invite him to the Sam C. fragrance launch on Thursday.”

  Billie thought about it. “You know what? I will. If he walks away thinking I’m a total crème puff, then so be it. I have to learn to embrace the puff.”

  “Worked for Jennifer Lopez,” Vida replied with a wicked smile.

  * * *

  • • •

  Later, at 1 A.M., Billie and Jay were sprawled across her futon eating Doritos and watching an inexplicably themed movie marathon on TBS. It started with Pretty Woman and was followed by Boomerang.

  “Did you ever notice that, like, everybody in this movie’s plagued by tragedy?” asked Jay.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bad things happened to them. Car-related things.”

  “This is sounding very urban legend-ish.”

  “No, it’s for real. Okay, look. Eddie Murphy gets caught with a transvestite hooker in his ride. And Martin Lawrence almost gets run over stumbling into oncoming traffic while he’s cracked out. Ha!” Jay looked triumphant and Billie began giggling.

  “That’s hardly everybody…Halle Berry never had a car-related tragedy.”

  “You wait.”

  “Jay, I think you have a problem,” Billie said somberly.

  “Whatever, man. My genius will be appreciated after I’m dead.”

  Boomerang had ended two hours before, and now the two were knee-deep in Goodfellas. Billie’s favorite scene was on, the one where Lorraine Bracco has had it up to here with Ray Liotta’s cheating and puts a gun to his face while he’s sleeping.

  “I love this part, I love this part!” Billie screeched. Ray Liotta wakes up and wrestles the gun away from her. He pushes her to the floor, climbs on top of her, and points the gun in her face, asking her how it feels. She’s crying and screaming, but her shapely legs are wrapped around him and her filmy negligee has risen to her waist.

  “This scene just speaks volumes about her character,” she whispered, engrossed. “Even though she hates him and he’s treated her so badly, she still wants him. The gun is turning her on. She’s scared but she likes it. That’s some deep shit.”

  Jay looked at her.

  “No matter what he does, she’ll always come back.” Her eyes were fixed on the screen. Then she thought a minute.

  “Jay, I don’t want you to take me for granted.”

  “I don’t. You think I don’t know what I got? Look, I fucked up, and if I do it again you can burn my manuscript.”

  She was quiet. “Tell me something nice.”

  “I love you.” He paused for effect, then gave her a very slow, very delicious kiss.

  “More, please.”

  “I love you all day, I love you when I’m sleeping. I’ll love you when I’m an old man sitting on a rickety porch, running outta stories to tell.” He kissed her again, and she forgot what she was getting upset about.

  “Speaking of stories, did I tell you about Mrs. Jones?”

  “No, what?”

  “This is gonna kill you. You know how Spike Lee lives over here? She ran into him at the Duane Reed on Myrtle, and he got a huge crush on her and asked her to play somebody’s mother in the movie he’s making. Some West Side Story–type movie about a Puerto Rican guy and a black girl falling in love.”

  “No!”

  “I’m dead ass.”

  “Well, I believe it. She’s so pretty.”

  “But the best part is, she told him she’d only do it if he hired her makeup artist.”

  “She has a makeup artist?”

  “Yep. You.”

  “But I’m not a makeup artist.”

  “Try telling her that.”

  “What?” Billie was amused. “That’s so crazy! Did you clear it up?”

  “I tried, but like you said, it’s hard for civilians to understand what you do for a living.”

  A perfect segue, thought Billie. “Jay? I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me on Thursday.”

  “Word? Where?”

  “Well, it’s this launch party for a new perfume. From Sam C. the designer. Have you heard of him?”

  “I’m from the projects, not Venus.”

  “Oh, well yeah. So he’s having a party. Actually, it’s Vida’s party—she’s the publicist for the club. It’s sort of a big deal. I mean, it’ll be a fashion crowd, really silly and vapid. But I thought you’d…”

  “I was wondering if you were ever gonna ask me to go out with you. My feelings were starting to get hurt.” Jay’s eyes twinkled.

  “Why? It’s not about you. I thought you’d think I was really shallow if you saw me, you know, doing that whole thing.”

  “Because what I do is so deep and complicated? Billie, that show ain’t nothing for me to do. All I do is tell stories for two hours.”

  “Please, Jay. You change people’s lives.”

  “So do you. You, uh, you…teach them how to keep their nail polish from chipping, and shit.”

  She giggled. “So do you want to be my date?” she asked. “I won’t be able to spend that much time with you because I have to network, but I’d love you to come.”

  “Shit, I’m there. And don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  8.

  the glamorous life

  Billie and Jay made it to Heaven at ten, an hour after the party began. Spring Street was turned upside down for the night. A red carpet wound its way through the crowd loitering outside the club’s fashionably minimalist, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it entrance. Paparazzi cameras flashed as partygoers headed down the carpet. Nervous interns from Below 14, Vida’s public relations firm, fiddled with their clipboards and directed revelers to either the press or the invite-only check-in desks. A Cro-Magnon–looking bouncer bellowed, “Yo, if ya not on the list, go home.” Ignoring him, throngs of bridge and tunnel people crowded around the Darwinist velvet ropes, hoping that visible lip liner and crunchy curls would win them acceptance. Clutching Jay’s arm, Billie expertly beat a path to the invite-only desk, where Vida’s two assistants greeted her with squeals.

  “Billie! Ohmygod you look fierce!”

  “Yeah—you go, girl!”

  Billie thanked Bonnie and Jodi with a festive smile. She no longer tried to understand the particular brand of white girl who felt compelled to use late-eighties “homegirl” slang in her presence. As if she might feel disoriented and at a cultural loss without a “you go, girl” in every exchange.

  “I don’t know if I’m on the list or not…” started Billie.

  “Oh please, girl,” Jodi said as she hoisted up the front of her sparkly tube top. “You’re VIP!”

  “So when do we get an introduction to the new boyfriend?” Bonnie asked with a sneaky look. She flipped her glassily blown-out hair o
ver her shoulder and held out her hand to Jay. “Hiiiii, we’ve heard a lot about you!”

  Billie was embarrassed. “Jay, this is Bonnie and Jodi, Vida’s assistants.”

  Jay grinned and shook their hands. He was looking relatively dressy in baggy khakis, a striped Phat Farm polo shirt, and Timberland boots. “Nice to meet you. Y’all look very official with those headphones.”

  “Oh, these are just so we can hear Vida if she needs us,” replied Jodi.

  “Like you need headphones for that,” Jay muttered naughtily, and the two girls burst out in flirtatious laughter. Billie had had enough of Bonnie and Jodi, so she said goodbye and swept Jay down the carpet and through the door.

  Inside, the infectious beats of Jay-Z’s “Hard Knock Life” contrasted interestingly with Heaven’s floaty, celestial-themed decor. Naked angels engaged in Kama Sutra–esque positions decorated the gilded ceilings, and yards of tulle snaked up the Greek-inspired columns positioned throughout the huge room. The stunning waitresses, decked out in halos and white tank tops emblazoned with “heaven-sent” in sequins, glided between the tables on the raised area overlooking the packed, writhing dance floor. The huge space was teeming with everyone who was anyone in the fall of ’99—supermodels, rap queens, pop stars, socialites, A-list actors, and Monica Lewinsky. All Sam C.’s famous devotees were thrilled to toast Thrust, his first perfume.

  Jay turned to Billie and said, “Whoa.”

  “I know, it’s a little intense.”

  “No, I mean whoa, you look beautiful.”

  “Really?” Billie had gone all out, wanting to impress Jay. After a bit of indecision, she had decided to wear a strapless, coral-colored Roberto Cavalli minidress and gold strappy stilettos. Her hair was in its natural state, a mass of messy curls. She knew she looked sexy. “This old thing?”

  “That’s how you refer to me behind my back?” exclaimed Paige, who’d materialized out of nowhere, as she was known to do. She gave Billie an air kiss. After exchanging compliments, Billie introduced Paige to Jay. Paige’s body language seemed to change instantly. She flipped her platinum hair behind her shoulder, licked her lips, stuck her chest out, and posed with one knee cocked, so that the slit in her Versace wrap dress rose to her hip. No stranger to fucking black men, Paige gazed at Jay as if she knew what was going on in his khakis. Billie would’ve been livid if this was anyone else. But her boss’s reaction to attractive men was totally involuntary and harmless.

  Billie’s only concern was that she’d call him Pony.

  “Well, hellooo. So it’s you who’s making my Putt-Putt act all loopy. I can see why. In fact, if I were her I’d probably never come to work.”

  You never do, thought Billie.

  Jay looked bashful. “I’m a Billie junkie.”

  “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.” She surveyed Billie’s new hair. “I love this wild, wanton thing you’re doing.”

  “Thanks! Courtesy of Redken Fresh Curls Conditioner.”

  “Mmm. Remember that for our Editor’s Picks Page.” Paige noticed Jay’s eyes glazing over. “So how do you like being a beauty boyfriend?”

  “It’s incredible, you know? My horizons are expanded. Billie taught me how to enjoy exfoliating without compromising my masculinity.”

  “Our Billie.” Paige looked at her protégée with mock pride.

  “So, where’s Mario tonight?” asked Billie.

  Paige snorted. “He was behaving so abominably I had to leave him home with a baby-sitter.”

  Billie didn’t pry. Paige’s love life was too tumultuous to keep up with. “Oh. Well…”

  “Wait a minute. I know you. I recognize you from somewhere.” Paige was studying Jay. “Were do I know you from?”

  “I don’t know. Spend much time on Myrtle Avenue?”

  “Is that in Vail?” Paige was lost. “No, I know. You were in New York magazine last month. And the Times Style section, right? You have that show downtown?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.” He looked very aw-shucks.

  “As I live and breathe. You’re famous. Billie didn’t tell me she was dating an almost-VIP! Aren’t you two just the glamorous young ‘It’ couple. You should sell your genes on the black market.”

  “Oh, Paige, stop it,” Billie said, mortified. “We were on our way to the bar; do you want to come with?” She wanted to move away from the bustling entrance. Leonardo DiCaprio and his tabloid-christened “Pussy Posse” had just come in, and as the five guys shoved past her one of them grabbed her ass.

  “Actually, I’m on my way out,” Paige answered. Billie was mildly surprised to notice that her boss seemed sad. She wondered why.

  “Didn’t have a good time?” asked Jay.

  “What I had was too many Cosmos,” Paige said, flipping her hair. “No, this was just a drive-by. I’ve been to this party so many times I’ve memorized the lines. Besides, nowadays when I stay up past midnight I wake up looking like Keith Richards.” She gave them both a kiss, and left in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

  “She seemed weird,” said Billie. “Didn’t she? Like she was upset, or hiding something.”

  “Most drag queens are,” replied Jay.

  “Better get used to it,” she joked. “That’s gonna be me one day.”

  “Naw, you’re too real. She’s totally fiction. Like one a those social x-rays in Bonfire of the Vanities.”

  “Those characters were based on real people, you know,” said Billie. “And half of them are here tonight.”

  She scanned the club, wondering how they were going to make it across the room. In the middle of the sunken dance floor’s writhing crowd, long-stemmed supermodels Gisele, Naomi Campbell, and Shalom Harlow grinded together to Missy Elliott’s “The Rain,” creating eye candy and numerous hard-ons. Gossip columnists and publicists mingled ferociously on the outskirts of the dance floor. Puff Daddy, Jennifer Lopez, and their joint entourage spilled over onto three tables. Nearby, Jay-Z and the Rockafella crew were downing Cristal, enveloped in a thick cloud of fragrant smoke. Holding court on the outskirts of the dance floor was the impenetrable Fashion Mafia crowd, who could hardly mask their horror as Lil’ Kim strutted across the dance floor in a fringed thong, pasties, and a smile. Cameron Diaz and Drew Barrymore sat sipping cocktails at their own table, while gossip columnists strained to overhear their conversation. The two were rumored to be starring in a Charlie’s Angels movie, but the third Angel was unknown…maybe they’d drop a hint tonight? Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Jade Jagger chatted up a storm with Sam C. while pretending to ignore the surrounding crush of paparazzi. Monica Lewinsky tried hard as hell to look glam and unperturbed as she patronized a nosy scandal sheet reporter. She was there to gain publicity for her new handbag line, dammit, and all anyone cared about was That Dress. Occupying prime real estate at the bar on the opposite side of the room was Vida, who was waving frantically at Billie. She waved back, and began beating a path across the room.

  They hadn’t walked two steps before coming across a babbling herd of beauty editors. The beauty girls usually stuck together at parties of this caliber, as they only knew each other. They certainly weren’t celebrities, and weren’t there to up the A-list quotient, but Sam C. depended on them to cover his perfume in their magazines. He had a built-in audience with all his celebrity friends, but he needed the women’s magazines to reach the regular ladies in the heartland. If homemakers in Iowa didn’t buy Thrust, it would tank. Beneath the various layers of celebrity, the beauty editors were probably the most important people there.

  When they saw Billie with Jay, the girls abruptly ceased their tipsy, arms-in-the-air dancing and silly lip-synching to Big Pun’s “Don’t Wanna Be a Player.” Billie with a boy was a sight to behold. Between press trips, weekly industry events, and working together, the beauty bunch saw more of each other than they did their best friends,
boyfriends, and families—and nothing was sacred. Everyone knew Billie was perpetually single, and misguided attempts to be helpful often inspired the girls to try to set her up on blind dates. It was so annoying—it was always with the only black guy they knew. Billie wanted to tell them that (a) if the guy hangs out with you and all your white friends, chances are he’s not into black girls; and (b) this means he’s wack; and (c) just because the guy’s black doesn’t automatically mean he’s my soul mate. If the only black man you knew was Steve Urkel, then what?

  But the beauty bunch had heard rumors about Billie’s new boyfriend, and was delighted to finally feast their eyes on Jay. She gave kisses, compliments, and introductions all around, and stopped to chat with Kim and Monica.

  “It’s Billie I’m-dropping-off-the-face-of-the-earth-to-have-sex Burke! And who the fuck is this vision of loveliness?” cried Monica.

  “Monica’s thoooo drunk,” said Kim, who was also slaughtered. She turned to Jay. “Ignore her, really. But hiii! Welcome to the family. What’th your name?”

  “Oh, Kim, don’t pretend not to know his name,” Billie said, giving her a kiss and introducing Jay. “I know you people have already Googled him within an inch of his life. Oh, Monica, I live for those shoes.”

  “Thanks, sweetie! And your dress is the cutest.”

  “Ugh. I was running late, and this was the only thing I didn’t have to iron. You don’t think it’s too much?”

  “No, no, no,” cried Kim. “You look like a Tholid Gold dancer!”

  “Huh. Well, then I’ve managed to meet at least one of my childhood goals.”

  Monica examined Jay. “Did anyone ever tell you you look just like Allen Iverson?”

  “You think so?” asked Billie. She didn’t see it.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” said Jay. “He’s my brother.”

  “Shutup!”

  “Well, I mean, we got different fathers…” Jay was thrown off. He hadn’t anticipated that the girls would believe him. It was a little cocktail joke.

  “Are you therious? Can I meet him?”