All About Eva (8 page)

In just a matter of hours, I had gone from being “TUF,” The Ultimate Flyygirl to “TUF,” The Unfortunate Fool.

I was officially a charity case, but at least I had a roof over my head—for now.

Vance's TriBeCa apartment was spacious and very well appointed, even though the building itself was an unassuming red brick high-rise that could have easily been mistaken for a warehouse.

The building paled in comparison to the Funderburk, but at least there was a doorman downstairs, which was a pretty good indication that the building had other great amenities to offer as well.

Inside, it was a bachelor's pad, to be sure. And while Vance had good-enough taste, his apartment was in desperate need of a woman's touch. The walls were plain, stark white, with no artwork, and very few accent furnishings that help make a house a home.

There was no theme to speak of. Just a mishmash of offbeat and unusual furnishings, like a leopard-print ottoman, a large Buddha statue, and various artifacts that Vance had obviously gathered from his travels around the world.

I admired the high ceilings, exposed brick walls, tall windows, and glossy, pinewood floors; however, it was clear that cleaning was not one of Vance's strong points.

Dirty laundry was scattered all over the place, and judging by the smell, the garbage needed to be taken down to the incinerator ASAP.

Clearly, Donovan and Vance were worlds apart in terms of taste and style. A stickler for order and cleanliness, Donovan had no problem cleaning up after himself even though we had a housekeeper who came in five times a week. Nothing in Donovan's world was ever disorganized or in disarray, and no matter how late it was, he would not go to bed before everything in the house was cleaned and in its proper place.

In contrast, Vance may not have been a neat freak, but to his credit, he was for sure a stand-up guy.

After agreeing to let me move in with him for the time being, he was kind enough to take time off from work long enough to load my things from Tameka's vehicle into his, then took me to his apartment where he brought all of my bags upstairs for me and gave me a spare key.

“It's not much, but it's all yours for as long as you need it,” Vance said, showing me to his “guest bedroom,” that in all actuality was just his home office with one of those disastrous, floral pull-out couches. Whose idea was
that?
I wondered, but kept my mouth shut so as not to bite the hand that was helping me out. It wasn't the W Hotel or the Ritz Carlton, but it would certainly do in favor of a shelter or the cold, hard streets.

“I really appreciate this, Vance. This is like, going above and beyond the call of duty,” I said. “And I'll tell you just like I told Tameka: I don't know how, or how soon, but I promise I'm going to pay you back one day.”

Vance shook his head and waved me off. “No repayment necessary, and you're more than welcome. Donovan is one of my best clients, and I would like to think someone would do the same for a loved one of mine if she needed it.”

The words “Fuck Donovan!” came to mind.

That conversation to determine the future of our relationship was no longer necessary, because as far as I was concerned, we were over. He had practically left me for dead in a foreign country, with no way or means of getting back home. It was best for him to stay on the run, because if his punk ass ever returned to New York, he would have more than the law to worry about.

But if Vance wanted to think that he was doing Donovan a favor by letting me stay with him, then so be it.

“Now, there isn't much in the way of groceries around here, but write down what you want and need, and I'll swing by Zabar's tomorrow and do some grocery shopping.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Don't go out of your way on account of me. Beggars can't be choosers, so whatever you have or decide to get is fine with me.”

“Okay, well, I'm sorry I don't have time to give you the grand tour, but I'm running late for a dinner date.... Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I'll be fine.” I tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. “Ooh, excuse me! To tell you the truth, I'll probably just sleep. You go ahead and enjoy yourself.”

Before leaving, Vance gave me a pillow and a blanket, which I intended to put to use immediately.

I was so jetlagged and emotionally drained that I didn't even have the energy to take the cushions off the sofa and pull out the mattress, or to call Kyle and let him know that I was back in town.

Ugly as the couch was, I curled up on it and slept for more than twelve hours.

I woke up the next day disoriented. For a brief moment, I didn't know exactly where I was, but one look down at that disastrous floral couch I was laying on and it all came rushing back to me. I rubbed my eyes trying to make it all go away, but unfortunately, this was my new reality. Instead of waking up on my Sleep Number bed in my luxurious bedroom on Central Park West, I was at Vance Murphy's apartment in TriBeCa.

Damn.

I had slept soundly, but I'd had a vivid, violent dream in which I was a medieval queen sitting on a throne, being fed peeled grapes by a muscular manservant. In the dream, the entertainment for the evening was watching Donovan and Annette Dorsey get their just deserts, which included water-boarding and being flogged with a cat-o'-nine-tails. After they had been sufficiently tortured, I shouted “Off with their heads!” And the mother and son duo were carted off to the guillotine where they were beheaded. Their eyes bulged in their severed heads, which were tossed to an angry mob that got satisfaction out of kicking them around like soccer balls.

If only it were true. That would have been great!

I got up and ventured out into the apartment. It was quiet, without even a television or radio playing. I called out, “Vance, you home?” but got no response. No wonder. The clock on the microwave in the kitchen read 12:32
PM
. It was the crack of noon, so like most people with thriving careers, Vance had probably been at work for a few hours already.

I was famished. I went through the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets, and determined rather quickly that Vance's disclaimer about there “not being much around here in the way of groceries” had been modest. There clearly wasn't a whole lot of home cooking being done around there, because the only thing Vance had the makings for was a grilled cheese sandwich, which I ate with a bowl of Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup.

It had been a while since I'd had to do it, but I was no stranger to making something out of nothing.

My ability to adapt was like a superpower. No matter what the circumstances, I may bend, but I never break. At least I haven't so far, but what I was facing then was the ultimate test in strength and resourcefulness. I emptied the last of a carton of orange juice into a glass and sat down at the kitchen table to eat. It was far from the glamorous gourmet meals that I was used to, but it was still tasty, and it got the job done.

Vance had left that morning's
Times
on the table, so I browsed the classifieds hoping against hope that there were some great editing jobs available, or at least a decent freelance writer position.

I had heard about the restructuring, the hiring freezes and massive layoffs in publishing and print media, but the pickings were so slim it was ridiculous.

Apparently, the industry was not only struggling, it was on life support.

There just weren't very many jobs to be had, and unfortunately, that's the way the cookie crumbles. When the economy is bad, people put themselves on budgets, and the first things to go are the magazine subscriptions.

There were, however, plenty of openings for: nannies, CDL drivers, bike messengers, “dancers,” and escorts. I grabbed a nearby pen and put big X's through all the job listings that weren't for me, and added detailed commentary such as No! No! No!
Hell,
no! And hell fucking no!

I tossed the newspaper aside, cleaned up the dishes I had used, and then went to check out the lay of the land.

Vance hadn't taken the time to give me the grand tour the night before, but I've learned that sometimes the best tours are the ones that you give yourself.

I started poking around in the living room, which usually says a lot about a person. Vance's living room said that he was a music man, to the core. Off in the far corner of the room there were two three-foot-tall conga drums, a steel pan drum set, and an acoustic guitar. “Who does he think he is?” I wondered out loud. “Wyclef Jean?”

For sure, Vance's musical tastes were as eclectic as I have ever seen in one person's personal music library. He had some jazz, techno, gospel, a little bit of country, and a little bit of rock 'n' roll. There were just as many vinyl albums as there were CDs, and I'm not talking about just old school albums either. He had plenty of new stuff too, like the latest from Georgia Anne Muldrow, Oumou Sangare, Kid Cudi, and some Canadian kid named Drake.

After taking care of some business in the bathroom, I took a peek in the medicine cabinet and found it full of shaving cream, Sportin' Waves hair pomade, Mach3 razors, a nose hair trimmer, dental floss, an unopened box of contact lenses, Crest Pro-Health mouthwash, and oh . . . ! What do we have here? A box of Just for Men in the shade of “natural black.” It's a bad habit, I know. “Rambling” is what Mama Nita called it, and I don't know why I do it, except for the fact that you can find out pretty much all you need to know about a person by rifling through the medicine cabinet.

For instance, before I met Donovan, during my single, girl-about-town days, I dated a guy named Eric who I was really into. Eric was a successful concert promoter, and we always had a great time whenever we hung out. Well, when Eric invited me over to his modest co-op in Park Slope for the very first time, and when I made the inevitable trip to the bathroom, what did I find in his medicine cabinet? Zoloft, plus Xanax, plus Paxil, which added up to be just plain fucking crazy! No more dates with that one. Trust me, I've learned.

Vance's master suite was huge. The shades were closed so it was cool and dark inside, and the room smelled liked Carolina Herrera's 212 cologne. There wasn't much to see in there except a giant four-poster bed that needed to be made, and a closet full of the standard lawyer uniform, consisting of dark, three-button suits, striped shirts, and insanely expensive suits that contributed to Vance's GQ mystique.

The second bedroom was fit for a princess.

Almost as big as the master bedroom, it was an explosion of all things pink and frilly, and was the exact prototype of the kind of bedroom I wished I'd had growing up. There was a canopy bed made of bleached-blond wood, with matching dresser and nightstand, a large toy chest, and a teeny-tiny vanity table and mirror.

I smiled, thinking that Vance's little girl was lucky to have a daddy who obviously loved her very much.

If only I had been so lucky.

Bernard, my own father, had been doting as well, but he had vanished from my life when I was around six years old, and his absence from my life was an issue that still baffles me. How could someone who took you everywhere he went and made sure you had the best of everything just turn and walk away from you, never to be seen or heard from again?

Whenever I had asked Gwen where my father was, she would either ignore the question or laugh and suggest that maybe he had been abducted by aliens. That was typical Gwen. Crude and rude, and so self-absorbed that other people's feelings were of no concern to her.

Vance's living room was dominated by a sliding glass door that led out to a patio large enough to host a party for about twenty to thirty people, and it also had an awesome view of the Hudson River.

The apartment was on the twenty-third floor, and for a split second, I thought of flinging myself off the terrace balcony. In less than one minute my problems would be over and I wouldn't have to worry about any of it, but the thought left as quickly as it came, because I was far too vain to end it all in such a horrific manner.

Like the great poet Pat Parker once said, “Black people do not, Black people do not, Black people
DO NOT
commit suicide!” It was such a selfish, cowardly act, and was definitely not an option, so I wiped those thoughts from my mind and chose instead to focus on the best way for me to move forward.

I had spent the last two years totally absorbed in a lifestyle that didn't really belong to me. Hell, it didn't even belong to Donovan, because it was all bankrolled on stolen money.

Now, literally overnight, I was expected and required to get on a path of independence and self-sufficiency, and the sooner the better.

I know, cue the violins, right? I only had myself to blame, because I should have never gotten off the path in the first damn place.

Looking out over the bustling city, I recalled one of the first articles I had written for
Flirt
magazine , where I had started out as a staff writer.

I went back into my “bedroom” where I dumped the contents of the trash bags containing my belongings right in the middle of the floor. I needed to access what was what, and it was just as I suspected.

There were so many of my things that were unaccounted for, it was downright criminal. And the missing items weren't limited to just the things that Donovan had bought, like Annette had implied. Gone were the expensive investment pieces that I had worked for, and paid for myself, like classic Chanel blouses, cashmere Prada sweaters, and neat little jackets from Cavalli and Isabel Toledo.

It takes years to create a look that works and build a complete wardrobe. Mine had been immense.

My designer bag game was proper, and my shoe game was mean....
Grrr!
Gucci, Christian Dior, Fendi, Missoni—you name it, I'd had it. And now it was all gone, including all of the gifts that I had received on my birthday from the two celebrations.

All that was left were my underwear, several pairs of jeans, a couple of pairs of shoes, a few lousy tops, and the large stuffed elephant that Donovan had won for me the first time we'd gone to Coney Island together.

Insult was added to injury when I discovered that my jewelry box was nowhere to be found.

I sorted through what was left of my former life, and tried my best to keep the tears back, but regardless of my efforts, they flowed like running water. Annette Dorsey was a scandalous old crow who was proof that the apple does not fall far from the tree, and that you can take the woman out of Queens, but you can't take Queens out of the woman.

I was livid, and I refused to take that woman's abuse lying down.

Wiping my tears, I grabbed a cordless phone off of Vance's desk and dialed a number. Blanche, Annette's housekeeper, answered on the other end.

“May I speak to Mrs. Dorsey, please?” I asked Blanche, sounding very friendly and businesslike.

“I'm sorry, but Mrs. Dorsey is hosting a luncheon at the moment and can't come to the telephone. Is there a message?”

“No, no message.” I smiled at her through the phone. “Thank you!”