All About Eva

by Deidre Berry

  “Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, dear Eva, happy birthday to me!”

  I lay in the massive sleigh bed covered with luxurious linen sheets, and stretched, a big ole smile on my face. However, that smile quickly turned into a scowl when I remembered that I was now the big two five.

  “Damn, I’m getting old. . . .” I grumbled as I sat up in bed and stretched some more.

  It was time to add another candle to the birthday cake, and what did I have to show for it?

  Oh, just a sprawling 5,200-square-foot, nine-room penthouse apartment on Central Park West and Seventy-seventh Street that was in a word exquisite.

  It had been two years since Donovan had swept me off my feet and brought me to Funderburk Towers, a sleek, futuristic-looking glass structure that was so high up in the sky that we had a full, unobstructed view of Central Park, and on a clear day I could see the White House. Well, okay, that’s a wee bit of an exaggeration, but one I’m sure Sarah Palin would totally understand, seeing how she can see Russia from her backyard in Alaska and all. The point is, it was one helluva view! One that both literally and figuratively gave the feeling of being on top of the world.

  Located on the fifty-fourth floor of one of the most exclusive co-ops in the city, the penthouse had a terraced master bedroom suite, complete with a dressing room and two walk-in closets; a library; formal dining room; private movie theater; eat-in kitchen; and private elevator.

  Not bad for a little black girl from the South Side of Chicago, where infants were born with plastic spoons in their mouths instead of silver, if in fact you were given any spoon at all, and where despite the fact that my grandmother worked like a rented mule every day of her life, the household seldom had two of anything.

  There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t count my blessings and recognize the fact that I was one lucky girl.

  It was a little after eleven AM and I felt refreshed and energized despite the fact that I hadn’t made it home from a night of partying until well after the sun had come up.

  Getting in at that time of the day wasn’t all that unusual for me, which is why I guess more than a few people liked to throw the term “party girl” my way.

  I hated that, because it couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  Yes, I had been known to shut down a club or two in my day. And yes, I could be seen shaking my thang at least three nights a week until the wee hours. However, this is New York we’re talking about, not Idaho. What was I supposed to do instead? Take up needlepoint and gardening?

  Truthfully speaking, I was practically a homebody compared to most of the people in my social circle who went out every single night of the week.

  When I first hooked up with Donovan, he introduced me to his friends and colleagues, who in turn introduced me to their wives and girlfriends, which is how I met and became best friends with Zoë Everett. She happened to have been dating one of Donovan’s colleagues at the time, and we hit it off immediately, even though we had vastly different backgrounds.

  Now, if you want to see the true definition of a party girl, then you need look no further than Zoë. She was out on the scene 7 days a week, 365 days a year, and was only at home long enough to shit, shave, and bathe. After changing clothes, she was right back out on the scene again, drifting from one club or social function to the next.

  The Energizer Bunny couldn’t even compete with Zoë, and I can’t say for sure how she was able to carry on like that, although I have heard the rumors. I’m not one to gossip, but let’s just say that Red Bull and methamphetamines aren’t exactly sleep inducers. Okay? In fact, it was Zoë who just the evening before had insisted on treating me to an all-expenses-paid night out on the town in honor of my birthday.

  She had arrived in front of the Funderburk in a rented hot-pink Hummer limousine, filled with ten of our mutual friends. Among them had been Sandra Morgan, whose claim to fame was being Kanye’s ex.

  Sadie Cohen, daughter of the legendary rocker Ben.

  Giselle Joyner, season 12 winner of Who Wants to Be a Supermodel?

  And Pilar Daniels, the telecommunications heiress slash wannabe fashion designer.

  Last, and certainly least, there was Bianca Benson, incorrigible instigator slash incorrigible bitch. She and Zoë had grown up together and their mothers were close, lifelong friends, which is why I guess Bianca was so protective and possessive of Zoë that she came off as if she were her lover or something. My nickname for Bianca was Skeletor. She was all cheekbones and forehead, and had these crazy overarched eyebrows along with a really strong Arnold Schwarzenegger jawline.

  Very rarely do I meet someone who I dislike on the spot, but Bianca was this grumpy, humorless thing who was always glaring suspiciously at anyone who even dared breathe in Zoë’s direction.

  I’m not entirely sure what that was all about, but again, there were rumors.

  Despite Zoë’s best efforts, Bianca and I never hit it off. From day one, our personalities clashed like floral and plaid, so consequently we both steered clear of each other, preferring to hang out only with Zoë whenever the other was not around.

  No, there would never be any love lost between Bianca and me, and why Zoë had thought that it was appropriate or even necessary to bring Bianca along on my special night out was beyond me.

  Surprisingly, though, everyone had been on their best behavior that night and the infighting was kept to a minimum as we had kicked my birthday celebration off at the fabulous and insanely expensive Crustacean Palace restaurant.

  Our party of twelve had descended upon the restaurant and ordered just about every item on the menu, except for the ostrich fillet and the spicy buffalo meat, which we unanimously decided were just wrong.

  We’d had sake with our appetizers, white wine with the entrees, and champagne with dessert. By the time it was all said and done, the tab had come to $9,168, including tax and tip.

  Not that it had mattered, because Zoë was paying, and to her that was just chump change, really, because she had it like that. The bill could have been quadruple that amount and she still would have nonchalantly passed the waiter her Platinum AmEx card, without even bothering to examine the bill for possible errors or overcharges.

  Zoë had money to burn.

  “It ain’t trickin’, if you got it!” was one of Zoë’s favorite catchphrases, and that was really easy for her to say, seeing as how she was the sole heir to the Everett & Everett Hair Care empire that had been a staple in the African-American community for close to fifty years and was estimated to be worth well over a billion dollars.

  I, for one, was a loyal customer and couldn’t go one day without their active hold hair spritz and jojoba oil moisturizing hair lotion, which was capable of working wonders on even the kinkiest head of hair.

  Zoë’s parents were doting, but clueless. Thinking that their daughter was just trying to “find” herself, they fully supported her rock ’n’ roll lifestyle with an ample monthly allowance and credit cards with no limits. In exchange, Zoë was the face of Everett Hair Care products, and her only duties were the occasional photo shoot for packaging and advertising purposes. Not a bad deal. One that often made me wonder how nice it must be to have parents who actually gave a damn about your welfare and well-being.

  Since both of my parents were deadbeats, I so could not relate.

  After having stuffed ourselves with Chinese food, we all climbed back into the limo, where the girls showered me with an assortment of fantastic and interesting gifts, including Valentino sunglasses, a very on-trend Betsey Johnson cocktail ring, a set of sterling silver bangles, a gift certificate to Bliss Spa, and a state-of-the-art personal pleasure tool.

  We stopped in at Hyde Lounge, an uber-exclusive, two-level dance club that was notorious for their discriminatory admission practices. It was simple: Either you had the right look or you didn’t.

  If you were hot and you looked like money, you were allowed in. If not, you waited in line only t
o be told when you finally got to the front that “There’s no party going on here tonight,” which was a blatant lie and a double insult. Fortunately, I didn’t know what that was like. I had never been turned away from any club, and that night was no different. Even though there was a long line of would-be partygoers waiting to get inside Hyde, Zoë and I led our group right to the front of the line where Frank, the beefy doorman, greeted us with warm hugs.

  “Well, if it ain’t Eva and Zoë,” said Frank, flashing a winning smile. “Double trouble!”

  “Hey, honey bunch, how is it in there?” I asked.

  “Bananas!” Frank said, incredulous. “You ladies go and have a good time!”

  Without even asking any of us for ID, Frank stepped aside and allowed our posse to pass beyond the red velvet rope, where the young and oh-so-sexy crowd were partying like it was 1999.

  Once inside, we went up to the VIP section located on the upper level, where we danced and drank even more champagne until we all unanimously agreed that it was time to move on to the next club.

  It was around seven AM when the hot-pink Hummer had finally dropped me back off in front of my building. The double Grey Goose martinis I had been sipping all night had me hot and bothered, and I couldn’t wait to get upstairs to the apartment where I intended to pounce on Donovan like a lioness in heat.

  I started stripping my clothes off the second I walked inside the apartment, but when I reached the bedroom, I was dismayed to find that Donovan had already left for work at the plush suite of offices he kept in the Lipchitz building, down in the heart of the financial district.

  He had obviously left in a hurry because he hadn’t taken the time to make up the bed, which he was a stickler for, and the massive fifty-inch plasma TV was still on and tuned to CNBC, where the news anchor was talking about the mortgage crisis and predicting another dismal day on Wall Street. I sighed, and turned the television off.

  I needed some sexual healing, and even though Zoë had given me that fancy vibrator as a gag gift, the fact that it would actually be put to good use was no laughing matter.

  You see, the downside to being with a guy in finance is that his sex drive often fluctuates right along with the stock market. The peaks and valleys were astounding!

  One day he was up, so to speak, and the next day he would be so far down that even Cialis couldn’t help turn the situation around. It was a complete wear-out, and that was the way it had been for the past few months.

  Donovan blamed his erectile dysfunction on the fact that he was preoccupied with some kind of crisis looming on the horizon that had the potential to destroy the economy as we knew it, and he even went so far as to admit that for the first time in his illustrious career, he was having a crisis of confidence. Along with the world economy, the stock market was also sliding further and further into the toilet with each passing day, and he was suddenly unsure of which sticks to buy and sell, and which ones to hold.

  I didn’t know how serious to take his Doomsday prediction. All I knew was that if Donovan had a problem, then I had a problem, and my problem was that I hadn’t had sex on a regular basis in months.

  It had gotten to the point where I had trained myself to be happy with getting it once a week, but there were times when Donovan couldn’t even deliver on that. It was so frustrating, there were times when I wanted to scream, “Why the hell can’t you get it up, and keep it up, you limp dick motherfucker!” But I took the opposite, softer approach and came to understand how the Dow average falling more than 500 points in one day could make a moneyman flaccid.

  I didn’t like it, but I understood.

  After all, Donovan had a lot on his shoulders. At age thirty-four, he was his own man, serving as the founder, CEO, and chairman of Dorsey Capital Management LP, the second-largest African-American–owned investment bank in the United States, which boasted an impressive roster of uber-wealthy clients, from professional athletes, to entertainers, to music industry moguls. I, on the other hand, double-majored in English and print journalism, and knew very little about the technical aspects of the financial sector.

  While Donovan rambled incessantly about home prices falling 11 percent in the third quarter, a credit crunch, and something about the S&P index, I would be examining my nails to make sure that my polish wasn’t chipped and thinking about how Marc Jacobs and Tom Ford could possibly top last season’s collections.

  Now, before you get it all wrong, let’s be clear. I was not some vapid, self-centered moron who cared only about consumption and excess. I cared about what was going on in the country. However, my attitude was economy, shmeconomy! Why preoccupy your mind and stress yourself out over stuff you can’t do anything about, anyway? Don’t worry, be happy!

  Hell, let experts like Alan Greenspan and Suze Orman figure it all out.

  After lounging lazily for several minutes, I decided to quit all the griping about being one year closer to thirty and to make this birthday the best birthday ever. I sprang out of bed and threw open the curtains to see what the weather was like. The sky was blue and clear, sunny and gorgeous.

  Yep, from the looks of it, it was gonna be a great day!

  The bugle horn on my cell phone sounded, signaling that I had just received a text message. I grabbed the phone off the nightstand and saw that the iPhone was jumping. Eleven missed calls and seventeen text messages, the last of which was from my old friend Tameka, the soon-to-be ex-wife of New York Jets player, Jamal Harvey: Hey young lady, happy birthday! Whatever you do today, do it in a BIG way . . . xoxo Meka

  It had been almost a month since Tameka and I had hung out and spent girl time together, but even if she had been in the mood for socializing, she still would have most likely declined an invitation to the previous night’s blowout extravaganza because she was not a big fan of Zoë and the socialite set in general.

  I smiled, thinking that it was so sweet and thoughtful of Tameka to remember my birthday, especially since she was in the midst of a divorce that was getting to be so nasty that she’d decided to remove herself from the social scene until after the dust had settled.

  I didn’t blame her. Jamal’s womanizing ways were legendary, and there were way too many rumors that she would have had to clear up. Tameka was one of my besties, and I missed hanging out with her, but you have to respect a girl’s right to save face.

  I was just about to check my e-mail when the phone rang and Donovan’s face popped up on the screen. I grinned and giggled because I couldn’t help it. The contact photo that I had for him was the picture I had taken of him shirtless on the beach in Costa Rica; plus, I was so smitten with Donovan that I smiled whenever I saw him, thought about him, or even heard his name.

  “Good morning, Boo-Boo Kitty,” I cooed into the phone as if he were three years old instead of thirty-four. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going. . . .” He sighed in a way that let me know that he was not having a good day at the office. “But listen, I called to say happy birthday, and to tell you to be dressed and ready to hit the town tonight at seven sharp.”

  A burst of excitement shot through me, causing me to do a happy dance. Donovan wasn’t like most men who maybe bought you a greeting card and then maybe, if you were lucky, took you out for dinner and a movie. My man knew how to do birthdays right!

  “Why, do you have something big planned for me?” I asked hopefully, with fingers crossed.

  “No, sorry to disappoint you, babe”—he sounded distracted and I could hear him shuffling papers in the background—“since it’s a weekday, though, I was thinking we should do it low-key this year. I have to come right back to the office bright and early tomorrow morning, so I went ahead and made reservations at your favorite restaurant.”

  “And what’s my favorite restaurant, Donovan?”

  “Le Cirque, of course.”

  Cue the buzzer sound.... Ennnnntttttt! Wrong!

  You see, that’s why it’s good to give your man a pop quiz every once in a while, just to s
ee how well he really knows you.

  As awesome as Le Cirque is, it was actually his favorite restaurant, not mine. I much preferred Daniel over Le Cirque any day of the week. Not that Donovan would notice, due to his overconfident but slightly endearing habit of assuming that everything he loved, I automatically loved also.

  Donovan couldn’t talk long, but before he hung up, he instructed me to go into the kitchen where I would find my birthday present.

  I did another happy dance as I wrapped myself in a silk Chinese robe before heading to the kitchen. I had to cover myself first, because as much as I would love to walk around the house half-naked, Donovan employed a household staff of six, and the thing about hired help was that on any given day, you rarely had the place to yourself.

  I opened the bedroom door and padded barefoot through the spacious apartment, wondering if I really smelled food cooking or if I was hallucinating. It was Tuesday, and Hazel, our personal chef, was off on Tuesdays.

  “Happy birthday, Ms. Eva!” Hazel greeted me when I entered the kitchen. She had put together a veritable feast. There was enough spicy-sweet bacon, scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit to feed several people. A pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice stood on the table, and she’d even gone to the trouble of getting my favorite caramel pecan pastries from The Royale Pastry Shop down on Seventy-second Street.

  “Hazel!” I said, reaching out to hug the older, diminutive woman who was from Honduras. She was so sweet and nurturing, she reminded me of my maternal grandmother back home in the Midwest. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be off today.”

  Hazel gave me a dismissive wave of the hand. “And miss your birthday? No way! Besides, Mr. Donovan pay me extra!”

  We both laughed. Hazel had a wicked sense of humor, and often made me laugh, even though I couldn’t understand half the things she said in her adorable Spanglish accent.

  “Extra? Whooo! What are you gonna do with all those monies, girl?”

  “Send back home like all the rest. . . .” she said, then looked me over and shook her head. “You too skinny! Go sit down while I make you plate.”