by Ni-Ni Simone
Though the Fords’ main headquarters and operations for their multibillion-dollar oil company was in Texas, I knew from my incessant perusing of news articles and browsing the company’s website that Anderson was now working here in their New York offices. How else was I supposed to keep up with the happenings in Anderson’s life?
After all, he’d cut me out of his life. Told me he no longer wanted anything to do with me.
Still . . .
My pulse raced as I parted my lips and said, “Um. Hi. London Phillips for Anderson Ford, please.”
The snooty girl with the neat granny bun looked up from her computer screen and peered at me over the rim of her Gucci eyewear. No hello. No hi. Nothing. Stank trick.
“Is he expecting you?” is all she said as she eyed me.
“Um. No,” I replied, glancing over at the see-through elevators as they zoomed up and down, transporting bodies to and from. I caught myself admiring the glass staircases leading to a second floor. And on that floor were another set of glass elevators leading up to the remaining twenty floors.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Ford doesn’t take walk-ups,” she said snottily, bringing my attention back to her. “Would you like to set up an appointment?” She slid her fingers over the face of an iPad. “He’s free on the twenty-eighth at two p.m.,” she offered.
“The twenty-eighth?” I shrieked. “That’s almost three weeks from today.”
“Yes. Shall I pencil you in?”
I felt the marble and granite floor beneath my feet slowly spread open.
“No, ma’am, you may not,” I snapped. “I will wait. Please call him to let him know that London Phillips is here to see him.”
“Then you might as well get comfortable over there”—she pointed over toward a bank of white leather and chrome sofas—“because that’s where you’ll be sitting and waiting.” She shooed me away.
All I could do was thank God for my therapy sessions. I was a changed girl. I simply rolled my eyes and marched over toward the sofas and plopped down on one of them, sinking into its plushness.
Huddled in my seat, I waited and waited and waited, shifting from side to side.
“Anderson is a good man . . .”
“I know, Mother,” I muttered as I fumbled with my phone, then opened my Facebook page while I waited. Without much thought, I clicked onto Anderson’s page and saw that he’d changed his status from SINGLE to IT’S COMPLICATED, and I twisted in my seat, staring at the status as I wondered what had become complicated in his life. Was he still with that Russian model chick? Was he out man-whoring with multiple girls?
After ten minutes of scouring his feeds, I clicked out of his social media, then clicked back in. This time I landed on his Instagram page.
I scanned a few pictures.
Him with some of his fraternity brothers. Him leaning up against his Bentley. Him posing on some red-carpet event. Him with... I blinked . . . Daddy. On a golf course! His eyes were shielded behind a pair of designer aviators. He looked so . . . good.
Why hadn’t Daddy mentioned that he and Anderson kept in touch? Didn’t he know I needed to know stuff like this? This was pertinent information he’d been withholding from me. Why hadn’t he shared it with me?
In my hand, on my phone screen, I stared at Anderson, his smile wide as he and Daddy looked into the lens of the camera. And then I had to catch myself from fantasizing about a life with him. Married with two—maybe three—kids. Wait. No, no. Absolutely not! Two kids at the most.
We’d be so—
God, this is ridiculous, I chastised myself, quickly logging out of Facebook. Anderson’s status or what he does in his private life is none of your business.
I know, I know . . .
“Miss Phillips,” another receptionist called out as she approached me, forty-seven minutes later, “Mr. Anderson will see you now.”
Slowly I rose to my feet. A sigh of relief, then trepidation, escaped my lips. I was handed a visitor’s badge, then directed to take the second-floor elevators to the top floor.
I did as instructed. Rode the elevators up, holding my breath, my nerves a jumbled knot of mess, until the elevator finally dinged. I stepped out. And there was another receptionist’s desk.
“Hi. I’m here to see Anderson Ford,” I said, straining to keep my nerves in check.
The receptionist stood to her feet, and came around from her station. “Yes. Right this way.”
And there he was. Anderson. In his glass office. Behind a handsomely sleek desk. In a crisp designer suit and starched shirt and a purple pinstriped tie.
Looking professional and all grown up.
“You have five minutes,” the receptionist stated, deflating any hopes of having lunch or any early dinner with him, as she led me to his office.
My heart sank. How on earth would I be able to say everything I needed to say to him in five minutes? It was utterly impossible.
God. I’d almost forgotten what he looked like, smelled like, in the flesh. I took in a deep breath and tried to breathe him in through my nostrils.
“What’s up, London?” Anderson said coolly, seemingly unexcited to see me. Not even a little. “Why are you here? In New York?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Why aren’t you in school? You are still in school, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “Yes. I just took a therapy day.”
“Oh, right. Therapy.” He sat back in his chair. Then glanced at his watch. “How’s that going for you? Therapy?”
I blinked, wondering why he hadn’t offered me a seat in one of the chairs situated in front of his desk. I already knew the answer. I wasn’t welcome here.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “It’s fine. No. Actually, great,” I stated honestly. “It’s the best thing that could have happened for me.”
Anderson studied me. Then nodded. “Good. That’s what’s up.” He glanced at his watch again, and my heart sped up.
In back of him was an open view of New York City, but Anderson was the only view I was interested in looking at. Too bad the energy in the room wasn’t mutual.
“Well, I won’t hold you,” I said lamely. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in to say hi, since we haven’t spoken in a while.”
“You could have called,” he stated flatly. “Oh, wait. I changed my number.”
I cringed. “I know. But I wanted to see you anyway.”
He gave me a quizzical look. “Why? For what?”
I swallowed. “To say—”
His cell rang. He ignored it.
“To see how you were doing.”
Finally, he stood to his feet. “Well, as you can see, I’m well. Making moves. Living life.”
My lips quivered as I smiled. “I see. I’m happy for you.”
My knees shook as we stared at one another.
“Why did you come here, London?” Anderson asked, his eyes burning into every part of me, making it nearly impossible for me to think, to speak.
“I-I . . .” I stammered. “I . . . well . . .” I swallowed back the ball of cotton that had somehow managed to invade the inside of my mouth. I suddenly needed water—no, a martini. Dirty. Real dirty.
“Well,” he urged, impatience coloring his tone. He glanced at his watch a third time. “The clock is ticking. So, like, can you wrap it all up in a neat red bow? I don’t have all day.”
Oh, God. Why did I come? I knew showing up here was a bad idea.
I swallowed again. Felt myself shrinking. Then all of a sudden, I felt jet-lagged. And then I felt overwhelmingly sick to my stomach. Staring at me with what appeared to be a look of amusement, Anderson walked around his desk.
“Well . . .”
I swallowed. “I wanted to see you. That’s all.”
“And?”
I nervously bit into the left side of my bottom lip. “And I was thinking of you.”
He snorted. “Oh, word? All of a sudden you were thinking of me? Why?”
“I was hoping we could b
e . . .” I paused, shifting my nervous energy from one foot to the other.
“You were hoping we could be what, London?” He snorted. “Friends?”
“Yes. If we could.”
“Nah, homie. You know you ain’t about that life,” he said, mockingly. “You don’t know how to be a friend, home slice. Just like you didn’t know how to let me into your life and be your man.”
“I made a big mistake,” I admitted. “I was stupid. But I—”
“Nah, son,” Anderson said sarcastically. “You didn’t want a good man, London, remember? You wanted a thug-daddy, a projects dude who disrespected you, a bum-dude with four baby mamas. I told you that boy was nothing but trouble. Told you he would do nothing but bring you down. Every time that bum hurt you, every time he made you cry, or left you high and dry, who was there to pick up the pieces? Who was there to save the day?”
I inhaled deeply. “You were.”
“Say it again?” he urged. “I didn’t hear you, homegirl.”
I pushed out a shaky breath. “I said you were.”
“Exactly. Captain Save a Dumb Ho.”
I cringed.
“I was the one,” he said, pointing a finger at his chest, “who kept your secrets. I was the one who played your confidante. I was the one you turned to time and time again every time that clown abandoned you. I was only good enough for you, yo, when it was convenient for you. And still I was the one there for you. And what did you do, London?” He paused, pinning me with a hard stare. “You still chose him over me, remember... ?”
I winced as I nodded ever so slowly and somberly.
Silence. And suddenly I didn’t know what to say. Because he was right. I did do that. All of it. And yet...
“I was wrong.” God, I sounded pathetic. Was that the best I could offer? “You didn’t deserve that. And I’m so sorry for how I treated you, Anderson. I feel horrible.”
He grunted. Then puffed out his chest, straightening his tie. “Well, you should. You could have had a good thing with me. We could have been good together, London. But—” He stopped and stared at the wall of glass behind me, seemingly deep in thought. I craned my neck to look behind me to see what had caught his eye.
Ohmygod!
Ivina.
The Russian model chick he’d been spotted with on numerous occasions at numerous social events—all hugged up, all lovey-dovey. God, she was so freaking beautiful! And one of the hottest teen models in the international fashion world. And I was jealous!
Jealous that she was with Anderson.
And I wasn’t.
Surprise registered on her face when she noticed me, and then a smile spread across her face as she gave me a cute finger wave.
I forced myself to smile and wave back, then tore my eyes from hers, catching Anderson’s gaze as he held a finger up, signaling for her to give him a second. He would soon be dismissing me. My stomach churned at that knowing.
He cleared his throat, then pushed out, “Look, London. I’m not gonna say I am the best you could have had, but I’m damn near close to it. But you won’t ever know that now, will you?”
I choked back a sob. “I really screwed up,” was all I could muster up to say. How fricking lame!
Anderson leaned back against his desk and folded his arms across his chest.
And stared.
I wanted so desperately to tell him that I missed him like nobody’s business. That I wanted to be with him. That I was ready to be the girlfriend he deserved. That all the things I thought I hadn’t wanted, I wanted—with him. That he was all that I wanted.
I even considered mentioning how I stalked his Twitter and Facebook feeds three, four times a day because I cared about him, cared about how he was, as if that news was worthy of him forgiving me for being such a shitty pretend girlfriend because pretending was all I had done. And I had sadly failed miserably at that.
I wanted to fall to my knees and beg Anderson to give me another chance, this time not for pretend. No, this time I wanted to be his for keeps. But my pride wouldn’t allow it. And all I could see in my mind’s eye was Anderson . . . with her.
Ivina.
I chewed on my bottom lip. “Are the two of you serious?”
He frowned. “Who?”
I swallowed. “You and Ivina?”
He glowered at me. “Why do you care?”
I felt all the air around me go thin, and then I felt light-headed.
“I-I—” I fought back a snivel. I refused to shed a tear, in front of him or over him. But still. I had to know. “Do you still love me?”
He scowled a little, eyeing me. As the seconds ticked into minutes of him just standing here, staring at me, I realized Anderson wasn’t just staring at me. He was peering into my soul.
“It no longer matters,” he finally said, easing his arms back into his crisp gray jacket. “I’ll have my secretary show you out.”
I felt my heart tightening as if a fist was squeezing every beat out of it as he brushed by me toward the door. The door opened, and I was quickly ushered out while Ivina stood to the side and waited her turn . . . with him.
Before walking toward the elevators, I glanced back and caught the two of them locked in an embrace.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. What had I been thinking showing up here?
Anderson was right. I was delusional. What had I been hoping for? That he’d sweep me up in his arms and smother me with his chocolate kisses? That he’d fall down on one knee and profess his undying love to me?
Wrong.
Anderson didn’t want me. He’d moved on.
21
Heather
“Miss Girl,” Co-Co said with two snaps of his fingers as I stepped out of my car and handed the key to valet. “You are serving me catfish realness, hunnnnty.”
I tooted my lips and popped my hips. My porn star body was on fleek. Small waist, pow! Plump boobs and bouncy booty, pow-pow!
Co-Co and I had done a few pinches of goodness—(Co-Co called it “Miss Honey,” and it was a combo of crushed Percocet, bath salts, and a pinch of cocaine)—before stepping out of the car, and now I was gliding on a white puffy cloud.
My skin tingled.
Warm honey flowed through my veins.
I felt good all over.
My fire-engine-red catsuit had a high neck with diamond cutouts on the sides and one in the back that dipped extra low, almost to my crack. Sans panties, my booty was swishing every which way.
My eyelids were shadowed a smoky shade of bronze.
I had my hair out, giving them Lion King fever with my long ponytail. My face was beat for the gaaaawds. Wait. Did this make-believe geisha girl liken me to a catfish ?
Weren’t they like scavengers of the sea? Bottom feeders?
Dirty?
Or was this man-tramp trying to say I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t? That I was catfishing, like was he tryna call me fake?
I cut my eye over at him. Mmm. Look at him in his short silk kimono.
His long black wig had red streaks and two buns on each side of his head. On his feet, he wore Japanese wooden sandal clogs, and he carried an Asian purse.
I rolled my eyes. “I know you not even tryna call me some . . .” My voice trailed off as I spotted a cluster of paparazzi photographers huddled outside the velvet rope near the front entrance.
God, I couldn’t go anywhere without paparazzi lurking somewhere nearby, waiting to drag me anyway they could in the press. I didn’t need this. Not right now.
Co-Co and I were about to step inside Nobu Malibu—a swanky Japanese restaurant overlooking the Pacific Ocean—for a meeting with Kitty.
Yes. She still had a restraining order against me coming anywhere near her buildings, but she would see me out in public. Mmmph. I’d been summoned by her earlier in the day to meet her here. “Six p.m. Dinner on me. To discuss what’s left of your career,” she’d said. “And don’t be late. Oh. One more thing: Leave your wretched mother home.” Then she’d hung
up before I could refuse.
So here I was, with Co-Co in tow, feeling easy and breezy and carefree. So I didn’t need drama. Thankfully, the paps had their backs to us, their attention facing the front entrance, perking up whenever the door opened with their cameras on the ready for their next big mark.
God. Sometimes I wished I wasn’t famous. That I wasn’t Heather Cummings the TV star. Heather Cummings the iTunes megastar. Heather Cummings the Twerk Queen. Heather Cummings the daughter of a blackballed actress. Heather Cummings the alleged daughter of a hip-hop mogul who had yet to claim me as part of his gene pool. Heather Cummings, the mixed-breed girl who struggled to fit in.
Sometimes. I hated my life. Okay, okay . . . most times.
Still, I couldn’t imagine being anyone else. Ever. Truthfully, I wouldn’t know how to be anyone else. I was who I was. And it was all I knew to be, even if I sometimes felt like a glorified extra starring in my own life.
Yet. At this moment, I was Heather Cummings, the fly girl. Heather Cummings, the boss bish! I was Heather Cummings. Pretend or not.
Floating like a butterfly...
“Tryna call you what?” Co-Co asked, pulling me from my reverie. He stopped in his tracks.
I glared at him, slinging my ponytail over my shoulder. “Tryna call me fake?”
“Miss Girl, I saaaaaid you was giving catfish realness—catsuit and all fish, minus the fishy smell. Get it? So don’t go getting in your feelings, boo. I’m so not in the mood for your low-rent antics.”
Low-rent? I frowned. “Whatever, Co-Co. You stay throwing shade.”
“No shade. Miss Co-Co never throws shade.” He snapped open his oriental fan and fanned himself. “I just throw a little breeze.”
“Save the lies,” I hissed as we neared the entrance. “Just do me a favor. Let’s ease by those pap dogs before they spot us. Do you think you can do that for me?”
“I got you.” He smacked his lips together. “Miss Co-Co always delivers, hunnnnty. We’ll slip right on by, like phantoms in the night. Swoosh.”
Mmm-hmm.
But the moment we neared the entrance, Co-Co called out, “Heather Cummings and Miss Co-Co Ming in the house, giving porn star realness!” And then he spun around and grabbed me, striking a pose, pulling back the opening of his kimono, showing thigh and a hint of his flat booty cheek.
