Fiona Love (17 page)

“Right,” Fiona smirked, and even that
drew every eye in the room.

People looked at her and thought of closed bedroom doors and hedonistic afternoons in the rain. Her unconsciously sexy manner reminded of sinful little indulgences, the kind that became soft whispery secrets.
Only her girls knew that beneath her deliberate sexual allure lurked frustration. She missed Daney so badly at night even masturbating was unsatisfying. Her body wanted him, needed his warmth. She craved the sound of his voice, his laugh, his singular ability to arouse and ease her.

She missed him.

Chapter ten

Netty was deep into wardrobe renovations for her upcoming publicity appearances.

“Once the album drops? The machine’s gonna crank up, and we gotta be ready,” she told Fiona, sounding like a general gearing up for battle. “The red carpet demands its due.”

Sugar was deep into herbs, and Cleo – who divided her time fairly evenly between dogging Andrea’s footsteps to protect Fiona’s image, keeping up with Barney, and monitoring her cousin’s weed intake – brought in an old friend, Liani Cambridge, to whip Fiona into shape.

“Peter called. He said he wants you to be in hi
s fall show.”

“I just had a baby.”

Cleo shrugged. “He said you’d say that, and he told me to tell you to start working out tomorrow. Quote, ‘You did that English prick’s video, you can do my show.’ End quote.” Cleo did a credible impersonation of Peter’s thick, southern molasses accent.

“God damn it!” Fiona swore, hopping from her bed to stalk to the
mirror. She took off her robe.

Preparation for Gabriel’s video had knocked most of the Flora weight off her, but
she still weighed more than she usually did.

“You shoulda kept up with your
workouts after Gabriel’s gig.”

“Damn,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t feel lik
e fuckin’ with Lani right now.”

Cleo shrugged again. “You got too. She’s the only one you’ll listen to who can get yo
u tip top in the time allowed.”

Liani Cambridge, or Lani as most folks called her, was married to Natty’s older brother Jeremy. Jeremy was even more beautiful than Natty. Fiona often found herself struck by that fact when they were in the same room with each other. Even worse, Jeremy’s particularly virile brand of masculinity came in a pair. His twin Jordan was his earthier, mirror image. Together the brothers were devastating. There was no cuter twin syndrome. They had distinct personalities yet were so eerily alike, and so close to one another, they coul
d communicate without speaking.

“I didn’t have time for it.” Jordan was telling Netty how his framing business had gotten out of control. “I mean, I didn’t think a whole buncha people were gonna like my few frames and want me to do their shit. After the first couple, I had to farm it out. Th
en they gave me problems with the wood putty. I ended up going to the manufacturer and hookin’ that shit up too. It’s nice now though. The money’s flowin’ in crazy quick. I came up with ten more frames, and I still consult on the matting and shit like that when I’m there.

“
My boy who’s a computer whiz got the Web site together. Apparently it’s integral that it connect to mine, so my brother helped me get things organized. He likes to project manage shit like that, bastard.” He chuckled, laugh lines appearing at the corner of his large gray eyes and ratcheting up his gorgeous factor another notch. “I got another deadline for five more frames! I had to make my aunt my business partner so I can at least pretend like I’m still a fuckin’ painter, you know?”

Lani was the perfect foil for them. She and Fiona shared the same tall, busty body type, with a tiny waist, high, tight ass and long legs. But where Fiona was prone to slouch artfully in her chair, chin in hand while she laughed, Lani was everything poised. Her posture and clothing were always perfect. Not la
dylike perfect, Liani perfect.

Everything about her was designed to enhance her attributes and minimize her flaws, and these were so minute and inconsequential no one even knew what they were. Lord knows she would never breathe a word. Lani had one motto: Queen of Everything. She even had it stitched in gold on a red velvet pillow.

She’d begun her career as a video vamp, but even then Lani insisted on final approval of her wardrobe, usually brought her own clothes and accessories, and effectively made herself the female star.

She’d graduated
quickly from video girl to choreographer, stylist and then film costume and clothing designer. Helped by her sister-in-law Baby’s acting prowess, Jeremy’s best-selling novel push and the faithful fervor Jordan’s paintings drew along with stellar commissions, she alone was responsible for the wardrobes of some of the hottest black artists out. And she managed to be perfectly dressed all the time, be obscenely paid for the work she did, and was raising three beautiful children to be even more fabulous than she was.

“Natty said your music is fabulous
!” Lani said at their first session.

Fiona
grumbled and rolled her eyes but allowed Cleo to bully her into the workouts. She would have had to start up in a few weeks anyway for the movie, the videos and shows when she started promoting the album. Her music manager was squawking about a tour.

“It ain’t lookin’
good,” she told him.

Then there was Peter’s show hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, behind putting together the perfect outfit and being gorgeous, getting fat off your ass was one
of Lani’s virtuoso specialties.

T
hey’d been working for a good hour when Lani’s daughter Lola dropped into the studio on her way somewhere. Fiona hadn’t seen the child since she was 10, gawky and cute. She was a lean 13 now and beautiful. Tall with near waist length curly black hair, she already possessed enough of Lani’s charm and femininity to be irresistible.

She sang a piece of one of Fiona’s old songs at Lani’s request, and Fiona was shocked. The girl could sing her d
amn near better than she could!

“Well, little girl,” she said, grinning at the woman-child she’d kept more than once over night while Lani ran the streets. “I think you
gon’ be a star.”

Lola beamed and threw herself into Fiona’s arms. Fiona didn’t know it, but she was this young girl’s idol. Outside of her mother and godmother, she couldn’t think of a
woman she admired more. Fiona knew she wanted to be a singer and had encouraged her every step over the years.

“Where Baby?”

“Gettin’ blowed at the crib surrounded by her sleeping children while writing a poem,” Lani said, in a slow, dramatic voice.

Fiona burst out laughing. “Why you talk about her like that?”

“That’s my girl. But you know she be trippin’. Natty let me hear “Damn,” Lani was nothing if not thorough. “And I was thinking,” and so it went.

Fiona had never been fat. Cleo dogged her food too closely and she was 5’9” and a former dancer herself. A good one.
But working out with Lani four times a week soon had her so trim and slim she appeared sculpted.

“Thank God,” Lani told Cleo one night when she picked Fiona up from the dance studio. “Since very few people would actually call Peter a
clothing
designer.”

Peter and Fiona had become friends more than a decade ago when Fiona first came to New York to do her thing in the music business. She’d needed a way to eat though, and 9-to-5’s weren’t convenient. Mechante was already making a name for herself as a model, and sh
e swore Fiona could do it too.

So Fiona modeled through a mid-range agency and managed to get picked up for a few good runway shows because of her long legs and her walk. Breasts hadn’t been in then. She’d done a ton of catalog work. People liked breasts in catalogs.

She’d met Peter at one of the better shows, which one she couldn’t remember. He wouldn’t know either. His evening cocktail hour(s), a ritual he’d started not long after he met her, were now legendary. But he would be able to tell her what she was wearing. He had amazing recall for clothes and jewels.

The
first time they met they talked all night. Peter poured beer down Fiona’s throat, and she held her own until about 3:30 when she fell asleep at the table, still holding her last brew.

Peter ignored her grumbles, stuffed her in a cab and took her to his place, where he proceeded to take care of her like only a gay man can. He undressed her and put a t-shirt over her head. Then he reached underneath it and removed h
er bra so she’d be comfortable.

“I’m gay as the day is long, and a gentleman,” he told her years later. “And I had a helluva time ke
eping my hands off those tits!”

He brought ‘a hot rag’ to wash her face as she lay in his beautifully appointed
guest bed.

She remembered it vividly, stuck as she’d been in one of those quasi-alert beer comas where you could hear but not see or move. That face wash though, the firm strokes of witch hazel-soaked cotton, the moisturizer he’d smoothed in afterwards.
He’d treated her like a doll. Peter loved women. That’s why he designed lingerie for one of the most famous European companies in the world.

“
If I wasn’t thoroughly enamored of cocks,” he once told her, with a pronounced but extremely appealing leer, “I’d be the biggest whore in the world.”

He made her drink some mint tea and take two aspirin then tucke
d her in and doused the light.

“Good night, Fifi,” he’d whispere
d in his deep southern drawl.

The next day he made her a scrumptious booze recovery br
unch of waffles with real whipped cream and some kind of compote, fruit he’d ‘mangled in the blender.’ It tasted wonderful. Naturally he had gorgeous underwear for her to take home.

“I love having women over,” he said, and came over to hug her. He hugged her a lot. He even kissed her, which had been a surprise. He did a good job too. She’d actually started to kiss him back before she remembered he was gay and pushed him back. He pouted at her and blinked sky blue eyes la
zily.

“You would be a slut,” she told him over fresh-squee
zed orange juice. “But you would be a hell of a housewife.”

“Thank you,” he said, matter-of-factly, then bul
lied her into his next show.

******

“Damn” came out, and it was an instant hit. Apparently Natty was right. The music industry had been waiting for her next effort. A popular Latina singer with international appeal wanted to do a duet, and Fiona flew to New York for a shut-in session with the singer and her producer while they wrote and recorded the song. Then there was the video to consider, and time seemed to slip through her fingers like water.

Work became the crutch she used to keep memories of Daney at bay. She played with Flora during meetings, and the different members of her team got used to seeing the little girl under Fiona’s feet as she talked on two different phones and stood on a box while Netty pinned various swatches of material on her or ripped
them off.

It felt good not to think, so she allowed Andrea and Cleo to sweep her into a publicity whirlwind, and Natty, with his insistent and gifted talent, picked up the slack where they left off in the studio. Within its dark, comfortable walls Fiona knew she was creating some
of the best music of her life.

“Shit,” she joked to
him as another long day and evening turned into night. “If I’d known all it took was a little heartbreak to unlock my pipes, I’da got into the love game long time ago.”

They
both knew she was lying, but Natty loved Fiona so he just laughed.

“Aside from “Damn,” which song you think she wrote about Daney?” Netty asked C
leo. “I think it’s the ballad.”

Cleo shook her head. “Nope
. It’s the one about that man.”

Later the song would be titled simply, “H
im.” It had a rough, old-school speakeasy type vibe, about a man who was the perfect fit for her. He thought like she did, made love like she did, they even laughed at the same off color jokes. She said she could have built him herself ‘out of clay and wood, ‘cause he was everything he could be, and did everything he should.’

“Cheesy, no?” Fiona laugh
ed when she played it for them.

Sugar just shook her head. Sometimes Fiona’s self-deprecating humor was ridiculous. The song
was fabulous, and though Fiona was scrabbling sometimes noticeably for cover, she knew it.

Chapter eleven

“Is all my shit packed?”

“What shit are you referring to?” Netty asked. “You won’t be wearing clothes at the show, remember?”

Fiona blinked at her.

“Yes, Ms. Bitch. Everything is packed. We waitin’ on you.”

“I’m ready!
” She pulled a pinner out and lit it.

“No!” Cleo yelled. “We gon’ miss the fuckin’ plane! Peter’s already called 50 times wonderin
’ why you not in New York yet.”

“The show don’t start ’til day after tomorrow. What’s the beef?” Sugar asked, lugging
her carry-on to the front door.

“Peter’s always a tad nervous befo
re a show,” Fiona said lightly.

Netty snorted. “Is that a fash
ion euphemism for a shit load?”

“Mechante called,” Cleo said, removing a bottle of juice from Fiona’s han
d and replacing it with water.

“Is she m
eetin’ me at Boomer’s tonight?”

“She already there. She gon
’ pick us up from the airport.”

Fiona bounced excitedly. She hadn’t s
een her girl in almost a year.

“I’m looking forward to meeting this chick,” Sugar said, gri
nning at her boss’ excitement.

Mechante met them at the airport all right, in a white stretch limo, from which she waved f
rantically through the sunroof.

“Bitches!” she yelled, alerting every
paparazzo around before she dashed out.

Fiona shrieked and dropped her bags to run into her old friend’s arms. She inhaled the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 and kissed both of Mechan
te’s satiny cheeks exuberantly.

“You cut your hair. You look fabulous,” Fiona pronounced, running an eagle eye over her friend’s lean, elegantly clad figure in dark blue denim and
a man’s tailored white shirt.

Mechante laughed, the light catching the tiny diamond in her nose. “Go on,” she grinned, squeezing Fiona affectionately. “I’ve been drunk for two days.” She probably had. It didn’t matter. Mechante could go without sleep for
a week and still look gorgeous.

Fiona ruffled the short cap of wavy sand-colored hair. “
Trying to imitate Jean Seberg?”

“Nope. That bitch was tryna imitate
me.”

They all laughed, an
d Fiona made the introductions.

“You’re the skin-tastic Sugar I’ve been hearing
so much about?” Mechante hooked a slender arm through Sugar’s as they walked to stow their luggage in the trunk of the limo. “We need to talk.”

Mechante and Fiona would have stayed up all night talking, bu
t Peter showed up at Boomer’s just before nine o’clock with two seamstresses in tow. He flipped when he saw Mechante’s hair.

“You little shit! Why didn’t you tell me!” he snarled. “Your fucking sui
ts are for long hair!”

“Oh, blow over,” Mechante said, waving his words away. “Stop freakin’ out, already. You’re gonna give yourself an attac
k before the show even starts.”

He grabbed her and Fiona by an arm and towed them into a bedroom, spewing Southern-tinged filth the entire way. He paused only once, to bark at the seamstresses trotting at his hee
ls to please hurry the hell up.

Of course Fiona and Mechante stole the show. Peter insisted that Mechante’s haircut necessitated a frantic reshuffling of models, and coincidentally this put her in the rotation right before Fiona. Every time they passed each other they did something that drew an uproarious response from the crowd. Once Fiona did her trademark hip shimmy from back in the day, and those in the audience who remembered her modeling days laughed so loud the buzz grew deafening as others
Twittered trying to catch up. At the end of the show when Peter emerged to take his bow, the applause was deafening as the two surrounded him, each kissing a cheek. He was so happy he nearly swooned.

“So what happened?” Mechante asked that night. She was leaving
for Europe the next afternoon.

Fiona didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. She just began to talk. It grew late as she told her old friend the story of her and Daney’s breakup. Sugar cam
e in to give her a light facial and Mechante begged to get one too. Then they got into their nighties and crawled into bed much the same way they had as children.

“Well,” Mechante
said, when most of the details had trickled out. “That’s fucked up.”

Fiona relaxed lying next to her
old friend. Only Mechante could have understood her relationship to Daney. Mechante was free in her heart. She made no effort to speculate on the whys or what ifs, she simply grabbed Fiona’s hand as she spun her tale and squeezed it tight.

“We were together for months before we split,” Fiona said quietly. “And at no time did our pas
sion wane. It grew! We had one of those rare relationships where man and woman are perfect complements of the other. There was no, where is this going? Or, will you be faithful? I never once worried that Daney was with another woman.”

She and Dane
y communicated on another level. There was a multi-layered connection between them, physical, spiritual and –

“Other,” Mechante said.

Fiona nodded. “Yeah.”

After weeks of photographs, they had agreed to maintain their silence but to stop worrying abo
ut being photographed together.

“It’s too restricting,” Dane told her. “We can’t alter our behavior
to the point where we don’t do things. That’s bull shit. We’re not doing anything wrong. I can’t hide how I feel,” he told her. “I don’t want to. I can stand close to you, smell your perfume, brush up against you, and instantly get hard. I’m compelled, after all this time, to call you all during the day, for no reason, and when you don’t answer I get itchy.”

She was staying with him in New York when they had that conversation, so when Andrea told her she was invited to a movie premiere that night that she needed to a
ttend, she brought Daney along.

The media nearly blinded them on the red carpet. Netty had outdone her
self on Fiona’s pale pink mod mini and matching kitten-heeled mules. Daney wore black Armani, his white shirt open at the neck.

Her hand remained claspe
d in his the entire night. One of the world’s most notorious supermodels appeared near them, and Daney didn’t even blink. He didn’t respond much to anyone, especially not reporter’s questions, but occasionally he’d kiss her knuckles or the back of her hand.

Columnists were swooning the next day. E, notoriously harsh on celebrities, wrote that Fiona appeared to have found the perfect vin
tage man to go with the perfect old-school dress. She just laughed.

“I hated to tell them it was new. Netty picked it up for a song on one of her bargain missions,” she told Daney later. “But I like that they call you vintage,” she teased, stealing a kiss and dancing out of reach
when he pretended to cuff her.

“That’s why I
love Daney,” she told Mechante.

She didn’t notice he
r use of present tense, but her best friend did.

“Whatev
er the situation, if he was with me, he was cool. Even if he was at a meeting, or talking shit to one of his boys, he never wanted me to be anything other than me. Never. He liked everything about me, even the shit that sucks.”

Mechante
brushed them away when tears fell, but she did ask, “Then why be bothered with Tino?”

“I didn’t,” she said quickly.
For a long moment Fiona said nothing. “I never messed around with him. I should have handled some things differently, but I guess it didn’t seem all the way real. So what could it hurt, you know?”

Mechante laugh
ed, a soft, gravelly rasp in the dark. “Silly broad. I knew that bored distraction you’d cultivated was going to bite you in the ass eventually. And now you’ve lost your inspiration.”

They
sat in silence, absorbing.

“O
ur love was real,” Fiona said. “He was a real man.”

“Daney’s attraction to you is very old
-fashioned,” Mechante observed.

It was.
He walked on the sidewalk closest to the street, ordered their food in restaurants and insisted on carrying everything. He was also bossy, and Fiona had quickly learned to let him take the lead in public. She didn’t mind. He was adept at leading the way, but they both knew whose wishes were deferred to first. Daney asked Fiona’s opinion on food, drink, movies. He’d even call her after his business meetings to run ideas by her, and he used the things that she told him.

“Daney never once tried to tell me not to do something,” Fiona sai
d, a note of quiet pride in her voice. “He might raise his eyebrows and ask ‘is that necessary,’ in his vaguely French way, but he never tried to control me. Outside of bed, of course.”

Mechante laughed.

“When I had to shoot the cover for one of the fashion bibles, a very sexy cover with my tastier bits covered only by a tiny bikini bottom and a very thin sign, all Daney said was, ‘That’s fuckin’ gorgeous.’ Then he took the magazine home with him. I went to his place later and found he’d had it framed, matte and everything. It was gorgeous.

“When Vibe wanted me nude on their cover Da
ney decided he’d tag along. Then he offered a few excellent suggestions to the photographer, all of which gave me mad sex appeal, and maximum coverage. But he’s smart. He coached everything so light, the photog thought it was all his idea! Once he had his way, Daney sat back like the perfect guest. He even called out and got everyone snacks from the local bakery.”

Fiona paused and w
ished half-heartedly for a smoke.

“Most people got hung up on me and Daney’s individual and collective celebrity, the press coverage, the paparazzi shots of us. But we were enjoying
a thoroughly normal courtship. Early in our relationship I heard him tell his brother, ‘That’s what I like about Fiona. She looks and sounds like walking sex, but she’s very ordinary. No radical ideas, no random fits of hysteria or bull shit. She thinks like a man, almost. Only she does that occasionally nutty chick shit like randomly crying with joy or taking an extraordinarily long time in drugstores buying dumb shit. She takes care of a baby. She takes care of her people, goes to work, comes home, fucks me, or we go out. It’s normal.’”

“Daney was very protective of me,” Fiona said
now, snuggling down under the sheets.

“You miss him,” Mechante said.

“Yes. I very much do.”