Her cheekbones have been reshaped. Her nose is straighter than the one she was born with. From her smile, you can tell the skin has been stretched.
“Uh-huh…I had a nip and tuck.”
“Oh, my God, Stace. You’re twenty-five. What is there to tuck?”
“I got a nose job, a minor face lift, and cheek implants for facial contour,” she admits, very happy with herself. “And a little Botox.”
“Botox? That’s for old people!”
“No,” she replies in a soft, wise voice. “See if you start now, nobody notices. Then, when you do get old, you’ll look the same because you’ve been getting Botox all along. It’s all very smart.”
Sophie is baffled. “Jesus, Stace.”
“I know, huh?” she says. “Hashtag science!” She throws her arms around her and squeezes her tightly. “I’m so happy you’re here.” Stacey can’t stand conversations among the rich: gourmet food, wines, cigars, and profuse compliments upon their attire. She’s undeniably happy to see her, in her own way, just not the way Sophie deserves someone to be happy to see her.
“It’s good seeing you too,” Sophie says with barely any air.
Stacey pulls back from the hug. “Holy shit. You look good.”
“You shouldn’t be allowed to curse in that dress.”
“Right. Why are you…where have you been? What are you doing here? I thought you were taking some time off in Canada. Are you okay now?”
Sophie catches a glimpse of Madison Wolfe, Oliver’s twiggy-looking friend, peacocking around the ballroom. Sophie makes a sound. She didn’t mean to. It just slipped through her lips, coming out as a groan. When she finally returns to the conversation, “Yeah,” is her artless reply.
“So, what happened?”
“Nothing. I just decided to come home.”
Stacey doesn’t understand, but she doesn’t push it. “Well, anyway, I’m just stoked you’re here.”
“Stoked?” Sophie lifts a brow. “I haven’t heard that word since nineteen-ninety-forever.”
“There you are, Little Miss Smart and Snarky.”
“I’m really glad you’re here too,” she admits, waving her champagne around in the air. “I threw up in the bathroom and some chick kept saying, ‘it’s all right. You’ll be okay. It gets better.’ She thought I was anorexic.”
“Are you?”
Sophie turns to her and gasps. “How dare you! I only puke when I’m stressed or tense or worried.”
“Let me guess. Tonight you’re all three?”
“Well, yeah. And to top it all off, everyone keeps calling me ‘Ma Chérie.’”
“That’s French, numb-nuts.”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “Don’t you think I know that?”
“Then what’s your point?”
“My point is…what is my point? I don’t know. Not sure I have one.”
Major jewelry designer Gabriela Gonzalez flaunts her long red cape on the way over to the girls, then greets them with air kisses and compliments their dresses. After she leaves, Stacey puffs her chest out and says, “Hah! Look at us all fancy and shit. Who would’ve thought a Jersey pageant princess with big teeth and a waitress from Chattanooga working the double shift at the Golden Corral would end up here of all places.”
“Tell me about it. I’m pretty sure I heard ducks quacking from the kitchen.”
“So?”
“So you know Foie Gras is on the menu?”
“And?”
“And you know what it’s made of?”
Stacey acts like she’s thinking, but waits for her answer.
“Ducks, Stace!”
“Ew, fucking gross! I’m taking a picture and tagging PETA.”
“Obviously, I’m exaggerating, but all kidding aside—this party is ridiculous on so many levels.”
Stacey turns toward the mannish voice suddenly calling her out. The girls notice Luke sifting through a horde of people.
“It’s about time! Where were you? Soph, you remember my boyfriend?” She puts a hand to his chest.
“I remember Luke.”
He clings to her waist with one hand. “We’ve been exclusive for a while now, huh, sugar plum?” he says, looking at her as if she were some kind of deity.
“Really,” Sophie says dryly.
“Yeah, I don’t know. Like two weeks ago?” Stacey guesses.
“Sounds about right. Hey, I’m happy to see you’re doing well, Sophie,” Luke says, a smile gracing his sharp face. He’s a real all American boy, with a light-haired stubble look that’s cool and clean defining his strong jawline. “Everyone was very worried about you. Oliver, he…he really lost it. Then the whole company situation…”
His words bring a thick tension into the atmosphere. Sophie nods, raking her brain for some other topic of conversation. “Beautiful home you have here.”
“This old thing?” He looks to the ceiling. “It actually belongs to my parents. I live at the W Grand Plaza in Union Square, but yeah.”
“You live in a hotel?” Sophie looks at him.
Giddy stirs run up and down Stacey’s body. “It’s his hotel.”
“It actually belongs to my parents,” he says again.
“Oh, you’re too modest, stud monkey.” Stacey lifts her perky nose. “Anyway, where’s Oliver?”
Sophie opens her mouth, then closes it. The guest chatter suddenly subsides, and all focus turns to the stage. On the piano, a melody softly begins to diffuse through the air. It’s the kind of music that speaks to people’s souls, inspires healing, and triggers thoughtful realizations. Add a flawless, sonorous vocal, and Sir Elton John is pure magnificence. Sitting at the piano, he governs the room, silencing guests with his piano artistry. Then, he opens his mouth and sings one of his greatest hits, “Your Song.”
Never mind Elton John and his band, all Sophie can picture in her head over and over again is John Henry Bridges. She remembers being locked up, forced to listen to Elton John songs. She looks at her hands and stops them from shaking.
Stacey and Luke blissfully take to the dance floor for a slow dance, as do other couples.
The song progresses, seeping into every fiber of Sophie’s being. She is overcome by a thick air of fear and paranoia. Beginning to feel like she’s going to have another panic attack. That is until a question interrupts her haze.
S E V E N
* * *
The L Word
“WOULD YOU LIKE to dance?”
Holy Mother, she says under her breath. She whips her head around and sees Oliver giving her a lascivious grin, his hand outstretched in invitation. Sophie keeps her gaze steady on her Roman god dressed immaculately in a midnight blue tuxedo that fits his body perfectly. He is charm-mode on, full blast.
She simply nods in response and paints on a smile.
He leads her onto the dance floor, gently grasps her right hand with his left, puts his right hand at her mid back, and assumes steadily leading her across the floor. She doesn’t fight it. He smirks, then whispers, “Ready to make everyone jealous?”
“Absolutely. I have a hot boyfriend and they don’t.”
“Sophie, I have you, and they don’t. When you’re in a room, people notice. Everything else seems dull by comparison.”
Her cheeks take on a pink tinge as she follows his rhythm. “I’m sorry about what I said today. I was upset about Reed.”
“I don’t want to talk about Reed.”
She leans against his chest and closes her eyes, just completely losing herself. She doesn’t want the moment to end. Neither does Oliver. Sophie looks like the stuff dreams are made of. She is a vision in her gold sparkly dress, though it’s her caramel-colored skin, lively blonde tresses, and hazel eyes that truly set her apart from any other woman.
When she opens her eyes, Oliver is gazing down at her with wonder filled eyes.
“What?” She smiles, showing her dimples.
“You are so beautiful,” he says, gently running his fingers up her smooth ba
re back. He presses her tighter against him. The tips of their noses touch, then their foreheads.
Two minutes into the song, Elton John sings, “How wonderful life is, while you’re in the world.”
Oliver says, “I love you, Amelia Sophia.” His voice is soft. “I do. I love you desperately, with my life and the next one.”
It’s the first time he’s said it, and he wholly means it. Oliver knew he felt strongly about her from the first moment he saw her. A man had jumped out of a van and tried to pull her in. It wasn’t that she kicked the guy in the chest, but that she was scared to death and gave it her best shot anyway. It wasn’t that she was drenched when she fell on top of him, her hair touching his cheeks and sending his gaze to zone in on her lips, nor was it that rivulets of water ran down her face and made her alabaster skin glisten. It was her eyes; there was a world inside them. He saw her life: love, hate, fear, and sadness, a journey of her inner struggles, all exquisitely condensed in her hazel irises. Her eyes stayed with him, and he didn’t let them go.
“And I love you,” Sophie says, looking at him like he’s the only other person in the room. “Violently, with my heart and my most stubborn will.”
The memory of John Henry Bridges rapidly evaporates from her mind.
When the song ends, Elton John says, “Happy birthday to my dear friend, Alana.”
Guests ebb in and around Sophie’s boss, an important figure in the fashion world, and shower her with air kisses and words of congratulations.
AFTER WISHING ALANA a happy birthday, she and Sophie get caught up in how nice each thinks the other looks. Alana, too, plays a character. The running theme of all her productions is about appearances. It isn’t arrogance; it’s survival. It requires a particular kind of strength to make it to the top when the world is constantly challenging you at every turn. The fashion industry knows no stopping, no limits, and shows no compassion for the faint of heart. For those immersed in it professionally, it is every man for himself.
Oliver talks to the French ambassador about revitalizing social Europe. Sophie, who doesn’t speak French, opts to chat with Alana.
“I did warn you, didn’t I?” Alana taunts softly. “I told you problems would arise from you entering a relationship with Oliver.”
Sophie kind of smiles. “You were right. They have. But I also have never felt more loved and at home with someone in my life. And for those words to come out of my mouth is actually kind of a miracle.”
“That’s refreshing to hear,” she says cynically. “So…is he as perfect as nearly every woman claims him to be? Tell me he has some kind of flaw, like webbed feet or a fetish for mermaids.”
“What? Gross. No!”
Sophie decides not to let her toxicity seep into the exchange, and begins to tell a story about how Oliver can’t catch a fish to save his life.
Oliver overhears and cuts in. “On the other hand, fish jump in the boat for you,” he says, recalling their days at the lake house. “You landed some impressive catches.”
Sophie grins into her second glass of champagne, then takes a sip. “We switched spots, we switched fishing rods, and still nothing.”
“It really is very good to see you two. I don’t see nearly enough of you.”
“You as well, Alana,” Sophie replies with a warmth and grace to her words. “Congratulations.”
Alana lifts her glass. “Here’s to being fifty and not looking a day past thirty. Well, maybe a day.”
The three clink glasses.
Alana excuses herself and moves off to greet more guests.
A female voice says, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were hiding from me.” Madison Wolfe is the enchantress of the night in a red Valentino one-shoulder gown. She is the epitome of femininity and elegance. Her intense green eyes have a playful glint in them.
“I never hide.” Oliver’s gravelly voice makes him sound serious. “People know where to find me.”
“Then why is it that you and Sophie take off whenever I come near you?”
Sophie sighs, concedes to chatting with inane people for the sake of a party atmosphere. “Don’t look too far into it, Madison,” she says. “It’s simple coincidence.” It’s not.
“Well, that’s too much of a coincidence. You’re not afraid of me are you, Sophie?” The name passed through her lips like sweet poison.
Patience, she tells herself. Go away, she wants to say. Instead, “Afraid? Don’t be silly, Madison.”
SOPHIE AND OLIVER proceed to their seats at the long table. Joining them for dinner a moment later are Stacey, Luke, and Madison.
A throng of servers holding trays of food approach the table. Appetizers are kicked off with a selection of canapés, cheeses, and five different types of caviar. Steak and foie gras follow soon after as the main course. Madison wrinkles her nose at the server and says she doesn’t eat processed foods. Who is she kidding?
Sophie and Stacey take one look at the foie gras on their own plates and their stomachs begin to churn.
Oliver notices. “Everything all right?”
“I think I’ll pass on the main course, thanks.”
Stacey says, “Yeah, I’m on this, like, very strict diet right now where I don’t eat any, like, foie gras and stuff.”
Oliver chuckles.
The quintet quickly become alive, all talking, eating, and laughing—mostly at Stacey and her idiosyncrasies. When dessert comes around, she still has jokes. “So, does this house come with a map and a guide?”
More laughs.
“You’ll get used to it,” Luke says.
“I don’t think so,” Madison counters. “Father is always adding rooms. Mother is an avid collector and patron of the arts. The first floor is open to the public on weekends. Tours are offered.” She swirls her glass of wine like a sommelier.
Sophie digs a spoon into her crème brûlée. “You don’t live here?”
“No, I live in your building. Didn’t you know that?”
Oliver quickly swallows a cream puff and says, “The unit on the third floor. It’s recent.”
Sophie makes a thinking look. “Huh. I haven’t seen you around.”
“I just got back from Japan. I’m always travelling for work. Fashion week was surreal.” She says it like Sophie and Stacey are pathetic losers who don’t know about real modeling life.
“Right,” Sophie simply says.
“You know, Oliver; Luke and I grew up in this house.” There’s an evident emotion to Madison’s words. “God, too many memories.” She lightly chuckles at one in particular.
Luke purposefully drops his spoon on his plate. His expression hardens. “Maddie.” The tone of his voice has the effect of a slap.
“What? I’m only saying the house is so big, one can get lost easily. As kids, even if we were here, we didn’t know who was where.”
The comment vexes Luke. “Is that what happened?” He slams his palm on the table, tosses his napkin on his plate, and storms off.
Sophie turns to see Oliver looking at her like he’s waiting for something. “What?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what that was about?” he whispers in her direction.
“Nope.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
“You’re very calm today, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Okay.”
After a very stroppy silence, the official birthday cake comes rolling out before the guests—it’s big enough to feed the world—and you can hear the oohs and ahhs. A phenomenal baker carved a large-size Alana head out of cake, all hand painted and airbrushed with food coloring. People are riveted.
Later into the night, a French fellow in a snazzy tux and hip glasses struts by the table. The jewelry connoisseur looks like a cabaret performer. Sophie is in the middle of a sip as she looks at the imposing collection of sparkly diamonds being shown.
“They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend.” He quotes Marilyn Monroe.
/> Sophie is sure men, women, and children mining for diamonds in Africa would beg to differ.
“Oscar Wilde said that one should either be a work of art or wear a work of art.” The glitzy aficionado points out the diamonds safely ensconced in the glass case. “For the design of this amazing piece, Mademoiselle Chanel said she was inspired by the sun. These are exquisite diamonds; flawless, colorless, cut by the world’s finest craftsmen.”
“Don’t all diamonds have imperfections?” Sophie blurts out. The table goes quiet as they stare at her incredulously.
The French guy arches an eyebrow and looks at her above his funky glasses like she’s dirt on his shiny shoe. He continues to take the table on his jewelry pilgrimage like she doesn’t exist and didn’t just open her mouth.
“As you know, a flawless diamond is unique in more ways than one. Once a stone, a rough diamond, this piece was put under immense pressure and high temperatures. It was cut and polished to bring out its true brilliance.”
Sophie fiddles with the loose rhinestones strewn across the table as decoration.
“This next high-end piece—a thirty-four carat black diamond ring, commonly known as Carbonado—is one of our most rare jewels. Black Diamonds are only found in two parts of the world: Brazil and Africa. They are harder than conventional diamonds. It is believed by scientists that black diamonds are of extraterrestrial origin. Other research shows black diamonds were formed in supernova explosions. In any case, they are truly out of this world.”
Whatever way the wind is blowing, Sophie feels like she’s a pebble—a meek, flawed stone among a melee of exceptional gems.
“I SHOULD TELL you something,” Oliver says in the car as he and Sophie ride back to civilization.
Sophie takes off her earrings. “Not tonight, babe. I’m really tired.”
“It’s important.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“I’m going to be brutally honest right now.”
“It sounds serious.”
“Just listen, all right?”
Deep breath. “All right.”
“Madison was the first woman I slept with.”
Much as Sophie wants to unhear what she just heard, she can’t. She clears her throat and sits up straighter. “Madison—what?”
Black Diamond Page 7
