DESPITE THE CHEER in the room, it is clear that Trista, Amaya, and I are hurting. If no one else notices, the bartender sure does. Trista and Amaya are at one with the champagne; I’m knocking back berry martinis. We hardly hear the music, couldn’t care less about the merriment that increasingly fills the room as the party rushes toward midnight— and the New Year. “You think anybody would notice if we left?” Amaya asks, fingering her watch and looking over her shoulder. “I’m ready to go. For real.”
“We can’t leave yet. It’s almost midnight, and you know Elise is going to want us close by,” Trista says, practically slurring her words, “Besides, why leave now? If I go back to my room, I won’t be able to see her and him with my own eyes—and remind myself never to be so damned stupid again,” Trista says as she tosses her head in Damon’s direction.
“Um, I think I get the dumb-ass award tonight,” I say, raising my glass to my girls. “I called my man to tell him I love him, and instead accused him of being a heartless, neglectful father. I’m such a loser.”
“Loser?” Amaya says, cocking an eyebrow. “Um, he had a woman at the house. That’s grounds for getting upset.”
“A woman?” Trista says, incredulously. “Hold up—that Negro had a woman all up in his house when he was supposed to be taking care of your son? You bet you had the right to call him out.”
“I know, but Sean would never purposely hurt Corey, and it’s not like our relationship extends beyond the parameters of eleven P.M. and six A.M., so there’s no reason why he would think he couldn’t have yet another fake-boobed freak at his house while I’m away. It just hurts to have it confirmed while I’m calling to tell him how much I love him.”
“Look, we have about ten more minutes until the clock strikes twelve. We can give Elise a hug and kiss, wish her and Will well, and then go back to our rooms and drown our sorrows without anyone noticing,” Trista says.
“Sounds like a plan,” Amaya chimes. “I still have a bottle of champagne chilling in the mini-bar upstairs.”
We are quiet, each lost in thought about the disastrous pall that hangs over what should have been a phenomenal evening for us. So absorbed in our own thoughts that we don’t even notice Elise tossing her bouquet of calla lilies into a crowd of squealing women. Girlfriend was always a bad shot—the damn bouquet flies over all of their perfectly coiffed heads and lands on the bar, right in front of me, Amaya, and Trista. The crowd of disappointed singles turns around, looks over in our direction. Some were mumbling about a do-over under their breaths, but reluctantly begin to applaud.
Elise has a grin on her face a mile wide. Hanging on Will’s arm, she shouts, “Ya’ll are next, girls!” We all smile and then turn back to our drinks, leaving the bouquet sitting right there on the bar. I don’t know about them, but I’m especially disappointed, not just because Sean is acting up, but because we’re headed into a New Year feeling helpless and, even worse, hopeless. I grew up in an extremely religious and superstitious household: my mom taught me from practically my first independent breath that whatever you’re doing as you head into the New Year is what you’ll be doing for the next 365 days. And I took that to heart—always found something constructive, positive, and loving to do when the clock struck twelve. When I was little, my mother would gather us up, get us dressed, and march us on down to St. John’s Episcopal AME to pray the New Year in. I continued the tradition until I went to high school, where being hugged up in some boy’s arms was my mission, so sure was I that doing so would guarantee me a New Year filled with affection. By college I’d pretty much surmised that just because you were slipping some tongue to a boy as the New Year rolled in didn’t mean you were going to get any more loving the rest of the year. In fact, for me, it was a crapshoot. So I got constructive: I decided to take fate out of the equation and make resolutions that could only come true if I put my heart and mind into it. They’d worked up until now: I vowed when Corey was born to be a good mother—and I am. I vowed to become a senior reporter at a top newspaper—and I have. Last year, I promised myself that I’d be taken a lot more seriously by my superiors and get promoted to either an editor’s post or at least into a gig that would allow me to show off my true talents—either as an investigative entertainment reporter or a pop-culture critic. That resolution is still winding its course. My editor apparently has other plans for my career—but I’ve talked my boss into letting me do a few critical essays on blacks in Hollywood (or the lack thereof), and that’s satisfied my gotta-move-on appetite for now. Yes, when I put my mind to it, I can do anything.
“Hey,” I say, looking at my watch. It’s 11:53—we have seven minutes. “I’d like to make a pre–New Year’s toast,” I continue, raising my glass.
“I’ll drink to whatever—what you got?” Amaya says.
“Here’s to a New Year where we take control of our romantic lives and find the men of our dreams,” I say.
“Oh yeah? You been holding out on us, Vivian Olivia Evans? You got some men stashed somewhere? Some good ones who know how to act right? And respect a lady? And make money? That a girl can trust? Who give foot rubs on demand?” Trista slurs.
“Huh? You won’t find any of those on planet Earth,” Amaya says. “She must have a rocket ship waiting to take us to Pluto.”
“Come on, guys—I’m serious. I want us to take a vow tonight that sometime this year we’ll each find our soulmate, fall madly in love, and be happy, dammit.”
“Oh, why stop at being happy?” Trista says. “Why don’t we go all out and pledge to be married by this time next year?”
“Yeah—a triple wedding. What I always wanted,” Amaya says dryly.
“Come on, you guys, I’m serious. My New Year’s Eve pledges have always come true, and this will be no exception,” I say confidently, though inside I know this resolution is going to be the toughest I’ve ever made. I don’t want them to know that, though, so I look Trista and Amaya right in the eye. “Let’s raise our glasses and promise one another that we will find us men who appreciate, love, and respect us, and who’ll slip rings on our fingers before the year is over.”
“Oh, come on, Viv,” Trista says. “Surely you’re not serious.”
“Why not, Trista? If I were telling you to vow to make partner before the year is up, you’d be all over it. And you, Amaya,” I say, turning to her. “If I told you that you had to find the perfect role by the end of the year, you’d be costarring opposite Clooney.”
“True that,” Amaya laughs.
“So then why is it so hard to believe that if you put your minds to it, you can find a man who loves you unconditionally and who’s willing to pledge his undying love for you by year’s end?”
They don’t say anything, but I can tell they’re thinking about it. I look nervously at my watch again. “Come on, guys—it’s two minutes to midnight. Raise your glasses and let’s do this.”
Trista and Amaya look at each other nervously and let out giggles. I stare into both of their eyes and raise my glass, too. “Okay, girls: on this night, as the clock strikes twelve, we vow to find men who will love, honor, and treasure us enough to grace our fingers with rings, and walk with us down the aisle into a lifetime of happiness.”
“To two carats or more,” Amaya toasts enthusiastically.
“To success in romance,” Trista says, raising her glass.
“To the Vow,” I say.
“The Vow,” we say together. Our glasses clink together as the room explodes in applause and cheers, with confetti and balloons falling from the ceiling and the band breaking into a funky rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” It’s as if the room is cosigning our deal—as if they know our fate. I have a good feeling about it. Come this time next year, we aren’t going to be crying in our champagne glasses—unless they’re tears of joy.
4
TRISTA
I love driving through Beverly Hills at this hour. At 6:30 A.M. there’s a crisp chill in the air—and barely any smog. It’s almost too cold to hav
e the top down on the car but I do it anyway and keep the heat at seventy-two degrees on my bare legs. As I roll past the designer boutiques on Rodeo, the mannequins in the window wait expectantly for the swarms of Japanese tourists and jaded Beverly Hills housewives to slap down platinum credit cards for their expensive wares. I turn up the volume on my Jill Scott CD. Listening to that sista’s golden voice is like my morning therapy. Much-needed therapy for where I’m headed.
As I ease my 325i convertible up to the curb outside L’Ermitage, I glance at the clock and see that I’m early. Carlos, one of the valets, is spraying down the sidewalk in front of the swank boutique hotel, and when he sees my car he cuts off the water, drops the hose, and jogs around to the driver’s side to help me out.
I grab my alligator portfolio and copy of Variety from the backseat. I glance at the main headline: INSIDERS SAY OSCAR NOMS TO FAVOR STARLET KIMBERLY SPRINGFIELD. As I digest this info, I catch my reflection in the hotel’s glass doors. I smooth down the front of my black-leather Michael Kors skirt and adjust the matching silk blouse, brace myself for breakfast, and walk toward the hotel’s lush outdoor dining area. I can see that Cassidy is seated in front of the waterfall, her famous face obscured by a copy of Variety. Shit.
Cassidy St. James is my most famous client—not that I would ever admit that to any of the other stars I rep. At forty-three, Cassidy is eccentric, to say the least. She lives at the hotel and can be seen wandering around the property with her spiky dirty blond hair askew, wearing a monogrammed terrycloth robe, oversize black Chanel sunglasses, and slippers. She got her start as a child star and went on to make a string of big hits back in the day. Movies usually have two parts for women: young bimbo girlfriend or younger bimbo wife. And once Cassidy veered north of thirty, Hollywood stopped calling. The firm dumped her on me when her last agent died. Last year I convinced her to consider an independent studio project. No one wanted her for the part, but I fought for her. She called twice a day from the set to bitch about her lack of a private trailer and the young director’s lack of respect for her “craft.” I tried to placate her by telling her this was her comeback vehicle. Most calls ended with her hanging up on me.
Now it looked like everything just might pay off. Last year Canaan Pictures released Emma, the story of a divorcée diagnosed with breast cancer who decides to undergo homeopathic treatment while holding together her dysfunctional family. The reviews were magnificent and the word of mouth spread like a California wildfire. An Oscar nod would put her squarely back on directors’ radars.
“Good morning, Cass,” I say, slipping into the chair across from her.
“Morning, Trista,” she says frostily as she glances over the top of her paper at me and flicks her wrist, noting the time on her delicate gold Cartier watch. I give the waiter my order, certain that Cassidy has already ordered, intent on drawing attention to my lateness.
I know we were set for 6:45 A.M. But I drove here all the way from Santa Monica; all she had to do was roll out of bed and shuffle her bony butt downstairs.
“How was your trip?” she asks, not really caring about the answer.
“Wonderful,” I say brightly, nodding my head vigorously to erase the image of Damon’s face, which just popped into my head. “You’ve seen the paper,” I continue, scanning the story to see what’s got her so ticked.
“Yes, and according to Brad Townsend at Variety, Kimberly Springfield is going to win Best Actress.”
I’m going to need some food before I can piece back together her delicate ego.
“Brad Townsend doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s just a writer. Everyone knows you’re going to win for Best Actress,” I say confidently.
“I better. You told me to do that piece-of-shit movie!” she shoots back testily.
“Emma was hardly a piece-of-shit movie, Cassidy.” Shit movies were the projects she was doing before I took her on as a client, is what I want to tell her. “Everyone’s saying it’s your finest hour—brilliant performance, an instant classic,” I say, feeding her blurbs that ran on the movie posters. “TA is firmly behind this project, and we’re putting together an aggressive campaign to reach all the Academy members and media outlets to assure a steady stream of favorable buzz as they prepare to vote. You will win.”
And if she wins, I win, because then they have to make me a partner.
AS I EASE THE car back into the thickening traffic my cell phone rings. I adjust my earpiece and answer.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” says a familiar deep voice.
“Garrett, good morning,” I answer, smiling at the sound of the endearment.
“I missed you, why didn’t you call me when you got back in town?” Garrett’s heavy breathing tells me he’s in the midst of his morning workout at home.
“Oh, you know, things have been crazy, getting back in the flow at work,” I say. I’d received a message from him but didn’t want to return his call immediately. I needed time to think about what happened in Atlanta. Having sex with Damon was a big mistake. I’ll never lose control like that again. What Damon and I had is officially black history. And I need to get over that with a quickness.
“So when am I going to get to see you?” Garrett asks.
Ordinarily I’d tell him I’d have my assistant, Adriene, give him a call with the first available opening in my schedule, but today I’m going to focus on our Vow. I invite him to the Jerry Bruckheimer premiere I need to attend tonight. I’ll blow off the after-party (something I never do) and we’ll grab a late dinner.
We finalize our plans as I guide the car down the ramp into TA’s underground parking garage. I scan the partner initials on the wall, longing for the day when I’ll have my own designated parking spot.
Stepping into the cavernous art deco lobby, I’m once again struck with the same feeling I get every time I walk in this place. I can’t believe I’m an agent.
I’ve been a film junkie since I was a kid. I knew I wanted to work in Hollywood, but I also knew I couldn’t take rejection well enough to be an actress. After graduating from law school, I headed back to L.A. and got a job in TA’s mailroom. My sister Tanisha joked that she could have hooked me up down at the Compton post office where she was working at the time and I didn’t need two fancy degrees to do it. But she, like most of my family, didn’t understand. I wasn’t going to bust my hump at the mailroom for years and get nowhere. I was getting out of South Central. Everyone started in the mailroom to learn about the business— from the bottom up. Sure, it was a lot of bullshit—delivering the mail, dropping off scripts all over town, copying thousands of pages, running questionable errands (read: drug mule)—but if you hustled, you could make it to agent assistant and then the holy grail: your own desk.
My shot came when Brian Turrow, one of the firm’s star agents with a nasty, but functional, cocaine habit and an even nastier disposition, became overwhelmed by a pile of scripts. When I rolled my mail cart past his office for his morning delivery of the trades, he yelled out to the hallway.
“Hey, you! Can you read?” I walked into his office. “My assistant has gone into fucking labor. I told that cunt to schedule a C-section after Cannes!” He tossed a bunch of scripts in my direction and told me to give him notes on them by tomorrow morning. Grateful for the opportunity, I stayed up all night compiling detailed notes about character development, plot lines, and which of his megawatt clients should star in the vehicles. By the time I was finished the next morning, I’d put together a ten-page report on each script for Brian’s review. Anticipating he wouldn’t be in for a while, I straightened up his office and wiped down his glass desk which was “dusty” only in the middle. I placed my write-ups on his desk and sat back down in his assistant’s cubicle. Around nine the phone began to ring, so I started taking messages.
When Brian came in he walked into his office and slammed the door behind him. After about thirty minutes, he asked me to come in.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked as he raked h
is fingers through his hair, which I wanted to tell him only accentuated the new plugs.
“Uh… the notes on the scripts you asked for…”
“What the fuck makes you think I’ve got time to sift through ten pages of bullshit from somebody from the fucking mailroom?”
I was dead. My first chance to show my stuff and get out of the mail-room into an assistant’s job and I was through. I thought he’d be sending me to HR to turn in my ID. Instead he told me to break down my thoughts on one page by noon. I wasn’t about to blow it. I put together a short memo on each script while juggling the phones. When Brian headed out to lunch, I tucked the revised notes in his briefcase.
The Vow Page 6