What he doesn’t realize is that my kiss is the beginning of a polite send-off.
Fuck the Vow, fuck Daddy, and especially fuck Sean. It’s time for me to live life for me and my son, because, clearly, we’re the only ones who love us for who we are—straight, no chaser. From now on, I’m going to focus on nursing my son back to health and making myself happy, without Sean. It’s time for some changes around here.
13
TRISTA
Sloane Sedgewick sweeps into The Ivy cursing loudly into her cell phone. The power publicist’s large pink leather Jimmy Choo tote knocks one of the diners in the head as she weaves her way through the maze of tables in the popular see-and-be-seen eatery. From the sound of all the “goddammits,” some reporter must have written something nasty about one of her clients. Her tiny cream leather miniskirt with laser-cut detail along the bottom skims the tops of her thin, ghost-white thighs, her tight black cashmere tank top showing off skeletal arms. In a town where tanning is considered a birthright, her pasty white skin stands out. She stops at several tables to exchange kisses with a few stars but pointedly ignores a Brazilian supermodel she represented until a bootleg video surfaced on the Internet of her blowing some random guy in a nightclub bathroom (rumor has it Sloane dropped her after telling her that if you have to get caught on film with someone’s dick in your mouth, at least make sure it’s someone important). After she reaches our table, she waves a hand with an eight-carat pink diamond engagement ring in a platinum setting, beckoning one of the waiters.
“Did you get engaged, Sloane?” I ask coyly, after she snaps her phone shut. I, along with the rest of L.A., know full well that she got engaged last week to Harry Bolton, a powerful three-times-divorced big dog at Disney. She smiles and pushes large Gucci sunglasses up into her cascade of blond shoulder-length waves and extends her left hand so I could get a better look at her ring.
“Yes, darling, and it’s serious bling,” she says and purses her freshly enhanced lips. Like most white girls in L.A., Sloane peppers her conversation with hip-hop slang to show how cool they are. I hate when they do that.
“Congrats, you must be so excited,” I say, knowing she no more loves that man than I do. A well-preserved thirty-something (read: cosmetic surgeon on speed dial), Sloane had been on the husband hunt for a while. This marriage would probably last long enough for her to get pregnant and insure a hefty divorce settlement.
“So, let’s talk about Jared,” says Sloane, briskly switching gears. I hope she gets to the point of this lunch so I can get home in time to change before I have to meet Garrett tonight.
“Okay, what’s up?” I ask, as I squeeze a lime into my glass of Pellegrino. “The Paramount screen test with Glenn went well. I’m confident he’ll get the part. We should be ready to formally announce next week.”
“There’s no doubt he’s getting the part. He’s perfect. I want to talk about pushing him up into the twenty-million-dollar territory, up there with Cruise, Smith and Clooney.”
“What do you have in mind?” I ask.
“Jared Greenway and Kimberly Springfield,” she says and traces the rim of her glass with her finger.
“Jared and Kimberly? What do you mean? Are they seeing each other?” They just met on the set, and as far as I know he is pretty devoted to his fiancée.
“Well, they aren’t seeing each other yet, but by the time I finish working my magic they will be,” she says mischievously.
“What are you talking about, Sloane?” I say, beginning to get irritated. The waiter returned with our chopped salads and Sloane waits until he departs to answer.
“What I’m saying is, Jared and Kimberly are going to start seeing each other,” she says with a hint of exasperation. “People magazine will be begging for the exclusive! It will create an avalanche of buzz for the project when they’re seen around town together, and that, I assure you, will translate into stampedes at the box office on opening day.” Her icy-blue eyes gleam with the thought of all the press hits.
“Hello? Sloane? Jared’s engaged,” I remind her. “I know you’ve kept it out of the papers that they are actually planning to get married.”
“You mean was engaged. By the time Heather gets finished reading in the Star and Us Weekly that her high-school sweetheart is fucking Kimberly Springfield, she’ll be on the next plane back to Idaho. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she flies first class, to soften the blow.”
“That’s insane,” I say, and I look at her like she’s lost her mind. She actually wants to plant these ludicrous stories about a fake romance.
“Oh, grow up, Trista,” she says. “This is how the big boys do things.”
“I’m not going to be Jared’s pimp,” I said. I am also concerned because Kimberly was Steven’s client, and I didn’t want to be part of something that would bolster the visibility of the client of my main competition for partner. No way.
“Well, luckily I’m more than willing to do it. All I have to do is explain to Jared what this will do for his career.”
“The only thing that Jared needs to do for his career is focus on acting. I won’t be a part of destroying his relationship.” I know that sometimes publicists planted fairly innocent items about clients hooking up, or tipped off paparazzi when clients were getting away together, to fuel interest in a project, but this was manipulation. I had avoided the sleazy rep that a lot of agents had in our business; I focused on signing talented people and working hard to get them the right deals. I wasn’t down for this.
Reaching into her bag, Sloane removes her cell phone and places the earpiece in her ear and stands up to leave. “Look, Trista, the wheels are already in motion; check out the Star on Wednesday. And either you get on board with this or you don’t, but it’s going to happen,” she says with a hard glint in her eye.
AFTER MY MEETING with Sloane I make it back to my condo in record time to get ready. Fresh from the shower, I plop down on the chair next to my bed and readjust the heated roller that’s digging into the nape of my neck. I look around at my room and survey the damage. My duvet is barely visible under the weight of half my closet. I’ve tried on every outfit I own. A pile of shoes rests against the side of the bed, and I kick a stray black Marc Jacobs tote across the room, stubbing my toe on the heavy hardware.
I usually don’t get nervous, but tonight is different: I’m meeting Garrett and his parents at an art auction for one of their charities at the Corcoran Gallery. Look, I say to myself as I rub my big toe, happy to see I didn’t chip the glossy red polish, get it together, girl. You can do this. And while I’ve never formally met his parents, I certainly know who the Jameses are. Garrett’s father was the first black L.A. County district attorney and recently retired from the bench. His mother, Barbara, a former ballerina, is the doyenne of black L.A. society, sitting on several prominent boards and committees. They belong to the old-black-money crowd in L.A., with a gated estate in Hancock Park.
Things have been going pretty well with us. Ever since our “talk” at my condo a couple of months ago, we’d been seeing each other more frequently and getting to know each other better. If I wasn’t staying over at his place, he was over at mine. We enjoyed doing simple things, like taking long walks on the beach, going to the movies, and staying up late talking into the night. And always work the room together at work events. I even told him about Sloane’s plan and he had given me some good ideas about how to maintain control of my client. I felt like we were really connecting. I felt for the first time in a long time like I was falling in love.
My self-imposed panic attack is interrupted by the sound of the telephone ringing.
“Hello?” I answer.
“What’s up, girl?” asks Amaya. “Getting ready for your fancy dinner with Cliff and Claire Huxtable?” She laughs into the receiver.
“Ugh… Please say you’re calling to make me feel better?” I whine.
“No, I was just calling to let you know that Corey had a good checkup this morning. In fact, V
iv said he should be getting out of the hospital tomorrow,” says Amaya.
“Thank the Lord,” I say. “Viv must be so relieved.”
“Yeah, girl. She’s got a new attitude. And Jerome’s been over at the house a lot. This is the type of thing that changes your perspective on a whole lot of stuff.”
“Amen to that. So what else is up?”
“I was also calling to see what you’re going to wear today.”
“Girl, please. I’m sitting here in my underwear, trying to figure that out. Hey, Garrett gave me an extra ticket for tonight. You should come.” I start holding outfits against my body and looking in the mirror.
“Maybe I’ll do that. Since you’re meeting his parents—a pretty serious step, I might add—I suggest something slightly conservative, but you want to be sharp ’cause you wanna let his Mama know you ain’t no joke with a pair of fly-ass shoes.”
“Okay,” I say. “What do you think about that little black Prada dress with the satin piping along the bottom and those gold snakeskin pumps you always like to borrow—assuming you didn’t stretch those bad boys out the last time you wore them.”
“Whatever, girl. You know I didn’t stretch out your shoes. I think I remember that dress…” Her voice trails off as she tries to recall it.
“You know the one, I wore it to your Bad Girlz premiere,” I say. “One of the worst movies in the world—aside from your scenes—of course!”
“Don’t hate… Just pray that this Soular Son film keeps me from having to be a part of the sequel. Anyway, I remember that dress. It was real cute.”
“Cool. See you there?”
“Maybe. Toodles, girlfriend.”
Problem solved. I walk into the bathroom to begin putting on my makeup when I hear the phone ring again. Looking at the number on the bathroom extension, I don’t recognize the digits but answer anyway.
“Hello,” I say as I rub foundation into my skin with a small sponge.
“Hi, Trista, it’s Damon.” Damn, what does he want? The conversation I had with Viv last week replays in my mind. There’s no way he still has feelings for me. Did Viv give him my number?
“Hi, Damon. How’d you get my number?”
“Uh, information. Look, I was just calling to say I’m sorry for what happened at the Oscar party. Look, I see you’re in a relationship with Garrett, and I can respect that. I was just hoping that we could be friends again. We’ve been through a lot together. Seeing you again has just made me remember we were good friends back in the day. With my firm working with your boyfriend’s firm we’re bound to keep running into each other. Let’s just put the past behind us.”
I pause as I take in his words and drop the makeup sponge on the tray. The past is the past. Why are brothers always trying to be friends? Can’t we just be sworn enemies forever? But if he can try to be mature about it, I certainly can, too. He won’t outdo me.
“Yes, you’re right, I am happy with Garrett. He’s a great guy,” I say, a bit too brightly. “Of course the past is the past, and we’re both moving on.”
“That’s great,” he says, releasing what sounds like a breath of relief. We chat for a few more minutes about how he’s getting settled in L.A., the crazy traffic, and his new job. When I glance at my watch I see I’m really late now.
“Hey, Damon, I’ve gotta go. I’m supposed to meet Garrett soon.”
“At the DARE reception at the Corcoran?” he asks.
“Yeah, how did you know?” Damn, Damon. I know we’re trying to be friends and all, but do I have to see you every time I’m hooking up with my man?
“Garrett sent an invite over to my office last week with a note saying he thought this might be a good way for me to meet some people. Guess I’ll see you there.”
We hang up the phone and I stare into the mirror. Quickly I dash some soft gold shadow along my lightly outlined eyes and finish with a slight dusting of bronzer on the cheeks and my cleavage. Then I pull the heated rollers out of my hair. I pull a wide-tooth comb through the warm curls and then fluff it up with my fingers until it frames my face. I take a bottle of Narciso Rodriguez fragrance and spritz some on my neck and between my breasts. I dress quickly and then grab my handbag and the invitation with gold-leaf lettering from the bureau and head downstairs.
“Get it together, girl,” I mutter to myself. “It’s time to meet the parents.”
WALKING INTO the gallery, I stop at the reception table to check in. The room is filled with black L.A.’s who’s-who. As I turn to make my way into an area of the exhibit labeled “Harlem Renaissance,” I see Keith Cooper in the far corner of the room with a beautiful woman. It’s his wife, the actress Trixie Cooper. With her smooth, honey-brown skin, cheekbones that could cut glass, and long dark brown hair that frames her famous face, she’s even more beautiful in person. I hope Amaya knows what she’s doing with Keith, this doesn’t look like a couple that’s getting divorced anytime soon.
Glancing down at my program, I notice that Keith and his wife are cohosting this event with Garrett’s parents. Suddenly Amaya’s phone call makes sense. She knew Keith was cohosting this event with his wife and she was hoping I’d invite her. She better not be planning to show up up here and act a fool.
Stepping into the dining area, I see Garrett in a dark suit, standing at a podium. I can’t help but smile. He’s talking to an older man in a pinstriped suit, and the two bear a strong resemblance to each other, so I assume that must be the Judge. Garrett sees me and says something to his father, who turns and looks at me. Suddenly I feel like I’m one of the pictures hanging on the walls here tonight, to be evaluated by a potential buyer. Garrett’s father pats him on the shoulder and then walks back behind the small stage. Garrett makes his way over to me.
“Hi, gorgeous,” he says and plants a warm kiss on my lips. I get that tingle in my stomach as he leads me out of the room to give me a tour of the gallery. We stop at a couple of the prints along the way, and he jots down his bid on a hauntingly beautiful 1940s image of a black woman and child sitting on the stoop in front of a tenement. As we’re concluding our tour he tells me that his mother is a painter; she has pieces at the auction. He leads me over to a collection of watercolors with scenes of rolling countryside.
“Your mother is very talented,” I say, looking at the pictures. “Where did she paint these? This sure doesn’t look like L.A.”
“At our house in Tuscany. She goes there every summer and paints. So what you’re looking at here is our backyard.”
“That’s some backyard,” I say, laughing, as I mentally compare it to South Central.
“Well, hopefully you’ll let me show it to you in person,” he says as he pulls me close to his body. I look up and giggle at the thought of running off to Italy with this man.
“Italy, huh?” I say, smiling.
“Yes, that would be a perfect way for us to celebrate after you make partner,” he says, then whispers something softly in my ear in Italian. I have no idea what this man is saying, but whatever it is it sounds pretty good to me.
“Stop it, Garrett,” I say, only half serious. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“Yes, Garrett,” says a woman’s voice mockingly from behind me. “You’re embarrassing the poor girl.” I turn away from Garrett’s embrace to see a woman facing me with tight skin the color of roasted toffee, sharply arched eyebrows and flawless makeup. Her dark brown hair, streaked with auburn and gold highlights, is pulled back in a sleek chignon at the nape of her swanlike neck. This must be the mother. She is channeling Diahann Carroll from her Dominique Deveraux days, in a white Chanel suit with gold buttons as big as my fist and the same gold snakeskin pumps I’m wearing. I shift one leg behind the other to hide my shoes, as I doubt she’s the type who would find that a charming coincidence.
“Mother,” says Garrett, as he kisses her, “I want you to meet Trista Gordon.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. James,” I say as I extend my hand. She offers a limp wrist, as
if she expects me to kiss her hand.
“Likewise, Trista,” she says as she looks me up and down. Her eyes narrow when she reaches the tips of my shoes.
“Garrett, darling, where is your father?” she asks. She’s finished with me.
“He’s talking to the DARE people about the program,” he answers. Garrett turns, puts his arm around my waist as if to pull me into the conversation. “I was just showing Trista your work, Mother.”
“Oh, really?” she says and turns back to me. “So, tell me, Trista, what do you think of my little paintings?”
“They’re lovely,” I say. “I’ve never been to Italy, but from what I see in your work I can’t wait to go.”
“Planning a trip soon?” she asks frostily with a raised, sculpted eyebrow.
“I told her we should go over to the house sometime,” says Garrett. I can tell by the way her body stiffens that Mrs. James isn’t actually interested in that proposition.
“How nice. Well, it was lovely to meet you, Trista. I must now go find Garrett’s father.” She gives me a lukewarm smile before leaving.
“That couldn’t have gone worse,” I say, releasing the breath I’ve been holding.
“What are you talking about?” asks Garrett as we begin walking back into the dining room. “She loved you.” When we make it to our table, I look up at the stage and see that Garrett’s parents are sitting up on the dais with the DARE director and Keith and his wife. When Garrett makes the introductions around the table I see his college friend Mike and meet his wife, Tracey, and another guy from Garrett’s office. The two other women at the table, Ché Bendel and Desiree Downey, eye me frostily. Moments after meeting me, one whispers something to the other that makes her laugh when they think I’m not looking. I hate them already.
The program begins with a short speech by DARE’s director, Joe Petty, thanking everyone for coming to support their program to keep children off drugs. He then turns and introduces two teenagers, who appear by his side as if someone said, “Cue the cute inner-city kids,” and explains to the audience how their generous contributions today will go to help kids like these, trapped in a neighborhood rife with drug dealing, to make the right choices in life. I hate these types of events where rich black people trot out poor black people to make themselves feel good. Mrs. James and Keith’s wife, Trixie, then announce the winning bids in the silent auction. The waiters serve the first course.
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