g
He woke up with a headache and sore throat. The hotel rooms were always too cold which was a killer for his voice. He usually shut the air off, but last night when he came in, he wasn’t thinking about too much more than Riley and her interview with Chris.
She picked up after the very first ring, and sounded disappointed when she heard his voice.
“I thought you were Tracy,” she explained. “But what’s going on with you? I was so out of it when you called me last night. Had a good show?”
“Yeah, it was a’ight.”
“So you’re interviewing Chris today, huh?”
“Ten a.m. sharp,” her voice sounded wary. “That’ll be the highlight of my day, interviewing the most interviewed man in Black America. I don’t think I’ll get anything new, so I don’t know why I’m bothering.”
“You want something no one else has?” Shawn said. “Ask him about his sister.”
“Why? Is that like inside information or something? What about his sister?”
“Just ask him. He has a twin sister. Audrey.”
Shawn felt a little like a snitch, but it wasn’t as though Chris thought of his sister as a secret exactly. Just a subject he didn’t talk about publicly. Audrey was just about the only topic of conversation guaranteed to expose one glimmer of genuine emotion from Chris Scaife. It might even knock him off his game, and if he was going to be spending any time at all with Riley, Shawn definitely wanted him off his game.
“You have to tell me more than that, otherwise I won’t do it. I mean, I don’t want to bushwhack him with something he would never discuss.”
“When they were like ten, his sister was in a car accident.”
“And died?”
“Nope. She’s alive.”
“Disfigured, then.”
“Something like that.”
“Jesus, Shawn. Enough of the guessing game. What’s the matter with her?”
“She’s brain-damaged. She stays at his house in Jersey. He’s got 24-hour nursing care of her, even flies her all over the world on vacations. Treats her like a queen. But she’s like a little kid mentally. Like a six-year-old or something like that.”
“And he looks after her? Oh my god. You mean I might have to actually like him now?” Riley asked.
“If you ask about her, I think he’ll tell you.”
“So how’d you hear about her? Somehow I don’t see you and Chris Scaife sitting down and having a heart-to-heart.”
“Because of my grandmother,” Shawn said. “He drove me to Baltimore one time. I told him she had Alzheimer’s and then he told me about his sister. To let me know he understood what I was feeling.”
“Really?” Riley sounded wistful. “That’s sweet.”
“C’mon now. Don’t be starting that stuff. We’re still talking about Chris here.”
“Yeah, but somehow I’m starting to think I may have misjudged him.”
“No one’s just good or just bad, Riley. So maybe you shouldn’t judge at all.”
g
Riley was waiting in the reception area of Chris Scaife’s office. It could just as easily have been a law firm, complete with impeccably groomed, conservatively-dressed receptionist, tasteful corporate art, and obviously expensive modern waiting room furniture. The people she saw walking about were dressed in clothes that tended toward the trendy but were still more professional than not. And maybe most notably, the office seemed to be completely silent. None of the music, laughter or party atmosphere she’d expected to surround a hip-hop mogul; no sign that anything other than serious work was going on. Maybe Shawn was right – she’d definitely had some stereotypes in mind that were not accounted for here.
“Mrs. Gardner.”
Riley looked up at the receptionist, who was smiling at her.
“Mr. Scaife can see you now. His is the office all the way at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you.”
Riley stood, feeling all of sudden that maybe she had under-prepared for this assignment. She passed by offices just as staid in appearance as the reception area but with additional elements; posters and CDs strewn about, magazines and glossy headshots; TVs and DVD players. On the walls of the hallway itself, the corporate art was substituted by blow ups of CD jackets, including two of Shawn’s. She stopped to look at the cover from his first album, when he was no older than Mike and Darryl were now. He looked the same, just a little less muscular, less knowingness about the eyes. She tilted her head to the side and moved in for a closer look.
“He was seventeen in that one. Just about to turn eighteen. Just about to blow up the hip-hop universe.”
Riley looked up. She hadn’t even noticed Chris emerge from his office, dressed as he always was in baggy jeans, white t-shirt and plaid button-down. She extended a hand to him and he took it, but leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. Chastely affectionate. Already she could detect a difference in his demeanor from when they’d encountered each other socially.
“How much of your time do I have?” Riley asked.
“For Smooth’s wife, as much as you need.”
“I won’t take more than you can afford, I promise.”
The view from Chris’ office was magnificent. But beyond that, the decor was spectacular. A semi-circular brown lacquer desk consumed almost one entire wall and to the left was a bar, an art deco burgundy leather sofa and matching chairs arranged around a circular coffee table made of the same material as the desk. There was an oversized LCD television built into the wall, and wireless speakers were placed about the room, looking more like sculpture than electronic equipment. On the walls were paintings and prints by Black artists that Riley recognized on sight. Work that she herself had admired and often wished she could buy. Of course, she realized with a start, now she probably could buy art like this. The carpeting was a soft, mellow brown, making the huge office feel somehow cozy and expansive at the same time.
“Something to drink?” Chris offered.
“Ahm . . . sure. Anything. Nothing with alcohol though.”
Chris gave her a scolding look as he headed over to the mini-bar.
Riley put down her bag and settled on the leather sofa. It was softer than she expected. Comfortable. Maybe too much so. She moved to an armchair instead. Chris brought her a glass of fruit juice and a coaster. A coaster from Chris Scaife, who liked to put his feet up on her furniture and light up cigarettes without asking struck her as amusing and she smiled.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, sitting across from her.
“Your transformation is a little much for me.”
“This is about business, Riley. When I’m out there, different guy.”
Even his speech-pattern was different. It was the same way with Shawn. When he spoke to her, his diction, choice of words, everything was altered. And then he turned to speak to Chris or Mike and Darryl and some other guy seemed to show up.
“Okay. But you’ve given a million interviews about your business side,” she said taking out her pad and pen. “I was hoping to talk about another side.”
He was already shaking his head. “I don’t talk about my personal life to the press.”
“The press?” She gave him her most charming smile. “Whatever happened to ‘Smooth’s wife’?”
“Smooth’s wife who happens to be a member of the press.”
“Okay, fair enough. But if we’re going to do what you’ve done with everybody else, I have to be honest with you, there’s no point in me doing this interview.”
Chris looked at her as though trying to figure out if she was bluffing. He leaned back into the sofa.
“Sorry to waste your time. I’ll get a car to take you back to your office.”
Riley smiled and began gathering her things. “Thank you.”
He watched her for a few moments then leaned forward again. “Still,” he began. “Smooth is one of my best artists. I like him. I like you. Maybe we could do something.”
“I’d reall
y appreciate it.”
“A’ight. So go ahead. Gimme what you got.”
Riley took a deep breath. She could try to ease her way toward the subject, or she could go for the jugular. She had to make her call now or never though. She looked at Chris across from her, completely confident, shrewder than she had given him credit for. If she tried to ease into it, he would know it was coming and prepare to cut her off at the knees. She had to go big, or she would definitely be going home.
“I want to talk to you about Audrey,” she said slowly.
He looked stunned to hear the name, and then resigned. And then he was blinking rapidly, as though he actually might cry. He reached for his own glass of juice and took a long, slow swallow.
“What d’you want to know?” he asked finally.
g
Shawn’s flight was two hours late and Riley didn’t hear him come in. When she got ready for work the next morning, all she saw of him was his sleeping form under the covers next to her. She was tempted to wake him but the fact that he hadn’t stirred at all while she moved about the room told her how tired he must be. At the office, there was voicemail he’d left late the previous evening, reminding her to go straight home from work because they had an event that night. She’d totally forgotten about it – there was a party at the home of one of rap’s biggest superstars in Southampton. The drive would take about two hours, so they were leaving at about 8:30. If she wanted a little downtime before then, going straight home was probably a good idea. Not going at all would be an even better idea. Riley didn’t realize how audible her sigh was until Peter stuck his head in.
“Yes, I know,” he said with mock sympathy. “It’s tough being married to a super-rich, super-cute celebrity, but somebody had to do it.”
Riley blushed. “You have no idea what I’m sighing about,” she said, not looking at him.
Peter shrugged. “You’re right. So what’s going on? We haven’t hung out lately.”
“I know. We have to make plans,” Riley said. “I could totally use one of our all-nighters.”
“So what’s your excuse?” Peter said. “You know I’m always up for one of those.”
Underneath his lighthearted tone, Riley could hear real peevishness. She had been less accessible, there was no denying that. Between trying to adjust to her new role at work and being suddenly married, she seemed not to have a spare moment for her old friends. That reminded her of Dawn and this god-awful idea of a photo shoot. She would have to figure out a way to artfully avoid that little commitment.
“I don’t have an excuse. We should do something soon.”
“How about tonight?” Peter asked, the hint of a challenge in his voice.
Riley’s shoulders sagged. “I can’t. I have a party at Cameron Cole’s.”
The moment the words came out, she regretted them. Cameron Cole was only the most recognizable name in all of hip hop. There was no way to utter the phrase “I have a party at Cameron Cole’s” without sounding pretentious. And by the lift of Peter’s left eyebrow, she knew that that was exactly the way she sounded.
“Look, I wish I didn’t have to go,” she hastened to add. “But it’s like a business thing for Shawn.”
“The operative words being ‘for Shawn’,” Peter pointed out, sniffing. “But that’s fine; we can do it some other time.”
“You could come with me,” Riley suggested, hoping he would refuse. If he didn’t, Shawn would be livid.
“No thanks. Rappers are terrible homophobes.”
Riley caught herself before she defended Shawn. Was he a homophobe? She had no idea, she realized with a start.
“So how about . . .” she counted days in her head, calculating when Shawn would be in Houston. “. . . Tuesday?”
“Okay, but it has to be at your place. I’ve never seen it and I want to be able to gossip about it later behind your back.”
Riley laughed. “Deal.”
“Good, it’s a date,” Peter sauntered out.
g
She got home in plenty of time to relax, unwind, and watch the news. Making dinner didn’t seem to make sense given the spread that was likely to be at the party, so she lay back in bed waiting. Shawn hadn’t answered his phone when she called, so he was probably in the studio. He came blowing in at about 7:45, with just enough time to get showered and changed, so they spent three-quarters of an hour almost without exchanging a single word, tearing through their closets getting ready. It was only when they were dressed and in the car headed for the FDR that they had a chance to catch up.
Shawn still looked tired, and his voice was strained as he talked about working with Mike and Darryl in California. Something still bothered him about helping promote them but this time Riley knew better than to press him on it. She had her suspicions, but wanted him to tell her. Until that happened there was no point nagging him about it. Instead she talked about work; but only in the most superficial way because it was obvious his mind was elsewhere. As she spoke, she could feel his eyes running back and forth over her frame.
“You want to keep your eyes on the road there partner?” she joked.
“You look nice,” he said, but there was some reservation in his tone.
She was wearing a white crocheted halter and white palazzo pants with high-heeled white sandals. Cameron Cole’s parties were always white parties. He claimed in a Rolling Stone interview that he’d originated the idea before some other rap mogul had stolen it. So now he had his white party in the late spring, well ahead of the other guy's white party which was generally much later in the summer. But that was a standard Cameron Cole type of claim. He was constantly beefing with others in the entertainment business, usually because they were “biting” off him, or hadn’t given him his props in some way.
Riley knew all this because she’d looked him up, researching him as though he was a story she was about to write. This new life of hers was still taking some time to adjust to – the new cast of characters was tough to keep up with, but the one advantage to their being in the entertainment business was that Shawn’s friends and colleagues all had a staggering array of information about them just floating around in the public domain.
Shawn had grudgingly gone along with the dress code, wearing an off-white linen suit with all-white Pumas. Since it was obvious he didn’t really want to go the Hamptons, Riley wondered but did not ask, whether it was worth it to make the long drive.
“How was the interview with Chris?” he asked out of nowhere.
“Fine,” she said, keeping her voice light. “He talked to me about his sister. So thank you for that.”
“No problem,” Shawn said, his voice low. And then after a few beats. “You two talk about anything else?”
“You know,” Riley said vaguely. “Stuff. And you’re right. I shouldn’t have judged him.”
Shawn didn’t answer. Riley looked over at his face, trying to make out his expression in the dim light, trying to gauge his mood. When he returned home from one of his trips, there was never any way to tell what kind of mood he was going to be in. Sometimes he was buoyant and playful, other times quiet and taciturn. Tonight, he seemed moody. It was frustrating, not being able to read him.
“So is Brendan related to Cameron Cole?” she asked, in part just to stifle the silence. “They have the same last name, so I just wondered . . . .”
“Cousins,” Shawn said. “They’re not close.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. She was all out of ideas for how to pull him out of his weird mood.
Ridiculous; that was the word that came to mind as soon as Riley spotted Cameron Cole’s house. It was a vulgar, ostentatious approximation of a French chalet and seemed to go on forever, blocking any view of the surf from the road. She could only imagine how thrilled the neighbors had been when construction of this monstrosity was complete and they realized that their view had been basically poached from them.
As they pulled up, Shawn put a hand on her knee and Riley turned
to face him.
“Let’s not stay too long, okay?” he said.
She nodded. “Okay.”
Valets in red vests were dashing back and forth, opening doors and parking cars as the guests arrived. As Shawn surrendered their car keys, Riley looked around at the other guests. She recognized a good proportion of the revelers as people who were constantly in the entertainment news. The entryway was lit with hundreds of tea-lights and the chandeliers inside were just dim enough to accentuate the effect, calling to mind a clear night and starlit sky.
“You like this?” Shawn asked. “We could buy something out here if you want.”
“Only if it has a spot to land our helicopter,” Riley said. “Y’know, so I don’t have to worry about traffic and all that crap the little people put up with.”
Shawn laughed. “You got jokes, huh?”
“Even if we ever got a place in the Hamptons, it couldn’t be anything like this. Can you imagine how many beachside cottages had to die to make way for this place?”
“And think of all the seagulls that got evicted,” Shawn said in mock horror.
Riley punched him in the arm. “Yes. Exactly.”
Shawn held Riley’s hand as they entered, stopping once to introduce her to a popular R&B singer who was with her husband. Inside, servers in white tuxedos skillfully navigated the crowd, holding aloft trays of canapés and champagne. Shawn reached for two glasses, handing one to Riley then taking her free hand once again. The house seemed to have been emptied of all its furniture, except for white overstuffed sofas, and a smattering of matching armchairs. Through a wall of French doors, Riley could just make out the rear of the house, where around an infinity pool – in which even more candles floated – guests milled. The trees nearby were decorated with Chinese lanterns, also white. In the distance, the foam of the breakers was just visible.
“Wow. Now that’s pretty,” Riley admitted.
“Pretty over the top,” someone said.
Commitment Page 27
