As Lauren blotted her lips, evening the coat of color, he suddenly noticed that something was very different about his wife. A sparkle glimmered seductively in her eyes as she leaned toward the mirror to stroke a touch of mascara through her lashes. He was sure that she’d be humming a happy tune if it were not for his presence. Lauren was literally glowing. Knowing that it wasn’t the result of anything he’d done, he felt a desperate need to get to the bottom of it.
With his chin held high, Max straightened his tie, attempting to appear nonchalant. “Where are you off to?” he asked.
“A gallery opening downtown,” she answered. Her focus never wavered from her own image in the mirror.
She was meeting Gideon at a SoHo gallery that was premiering his latest collection of black-and-whites. Since her visit to his loft, they’d met for lunch twice and talked on the phone nearly every day. She thought of him often, sometimes lying awake fantasizing that he lay next to her, instead of the insensitive log who did. After their last lunch he’d kissed her on the cheek, and she had still felt the touch of his lips hours later.
Max watched her, riveted, waiting for her to inquire about his plans for the night. When she didn’t, he frowned and offered, “I’m meeting a new client for dinner at Cipriani.”
“That’s nice.” She took one last appraising look at herself in the mirror, condoned what she saw, and headed for the door. “See you later.” She didn’t even look back!
There was a time—not so long ago—when she would have tried to engage him, all but begging to know where, with whom, and at what precise time he was doing what, but now she didn’t really seem to give a damn.
Puzzled, he watched her stroll out of the bedroom door. There was something intrinsically different about her recently that had dissolved the impenetrable cloak of sadness that had become her fixture. Lauren’s newfound happiness troubled him deeply. At least when she was unhappy he could rest assured that it was because of him, which affirmed his sense of power and control.
Due to a pathetic combination of ignorance and arrogance, his narrow mind refused to accept the most obvious explanation for the pep in her step. He simply could not imagine his pure, beautiful, blue-blood wife engaging in a torrid love affair with another man, not when she had him. After all, affairs were messy endeavors, and this unfortunate business with Paulette was certainly proof of that.
His thoughts bounced like a bungee cord back to his most pressing female concern: Paulette was pregnant with his child! He felt like one of those dense, brainless athletes who carelessly spread their sperm around, oblivious to the fact that his seed was the equivalent of liquid gold, a substance readily mined by swarms of well-trained gold diggers. He’d always shaken his head knowingly when hearing the woeful tale of yet another baby mama using her spawn to extort money from an unsuspecting man who’d been driven to despair by the smaller of his two heads. Now he was the idiot with no control of his own dick.
As savvy as he perceived himself to be, he couldn’t fathom how this could have happened; after all, he’d always worn a condom. The more pressing matter at the moment was figuring out how to get out of this mess unscathed. Though he and Lauren’s relationship was barely functioning, he had no intention of letting her go just yet, even if she couldn’t bear his child. Her family’s clout was invaluable, opening important doors in both finance and politics. He had to make this situation go away, but he also knew that Paulette would never go for the solution that suited him best. She had waved the news of her pregnancy at him like a homeless drunk with a winning lottery ticket, so there was no chance in hell that she’d ever have an abortion. More drastic measures were definitely in order.
Before Lauren made it out the front door, the phone rang; she stopped and picked up the receiver in the foyer. “Hello?”
“Hey, girl.” It was Paulette, whom she hadn’t heard from in months.
Max tiptoed out the bedroom, down the hall to the top of the stairs, listening carefully, hoping to get a clue to the new Lauren. He felt silly—girlish, really—eavesdropping on his wife. It was a strange role reversal; she was usually the one trying to figure out what he was up to.
“Hi, Paulette, stranger! I haven’t heard from you in forever,” Lauren chirped. “What’s going on?”
Max’s ears really perked up when he heard Lauren say Paulette’s name; then his blood cooled quickly as fear flowed through his veins, freezing him on the spot. Was Paulette crazy and cruel enough to tell Lauren about their affair, and her pregnancy? Oddly, he’d never feared being caught before, knowing that he’d vehemently deny an affair even if his penis were caught trapped in the pussy, but a child was living, breathing proof, a form of physical DNA evidence that was irrefutable.
“I won’t hold you, but I’ve got good news.” Paulette sounded elated about whatever it was.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense; tell me your news.” Lauren set her purse on the table, waiting.
Max felt the muscles around his heart seize as he held his breath.
“I’m having a baby!” Paulette blurted out. Her tone was understandably exuberant, but with a tinge of malice. Beneath her joyous words she taunted, I’m having a baby, and you’re not, and buried more deeply between them was the evil satisfaction she felt for having Lauren’s husband’s child, the one thing Lauren had been unable to do.
“A baby!?” Lauren was shocked, since Paulette hadn’t even mentioned a boyfriend to her in well over a year.
Assuming that Paulette had told Lauren everything, Max felt his heart pound ferociously in his chest. His first instinct was to rush down the stairs to defend himself.
“Yes, a baby.”
Paulette was obviously thrilled, so, regardless of the circumstances, Lauren was too. “I’m happy for you, if that’s what you want.”
Max was on the first stair step when he suddenly froze in place, puzzled. This certainly wasn’t the response to be expected from a woman being told that her husband was having a baby—especially by her cousin.
“So, who’s the lucky guy?”
“He’s an old friend,” was all Paulette said. “I’ll tell you more about him later.”
“Well, we have to get together to celebrate! I’ve got a great idea! I’ll have a baby shower and invite the girls. How many months are you?”
Paulette frowned at the phone. This wasn’t nearly as much fun as she’d thought it would be. She’d imagined her cousin being choked up with jealousy because she was having a baby when apparently Lauren couldn’t, rather than gleefully planning a party to celebrate. She was tempted to really get her attention by dropping the other shoe and telling her who the father was, but that would be premature. First she had to help Max come to his senses, and then they’d tell her—and the rest of the world—together, as a couple. “Just short of four months,” she said.
“We should do it next month in L.A. and make a girls’ weekend of it!” Lauren said. This was sounding like a really good idea. “We haven’t gotten together since Gillian left for L.A.” Plus she needed a good reason to get away from Max, to rethink her own life.
“S-s-sure, that sounds good.”
“Great! I’ll start planning it and be in touch with the details.”
“Thanks, Lauren. I really appreciate that.” The wind seemed to have escaped Paulette’s sails. Why was Lauren so happy, anyway? Paulette liked talking to her much more when she was sad and depressed.
“Gotta, go. Congratulations!” Lauren hung up the phone even happier than she was before picking it up. Though her mother was still livid at Paulette, and convinced that she had somehow hijacked the will, Lauren couldn’t care less about any of it. She had enough money from her trust funds to last her a lifetime, so what was another few million? She grabbed her bag and dashed out the door.
Only after he heard her exit did Max finally move a muscle. He felt as if he’d stumbled into the twilight z
one; nothing made sense to him. He had an illegitimate baby on the way, thanks to his wife’s cousin’s snapping pussy, and his normally docile and melancholic wife was suddenly happy and infused with life, and he had no idea why. He had to do something, so he decided to deal with Lauren first, and he’d take care of Paulette later.
Feeling a little more empowered, he marched purposefully into Lauren’s boudoir and carefully went through every drawer there. He was obsessed with finding out why she was suddenly so happy. After fifteen minutes of searching through sweaters, underwear, toiletries, and scarves, he was about ready to give up, when he opened a jewelry case that was stuffed in the back of a drawer that was filled with socks. Inside there was a pouch, and inside the pouch was a package that contained quite a few little white and green pills. A prescription label was on the package, and he noted that the date was current.
He may have been stumbling around blindly in the dark up until now, but one thing was blatantly clear to him: These weren’t barbiturates, uppers, downers, sleeping pills, or Ecstasy. No, they were something much more alarming. All this time, while he and Mildred waited with bated breath for his wife to produce an heir, Lauren had still been taking fucking birth control pills!
He crumpled to the floor, feeling like the biggest loser in the world. His own wife didn’t want to have his baby, and yet he had a delusional, near-psycho bitch ready to give birth, whether he wanted it or not. Something had to be done about all of this.
He only had to figure out what.
TWENTY-THREE
When Brandon began preproduction on Gold Diggers he offered Gillian the choice of an apartment or a wing in his palatial estate.
“We can get you a place tomorrow, but you don’t need the stress of finding, furnishing, and settling into an apartment, or buying a car. You’ve got to prepare for this role in record time. Here you can have your own suite of rooms, complete with servants and a driver,” he’d argued. Feeling her apprehension, he added, “I’m suggesting this to protect my investment; I can’t have the lead actress in my film stressed out, and not at her best.”
“As long as you realize this is a business move, not a personal one,” she insisted.
“You know I respect you too much to assume that.”
The timing couldn’t have been better. Even though Paulette spent a lot of time in New York, their living arrangement had run its course.
Lately Paulette had become as unpredictable as an unmedicated schizophrenic. And, of course, the surge of hormones from her pregnancy didn’t help matters. One week she was totally supportive, and the next she was bitching about how long it was taking for Gillian to get out of her apartment. After her inheritance, Gillian thought she’d calm down, that the money would take the pressure off. Instead, it had made Paulette even more volatile. A part of her believed that she no longer needed other people—especially her friends—now that she had money.
It had always riled Paulette that Reese, Lauren, and Gillian all had more going for them than she did, whether it was money, looks, or class. Now that she had been redeemed by the great equalizer—cold, hard cash—she felt that putting them in their place was her just due. The way Paulette saw it, they were now all losers.
Even with her highfalutin, glob-trotting mother, Gillian—Miss Untouchable—had been trawling around L.A. just like a gazillion wannabes, with no money or connections. She didn’t even have a place to live! And Reese, who had been the queen diva, with her rich, famous husband, long, pretty hair, and unlimited funds, really fell hard. Paulette had Reese’s future in her hands, from the next meal she ate to the very roof over her head.
And then there was Lauren. Every time Miss High and Mighty’s husband came, it was Lauren’s face that Paulette saw behind her closed eyelids. The secret pleasure she got from hurting Lauren was much more intense than any orgasm Max could ever give her. Seeing the mighty fall was a healing salve that superficially soothed Paulette’s open wounds.
So, when Gillian told her that she was moving in with Brandon, Paulette’s anger was visceral. Gillian was about to be taken care of by a wealthy, eligible celebrity who seemed to worship her. Paulette had enjoyed seeing Gillian close to being broken, both financially and spiritually. Whenever she would insist that Gillian find her own place, knowing that she couldn’t afford to, it wasn’t because she wanted her to move, only that she wanted to inflict upon her friend a dose of the insecurity and hopelessness that Paulette had felt and nursed for as long as she could remember.
To Paulette’s dismay, Gillian’s move was proving to be a perfect arrangement. Those long days eating chocolate in sweatpants sprawled out on Paulette’s sofa were light-years away as she lay prone and perfectly motionless on a rattan chaise longue near Brandon’s Olympic-sized pool soaking up the sun’s rays. The California sun warmed the undertones of her smooth, dark skin, and painted golden brown highlights throughout her hair. She was taking a break from studying the Gold Diggers screenplay, which she found to be brilliantly witty. The characters were devilishly passionate, and the dialogue crisp and catty. Her role, in particular, was an actress’s dream, with excellent character development, well-written lines, and great interaction with the other characters. It was a part that she could really sink her teeth into.
While preparing for her role, Gillian was perfectly at home amid the beauty of Brandon’s sprawling Tuscan-style estate. Since Brandon was at the office much more than he was home, she was able to enjoy the beauty and solitude of the elegant house in total privacy while learning her lines and preparing for her debut film role. Calling it a “management account,” Brandon also provided Gillian a bank card with a balance that never dropped below four zeros, in addition to leasing her a champagne-colored Porsche Carrera, insisting that his star drive around town only in the very best, when she cared to; otherwise she had carte blanche access to Charles. In other words, Gillian was chillin’ in the lap of luxury.
Of course, her mother, who would have happily taken up with Brandon herself, strongly advised Gillian to close the deal with him from the outset, both professionally and personally. In many ways, she schooled, he was the mother lode. The man had money, position, and power, and he could help set up Gillian’s film career.
“Child, are you crazy? Of course you should move in! I know women who would kill for that chance.” This was not a figurative statement on her part, since this population most likely included her.
After spending two weeks getting on Gillian’s nerves, Imelda left L.A., but without her Italian stallion. When they went to check out of the Four Seasons hotel, he deferred payment to her, causing quite a big ruckus, with Imelda doing most of the screaming. Apparently he was under the impression that she was a very rich older woman who needed a companion, or gigolo (the male version of a gold digger), and of course, she thought that he was very rich and wanted her. Imelda was so pissed and insulted that she stormed out of the hotel into their waiting car, where her things—and his, including his airline ticket—were already loaded, and took off. She wasn’t sure how, or if, he ever got back to Europe.
“Yeah, and there’s a name for them.” While Gillian had taken to luxury like a baby to a warm bath, something about her new arrangement still gnawed at her. She’d always prided herself on being independent, and turned up her nose at women—like her mother—who would sell their bodies and souls for a set of designer clothes and a sizable bank account. Nonetheless, here she was reclining by the pool of a $20 million estate compete with every known creature comfort, owned by a man who, under any other circumstances, she wouldn’t have given the time of day. Sure, Brandon was a nice guy, but certainly not someone who would be the catalyst of a wet dream. Though she hadn’t slept with him, they both knew—talent notwithstanding—that this was what it was all about. In other words, she’d traded up from a casting couch to a casting chaise, only surrounded by a mansion.
To emphasis her point, Imelda continued. “You’d bet
ter get real; men like that don’t come along every day. And remember, its just as easy to love a rich man as it is to love a poor one—and a lot more rewarding!”
“So, I’m supposed to just lie down and open my legs?” Gillian asked rhetorically. The question was really one that she posed to herself. Gillian shuddered to realize how closely she might ultimately resemble the mother she’d always disdained.
“Women lie down and open them for a whole lot less. A lot of these young fools run around giving pussy away like they’re passing out flyers.” She hhmmppffed. “If I’m giving it away, you’d better believe I’m getting something for it.” Imelda was the original black gold digger; she had been mining since way back in the day, when most black women were still figuring out how to perm their hair.
“Which is why you’re broke?” Gillian said, the sarcasm dripping heavily. She didn’t enjoy twisting the sword that was already planted in her mother’s back, but someone had to make the woman take note of reality. In her most recent marriage she’d spent all of her own money prospecting fool’s gold. Her grand plans had ended disastrously, and now that she was older, with fewer wares to peddle, she was desperate, perhaps hoping to barter her daughter’s assets for the next great dig.
“Miss Tillman, there’s a phone call for you. It’s Mr. Russell.”
Gillian shielded the sun from her eyes, squinting as she reached for the portable phone, turning her thoughts away from her troubled mother. “Hello?”
“How’s my girl?” Though he was trying for casual, he sounded tense.
“I’m good. What’s up?” He never called her during the day.
Out of the blue he said, “I have a question for you, and its very important. Was anyone else with you when you discovered that you had my suitcase?” His tone was measured and very precise.
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