Within fifteen minutes, he manages to tell me about the “triflin’ ho” who successfully proved he was the father of her child, deny that he ever raised his hand to any of the various “birds” he’s “tapped,” proudly proclaim that “I takes care of my kids,” and admit that he released rats and snakes in the offices of his former record label, where they’d be “right at home with all the sneaky cagey muthafuckas up in there stealin’ people’s money.” All without my prompting, and much to the horror of Breena, who is so disturbed by the prospect of what might turn up in tomorrow’s paper that she tries (unsuccessfully) to cut off the interview several times, only to be told to “step off” by Daddy. She comes back with the photographer, who effectively ends the interview just as Daddy is going into detail about what it means for his career to put his penis on display in a smut magazine that caters to white girls. Saved by the shutter. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to end the interview here,” Breena snips. “The shoot’s about to begin.”
“You gonna stick around for the goodies?” Daddy says, tugging at the knotted belt that held his robe together. He has a gleam in his eyes when he says it.
“I’m sorry but it’s a closed set,” Breena says to no one in particular.
“Come on—who’s it gonna hurt if she stays?” Daddy says. “I want her to.”
I am curious to see how one goes about getting buck naked, knowing that a bunch of nasty women are going to plunk down four dollars for a glossy picture of his dick. “Fine, if that’s what you want,” Breena says. “Is that okay?” she asks the photographer.
“Sure,” he shrugs.
Daddy has the photographer’s assistant bring him another drink. He offers me one, too. I accept bottled water and settle back in my chair as Daddy alternately sips his drink and bounces around in his robe like a prizefighter before a championship brawl.
“Nervous?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says, but his voice isn’t as confident as it was during the interview. “It’s just body parts, right? Everybody’s seen one.”
“But not yours,” I smirk.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, before he turns and walks slowly toward the set.
It’s a poetic moment for me—here he is, an aging rapper so desperate for a second run that he’s willing to trick himself out for a last shot at the attention he craves. Even if that attention means embarrassment. Just tragic.
I am mentally editing the lead for my profile when the photographer instructs Daddy to open his robe. I look up in time to see the wrinkles form like pools around the corners of Daddy’s eyes. He looks like he’s aged twenty years in just the last five minutes. “Okay, champ—nice and easy. Don’t take it totally off—just open it a little. I want you to feel comfortable. Relax and pretend you’re in your bedroom, with your lady.”
Daddy forces a grin onto his face. “You got what you need?” he asks me.
“Um, yeah, I guess,” I say slowly. “Everything but the money shot.”
He chuckles. The photographer shifts uneasily. Clearly, he’s ready to get the party started, and all the extra convo is holding up his art. Daddy doesn’t seem to give a damn.
“Listen here, reporter lady. Why don’t we meet up later tonight so we can finish what we started?” he says, his voice regaining a bit of the cockiness I’d seen earlier.
“I have enough for my story,” I say, quick to add that the piece is due by four P.M.
“How about tomorrow? You’ll want to write part two after we hook up,” he says.
My silence is heavy, but he presses on. “Come on, reporter lady— loosen up, come have some fun with me. There’s a party at the Globe. Let me buy you a drink for being so cool. It’s the least I can do, you know— you made this a lot easier for me.”
“I don’t know about making it easier,” I answer, nodding toward his robe, which is closed tighter than a nineteen-year-old virgin’s knotted-robe belt on honeymoon night.
He looks down and lets out a hearty laugh. Then, in one fell swoop, he unties his belt and lets the mound of terry cloth fall behind him. I try not to look, but my eyes instinctively focus on the part my mind told me not to look at. Even limp it is quite impressive. I try to hide my shock. No such luck. He looks down, and then up just in time to meet my eyes. He laughs again. Damn. Busted!
“Come on, reporter lady,” he says, still chuckling. “No strings. Just come out tomorrow night. If you’re down, meet me at the Warner Music party on Thursday. It’s going to be all the way live. I’ll buy you a cosmo, a berry martini, whatever you want. A-yo, Breena—hit my girl off with my cell and two-way. The real numbers, Breena.”
And with that, he chucks the robe across the room and splays his lanky but muscular body across the red-velvet chaise longue that serves as his stage. He is on.
I am out.
“GIRL, YOU BETTER go to that party!” Amaya practically screams into the phone. “For real—it’s gonna be the party. Erykah Badu is performing, and I heard Will and Jada were cohosting with Lena Floyd. OH MY GOD!!!”
“What?” I yell. “Amaya—what’s wrong? You okay?”
“You know what?” she stage-whispers. Lord, Amaya and her dramatics.
“You scared the shit outta me,” I say, looking around my work pod to make sure none of my coworkers are listening in. I’m supposed to be writing Daddy’s story, but I had to tell Amaya about his proposition. “What the hell are you yelling for?”
“You want to know why I’m yelling?” she asks.
“Yes, why are you yelling?”
“You really wanna know?”
“Amaya,” I say, my eyes darting around my office. “Spit it out. I’ve got work to do.”
“You’re right about that,” she says, “and I’m going to give you a helping hand.”
“Amaya, come on, girl—work with me.”
“Okay, Lena Floyd is cohosting the party tomorrow night, right?”
“That’s what you just told me.”
“Well, do you know who Lena Floyd’s plastic surgeon is?”
“Um, no,” I say, exasperated. “You gonna tell me anytime this afternoon?”
“Don’t get cute,” Amaya shoots back. “I’m trying to help you out here.” She skips a beat, then continues. “Lena Floyd’s plastic surgeon is yo baby’s daddy.”
“Um, okaaayy,” I say, not getting the point, which annoys Amaya even more.
“So, if Lena Floyd is hosting the party, and yo baby’s daddy is her main scalpel squeeze, he’ll probably be in the house tomorrow night,” she says. “Now, do I have to spell the rest of it out for you?”
“Go on,” I say, leaning into the receiver a little.
“So if Sean is at the party, what better way to get his attention than to show up in the arms of a rich, well-known man?” she says with an extra heap of Amaya dramatics.
“Well, I don’t know if he’s rich, and if he was still well-known, he wouldn’t be getting naked for Playgirl. But that’s besides the point,” I say, understanding instinctively where Amaya is headed with this. “I show up to the party looking extra cute, bump into Sean with a celebrity on my arm, and he’s got to look twice, right?”
“Exactly,” Amaya continues. “What you wearing?”
“Whatchu mean, ‘What am I wearing?’” I say defensively—partly because I haven’t even considered it yet, partly because I know I don’t have anything in my closet worthy of draping over the arm of a celebrity or attracting the attentions of a (hopefully) jealous ex-lover, and partly because I know Amaya is going to give me grief for not having a few standout standby outfits to whip out for occasions such as this one.
“Come on, honey, you know I love you and all, but you can’t tell me you’re going to wear your standard-issue reporter wear to a hot party,” Amaya insists, disgusted. “Let me paint a picture: The man you’re trying to marry within the next year will be at the bomb party with a bunch of fly people. You want to show up looking like eye candy, not eye boogers. Remember the Vow. Work with m
e.”
I decide to ignore that. “Ooh, I know,” I say excitedly, hoping if I put a little pep in my voice she will buy into the outfit I am about to describe. “I have a pair of low-cut jeans I can wear. They hang just a little too low on my waist for comfort, but I have a baby-T I can pair with them, and a nice Banana Republic jacket and Pumas—though I also have a nice pair of red sandals I can put on if you don’t think sneakers are appropriate.”
“Oh my,” Amaya huffs. “We’ve got work to do, don’t we?”
“No, I have work to do, and if I don’t hurry up and write this story, I won’t have time to head out to the store to get something new. Not that I’ll find anything anyway, seeing as there isn’t a designer on earth who recognizes that real women have curves, not trainers and plastic surgeons.”
“Um, we’re in L.A., darling—everybody’s exercising and getting cut. Don’t hate,” Amaya shoots back.
“Well, I don’t, dammit, and I don’t feel like killing myself trying to squeeze my ass and hips into some ill-fitting outfit that’ll cost me a mortgage payment.”
“Viv, hold on,” Amaya says before abruptly putting me on hold. I type my story slug into the computer and then my headline, and have already started the story when Amaya comes back on the line. She isn’t alone.
“Trista? Get your girl,” Amaya seethes.
“Vivian? It’s me!” Trista says.
“Hey, girl,” I call back. “What’s happening, hot mama?”
“Nothing nearly as exciting as what’s going on with you. And here you were complaining about doing a story on Young Daddy MC, and turns out you might get to hit that, hit that, hit that, hit that with your own baby daddy!”
“Oh God, Trista—please, don’t,” I laugh at her attempt to sing the lyrics from Daddy’s last hit. “Stick to the smooth jazz station. Rap so doesn’t become you.”
“Well, it sure is going to become you tomorrow night if Amaya and I have anything to do with it,” she shoots back, laughing. “Listen, you’ve got a dilemma, but we’re going to handle this right quick. First, you’re going to go get something cute to wear—not tonight but tomorrow, after lunch. Tonight you’re going to lose five pounds.”
“Trista, what the hell are you smoking over there at TA?” I laugh. “What are you talking about losing five pounds tonight?”
“See?” Amaya chimes. “I told you she wouldn’t listen, even if you were the one to suggest it.”
“What the hell are you two talking about?” I say, a little annoyed. I hate it when the two of them conspire to gang up on me; they’ll walk into the conversation with a clear plan to shut me down, and start talking over me like I’m not in the room.
“What am I not going to listen to?” I ask again.
“Oh, you’re going to listen, because the Vow depends on you listening,” Trista states firmly. “We need you to focus, Viv. Sean. Hot party. Pretty women. And you, swooping in to get your man. Amaya—tell her what’s up.”
I sit back in my chair and wait for the grand plan.
“Okay, first you’re going to go see my girl Shahirah, over at the Heal Thyself Spa and Retreat in Beverly Hills,” Amaya says. “She owes me a favor, and I already scheduled your appointment with her for tonight, so get someone to watch Corey.”
“I just got my toes done yesterday, and I’m in no mood for a massage,” I say dismissively.
“You’re not going for a pedicure or a massage. You’re going there so that you can lose a quick five pounds, so that when we go shopping tomorrow you can fit into something super-sexy,” Trista explains. “Amaya swears it works.”
“I don’t understand,” I say back.
“Shahirah is going to give you a colonic tonight, and tomorrow you’re not going to drink anything but water until you get to the party. I know it sounds crazy,” Amaya says, rushing through her words to counter what she thinks might be my onslaught. “But trust me, after she gets finished with you, your stomach will be so flat you’ll think you’ve had my personal trainer on your ass for the last three months.”
“And once you get all that gunk out of your system and refresh your body with nature’s elixir, you’ll be at least eight pounds lighter when you float into that party tomorrow on Daddy’s arm, ready to reclaim your own baby’s daddy,” Trista finishes with a flourish.
“Your appointment’s at six-thirty. And don’t be late—Shahirah’s booked, and I had to do some fast talking to get you in.”
“And make sure you’ve got your calendar cleared for lunch tomorrow—we’ve got a date with my shopper at Fred Segal,” Trista adds.
“A colonic? Fred Segal? God, this all seems so expensive.”
“And necessary,” Trista says. “Just trust us on this, honey—don’t fight it.”
“Colonic, six-thirty. Lunch, noon. See you tomorrow, beautiful,” Amaya chimes.
And with that, they hang up.
I’M NO COW, but I’ll be the first to admit that I’m slightly juicier than most of the silicone sticks strutting around L.A. Okay, “slightly” may be too delicate a word. I’m a full-figured girl, with hips, ass, and boobs for days—but I more than make up for it all with a tiny waist that accentuates my curves, so I don’t look fat. At least that’s what Amaya claimed when she forced me to try on that beautiful pink floral Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress—the $478 pink floral Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress—at Fred Segal. I have to admit that had she and Trista not been there, I would never have thought to try it on (hell, I wouldn’t have been in Fred Segal!). My instincts are always to hide my assets with flowing, oversized shirts, skirts, dresses, and jackets, not squeeze them into outfits I fear will expose all my flaws. “Girl, hips and ass ain’t flaws—ask Beyoncé or J-Lo,” Amaya said. “Shoot, most people like Trista’s skinny ass would pay good money for a little bit of what you got.”
“And then you’d pay good money to cut it off,” I said, twirling in the dressing room mirror, admiring how well it fit.
“Well, just remember that it’s white Hollywood producers who like the anorexic bitches. Everybody else who counts—that means black men—wants a little somethin’ somethin’ to hold on to,” Amaya said, adjusting my collar and inspecting me from all angles. “Girl? You look good! That colonic you had yesterday did you wonders!”
“It did me wonders, all right,” I said, my lips twirled up the side of my face. Just before my colonic, I had the librarians at the News pull some clips for me on the procedure, so that I’d know what I was walking into. Most of them were pretty straightforward: colonics clear your digestive system of the food and toxins it’s held on to. None of them mentioned it would hurt the way it did—it made me think that much less of the celebrities who use it (and the cocaine diet) to lose a quick few pounds before special events. What kind of fool would knowingly put herself through that torture to fit into a dress? As if they all aren’t bony enough. Freaks, I tell you.
“I feel like I haven’t eaten in days,” I told my girls, “but I’m scared to put anything in my stomach, lest it slide right through my body and out every available orifice before I have the chance to make it to the bathroom.”
Amaya tried to ignore my complaints, but she couldn’t help putting her two cents in. “I’m going to pretend I don’t hear you complaining about losing seven pounds in less than twenty-four hours so that you can look fabulous for the party. What do you think, Trista?”
She was working her cell phone and BlackBerry, but she looked up long enough to give me a thumbs-up and a mile-wide smile. “Beautiful!” she mouthed.
And that’s how I feel pulling my car up to the valet and stepping out onto the red carpet that leads to the front door of Bella. Sure, I’ve spent the equivalent of a quarter of my mortgage payment, and I’ll have to go without lunch for at least two months, and consider eliminating one of Corey’s after-school activities, and wear my hair in a natural for the next few weeks instead of going to the hairdresser for my seventy-five-dollar press and curl. But the dress, the snake u
p my behind, the hunger pains, the faceful of greasy makeup Amaya made me slather all over my mug, the frantic phone calls to get on the guest list—all of it was worth it if it catches the attention of two men in the room—the self-proclaimed greatest rapper of all time, and the man of my dreams.
I am sipping a cranberry spritzer and practically stalking the guys with the mini–crab cake and chicken caesar wrap platters (I’m hungry, okay? And now I’m not thinking about no colonic) when I spot Sean walking through the crowd. He looks splendid all in white, his locks sweeping past his shoulders, making the perfect frame for his face. He is alone. I am in heaven. I carefully dab my napkin at my lips to wipe away any telltale signs of my hors d’oeuvres. But just as I am thinking of the perfect line to say to my future husband, Sean stops walking and turns to look behind him. And that’s when he grabs her arm and whispers something in her ear.
She is tall. And blond. And white all over. And whatever he says to her is obviously quite pleasing, because within seconds, she is all molars and veneers. Before she can say a word, he grabs her hand and starts pushing through the crowd some more. Had I not already swallowed that crab cake, I might have choked.
Just as I am struggling to get my bearings, I spot Daddy’s entourage—he is traveling light tonight; only four burly bodyguards, and six homies with various responsibilities, like procuring groupies and fetching drinks—making its way through the crowd and over toward the stairs that lead to the VIP area. I’m hoping that Daddy will find it in his heart to mingle with the common folks, because I haven’t got clearance for the VIP section from the event’s publicist. I hadn’t hooked up with Daddy beforehand. I called his cell and left several messages, but he never returned my calls. I’m hoping he at least remembers his invitation when I catch up to him. Otherwise, my chances of making it to the VIP room are slim to none. I make a point of positioning myself near the stairs early on, so that I can catch him before he disappears into an inaccessible part of the club. I alternately try to keep an eye on Sean, the blond bimbo, and the dozen or so men of unclear purpose surrounding Daddy, who are rudely clearing a swath on the part of the crowded dance floor that leads to the staircase. All of them seem to be approaching at the same time. Perfect.
The Vow Page 10