38
“What a bitch!” Stephanie shouted as she hung up the phone. “She claims she can’t meet with me because she has a shoot with Miguel, but I know she’s just trying to avoid talking about the book.”
“Forget about her,” Howie Joseph suggested. “Why don’t you blow off work for the rest of the day and stay home? I’m going to develop this latest roll.”
“I hope you got some good stuff.”
“We’ll see. Yesterday was mostly your regular date stuff. The guy she was with looks familiar. I know I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place him.”
“Probably some equally stupid male model,” Stephanie commented sarcastically.
“I get the distinct impression that you don’t like this girl,” Howie said.
“I don’t like ingrates, especially those who reach the top and then forget the people who got them there. People like that deserve to fall from grace with a nice loud thud.”
“And maybe a handprint on their back?”
“You only get what you have coming.”
“Remind me to stay on your good side.”
“You’d be smart to do so,” Stephanie replied tersely. “Now, let’s see what poor sap she’s suckered into her life this time.”
“I don’t fucking believe this!” Stephanie screamed at the top of her lungs. She picked up her beer and flung it across the room. The glass bottle hit the wall and shattered into pieces. Having momentarily vented her anger, Stephanie cleared the coffee table and laid the pictures side by side. One by one, she picked up the black-and-white photos of Jack and Gabrielle and began to inspect them. From Jack grinning like a fool as Gabrielle swung a golf club to the two of them mugging for the camera in front of The Niche, Howie’s camera had chronicled what appeared to be the perfect date.
Stephanie didn’t know what irked her more, the fact that they looked like such the happy twosome—smiling, teasing, obviously enjoying each other—or the sad realization that in all the time she’d dated Jack, they’d never done “couple” things together like this, and never had Jack looked at her the way he was looking at Gabrielle—with eyes full of admiration and pride.
Since their breakup Stephanie had tried, with little success, to accept the fact that she and Jack would never be a couple again. Each time his name was linked with a beautiful model or starlet, the news would tug at her heart until the story of their breakup was circulated. She then would go on about her life, holding her breath until the next time. But Jack’s apparent relationship with Gabrielle was simply too much to take.
“You two won’t get away with this,” Stephanie hissed at their images. “Step aside, you two backstabbing fucks, and watch me work.”
Jack slipped quietly into the studio. Miguel was working, and he didn’t want to break the photographer’s concentration. Miguel was standing on the top of a three-rung stepladder, shooting down into a large white bathtub. Jack edged his way in closer to the action. Inside the tub, Gabrielle lay on her back, immersed in water. Her arms were tucked under her head, lifting it up and out of the water. Gabrielle’s bronze mane, streaked with gold, was fanned out above her body. The studio lights reflected off the water, making her hair look as if it were strewn with tiny diamonds. Except for a gold Gstring, Gabrielle’s body was naked and completely painted gold. She was the personification of the world’s most precious metal.
“Okay, I think we’ve got it,” Miguel said, putting down his camera.
“Thank goodness. Any longer and they’ll be calling this the golden prune shot,” Gabrielle joked as she stepped out of the tub into a waiting bathrobe. “You’re going to have to airbrush out at least a thousand wrinkles.”
“It was worth it. You look fabulous. This calendar is going to be a knockout.” Miguel felt just as excited as he sounded. Gabrielle fueled Miguel’s imagination. The work they did together was magic and could be considered nothing less than art.
“You can put me down for one.”
“Jack! How long have you been here?” Gabrielle asked.
“Long enough to see you at work. I’m impressed.”
“I’m going to get cleaned up and into some dry clothes before I catch pneumonia,” she said, leaving the two men to chat while she dressed.
“We have to dash,” she announced fifteen minutes later. “I have to pop by First Face to autograph some swimsuits for the Pediatric AIDS Foundation’s charity auction.”
“See you later, baby,” Mig said, giving Gabrielle a hug and kiss. “Once the slides are developed, I’ll give you a call so we can start choosing the best shots.”
Jack and Gabrielle walked arm in arm out of the studio and into the dusk. They’d walked only a few steps when Jack stopped, grabbed Gabrielle up in his arms, and kissed her hungrily.
“Wow! What was that for?”
“I can’t tell you how turned on I got seeing you painted up like that. You looked so incredibly sexy.”
“I guess that shot goes in the calendar.”
“Well, even if it doesn’t, it’s planted in my memory forever. You are extraordinary. How can someone so beautiful be real?”
“But I am real. All this other stuff is just hype. I’m not like the pictures you see,” Gabrielle told him as he attempted to flag down a cab.
“Oh, I definitely like the real thing much better,” he said, kissing her again.
Once Jack and Gabrielle were inside the taxi and on their way, Stephanie stepped out of a doorway across the street and headed for the subway. Several passersby stared at the tears streaming down her cheeks but opted to say nothing. Stephanie continued walking, too miserable to care.
39
“Don’t forget you’re doing ‘Nightline’ tomorrow,” Felicia told Lexis as they snuggled together before getting up to start their day. Since she’d filed for divorce, she and Lexis had been together constantly, though discreetly, not wanting to give Trace any fuel for the divorce proceeding.
“On what topic am I supposed to be representing the entire black race this time?” Lexis asked with a sleepy yawn.
“ ‘Hollywood and History: Telling the Complete Story.’ ”
“I don’t think Ted Koppel wants me to get started on that subject.”
“It will be great publicity for Praline Livin’,” Felicia pointed out.
“We’re still on for tonight’s premiere?”
“Definitely. I’ll meet you at the theater. So, are you nervous?”
“Should I be?”
“Yes. Releasing a film during the Christmas season is a big deal. If the trades are any indication, you’re in for some major success. That certainly would make me nervous.”
“You really think it’s that good?”
“Better, though I still think you should have done a love story.”
“I told you, romantic flicks aren’t my thing. The only love story I want to direct is happening right here,” Lexis said, gently pushing the tip of her nose.
“I must admit, it’s a story you tell very well,” Felicia said as she kissed him on the lips before rising.
“Wait. Don’t go yet. I have a proposal for you.”
Felicia sat up and looked at him. He couldn’t possibly be thinking about marriage; she wasn’t even divorced yet. Even if she were, Felicia wasn’t ready for a step like that.
“Don’t worry, it’s not that kind of proposal,” he said, once again sensing her thoughts. “It’s business.”
“What kind of business?”
“I’ve been rapping with MarMa pictures about going into a limited partnership with a select group of black investors to create a small but funky movie studio called Sepia Films. My company would be one of its mainstays, but we’d bring in other black producers and directors. MarMa would kick in some venture capital and act as our distributor. Of course, they’d be gettin’ a reasonable chunk of the profits.”
“What a great idea!”
“We’ll be able to green-light our own projects and tell our stories the way they sh
ould be told, not the way we’re told they should be told.”
“And every story about black people won’t have to involve drugs, gangs, guns, or silly sidekicks?” Felicia said.
“And the brother wouldn’t be the first to die in every movie.”
“I think you’re onto something,” she said, laughing.
“Damn right I am.”
“Why haven’t you mentioned this before tonight? How could you keep news this exciting to yourself?”
“I wanted to get everything nailed down before I told you. Felicia, if this thing works out the way I think it will, I want you with me all the way. I want you to head up all the publicity and marketing. Of course, you’ll own a piece of the action as well.”
“This is all very exciting, but I already own a company.”
“I know, baby, but think about it. You’d be making history with the first black-owned film studio. Plus, you could beat that dog husband of yours by simply closing the doors of WJ and A and starting fresh. Lois and practically everybody you have working for you could come along.”
“My company is a black-owned firm, with a damn good reputation of its own.”
“I know, but instead of helping white folks make more money, you’d be concentrating on helping your own people.”
“I’d like to think by successfully managing all my clients—black and white—I am helping my people,” Felicia said, getting annoyed.
“Felicia, I really want you to be a part of this. We’d be working together all the time, bringing our vision to the world.”
“Why can’t you simply contract your work out to WJ and A?”
“Because we’d need your full-time attention. Getting this off the ground is going to be too intense for us to be just another client.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s see how the deal shakes out.”
“I swear it’s gonna happen. Just think about it. You’ll be able to meet all the MarMa bigwigs at the premiere party tonight after the screening.”
“I’ll be there, and I promise to give your proposal some thought, but not now. I have to get to my office,” Felicia told him. Lexis’s proposition was intriguing. The idea of being an integral part of such an exciting and historic business venture was tempting, and, as Lexis pointed out, it would be a fine kick in the teeth for Trace.
Then why do I feel like I’m being controlled again? Whether it was his intent or not, Lexis sounded suspiciously like Trace, not taking her business seriously and certainly not respecting the amount of work she’d put into it to make it a successful firm.
But Lexis isn’t Trace, she reminded herself. Lexis didn’t want her to shut down the business so she could stay at home and tend to his every whim. He wanted to use her expertise and professional acumen to further his dream. But whatever the reason, wasn’t that just as selfish?
“Another great idea, Felicia,” Peter Montell declared.
“Thanks, Peter. Once you—”
“Excuse me, Ms. Wilcot, Lois Jourdan from your office is on the phone,” Peter’s secretary interrupted. “She says it’s urgent.” The word immediately got Felicia’s adrenaline pumping.
“Lois, what’s wrong?” Felicia asked.
“Don’t freak out or anything, but it’s Trace. His office has called several times wanting to know if you know where he is. Apparently he didn’t show up for work yesterday or today. And there’s no answer at his apartment.”
“That’s strange.”
“Could he be traveling?”
“Not without letting his office know. Trace doesn’t do things like that. I’m going home. If they call again, tell them they can reach me at the apartment in fifteen minutes.”
“Trouble?” Peter Montell asked, seeing the concern on Felicia’s face.
“I hope not, but I have to run. I’ll wait to hear from you. Thanks, Peter.”
Felicia rushed back to her apartment and immediately called Trace’s office to get a firsthand account of the situation. His secretary filled her in, revealing that Trace had not been seen or heard from in two days. Felicia promised to call around to friends and family and let Trace’s secretary know whatever she found out.
After phoning several of their friends and his tennis club to no avail, Felicia called the hospitals in the area. She was relieved to learn that Trace had not been admitted. Finally she dialed the police precinct near his apartment, only to learn that her estranged husband had been arrested for allegedly robbing a cabdriver and had been sitting in a jail cell the last two days.
Felicia hurried down to the precinct and took the officer in charge to task. Twenty minutes later, after she’d finally convinced him of the officer’s blunder, Trace was released with a halfhearted apology, and Felicia ushered her somber and humiliated husband out of the police station and back to their former home in Brooklyn Heights. They rode in silent outrage, each trying to grasp the reality of what had just happened. It wasn’t until they were safely within the privacy of the brownstone that they began to discuss the situation.
“What happened?”
“I was on my way to the corner deli when a police car rode up beside me and told me to stop. The two officers got out and asked me for some ID. I didn’t have any. When I tried to get them to tell me what I’d been stopped for, they told me to shut up and turn around so they could frisk me. When I refused, they threw me up against the car, handcuffed me, and took me down to the station.”
“Why on earth would they think you tried to rob a taxi driver?” Felicia asked.
“Because I fit the description—a five-foot-seven-inch black man with a beard, wearing a black-leather jacket,” Trace said angrily.
“Trace, you’re over six feet, clean-shaven, and your jacket is brown.”
“That obviously didn’t matter.”
“This is too ludicrous to believe. Didn’t you tell them who you were?”
“I tried to explain the situation, but they somehow found it difficult to believe that this ‘boy’ could actually be a lawyer.”
“Why didn’t you call somebody? Everyone was worried sick.”
“I was too embarrassed to call my office, so I tried to call my cousin Stan at home, but he wasn’t there. Apparently the NYPD is as serious about that one phone call as they are about staking out Dunkin’ Donuts,” Trace explained with dry sarcasm. “Since I had no identification, they weren’t about to let me go. I guess they thought they were doing their duty, getting another perpetrator off the street.”
“This is all so frightening. If an educated, articulate, reasonable man like you gets treated like this, what do they do to the other folks?”
“Just about every man in that jail was black or Hispanic. How many were there on bogus charges like me?”
“This has got to stop. It happens too often and with no repercussions. Like when Harris got stopped and questioned for window-shopping on Madison Avenue, or when the police stopped Cliff and harassed him for walking ‘funny.’ Since when is it a crime to have a limp in New York City?”
“The irony of the situation is that those guys are two of the most successful traders on Wall Street. They’re both brilliant and both can buy and sell the average policeman six, seven times over, but they still can’t walk down the street minding their own business without being hassled,” Trace added furiously.
“And people wonder why black men are so angry.”
“You know, I never thought anything like this could happen to me. I did everything I was supposed to do,” Trace said, his voice full of hurt and confusion. “I went to the right schools, read the right books, played the right sports, but that wasn’t enough. Underneath the suit and tie, the fat investment portfolio, and the Ivy League education, I’m still just a common thug to these people,” he said in a voice that, in all their years together, Felicia had never heard. His words resonated with the hurt and anger of a man who’d been robbed of his ego, his self-respect, his dignity. Felicia watched as the mighty, cocksure man she knew as Tra
ce Gordon disappeared. Only the physical remnants of the man remained. It was a sight that broke Felicia’s heart.
Seeing him crumble before her left Felicia with only one course of action. She took Trace into her arms and held on for dear life. Any dissonance between them was replaced with the empathy and understanding that only two people who have shared a considerable part of their lives together could share.
“Those cops accomplished in forty-eight hours what nobody has done in the almost forty years I’ve been alive. I was humiliated to the point that for the first time in my life I felt like a nigger,” Trace said after a long silence.
“It seems that when some people think we’re getting too big for our britches, they feel the need to knock us back down to size.”
“So they held me in that piss-hole just to put an uppity nigger in his place? That’s insane,” Trace responded angrily.
“I guess now you understand that racism is still a reality of this world.” Felicia was encouraged to hear some of the fire return to his voice.
“You talk like I don’t know that racism exists.”
“On the surface you do. You feel it in the subtle slights you receive from women who clutch their handbags when you walk by or security guards who follow you around stores for no apparent reason—”
“Or when an associate in the firm where you’re a partner demands to see your ID because you’re wearing workout gear instead of a suit,” Trace interrupted.
“Or having some woman with collagen-enhanced lips and a frizzy perm tell you that you’re really pretty for a black woman. Those kind of things you hear so often you don’t even feel outraged anymore.”
“I think you could safely say that I’ve had my share of racist experiences.”
“You have, but for the most part we don’t feel racism like most black folks do. We were raised in a world where money and power kept the bigots at bay. We ceased being black in the eyes of most white people the minute they determined that we didn’t live in a certain place or speak in a certain way, or that we could stand as their intellectual and social equals—”
“Or superiors. Those cops knew that I wasn’t some petty thief. They kept me in that cage because I was something much worse—an educated black man who had the nerve to be more successful than they were.”
Read Between the Lies Page 30
