Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  “Then maybe you should have told me the truth,” I said tersely as I half-limped, half-walked over to the cordless phone. I lifted it from its cradle.

  “Who are you calling at this time of night?” she snapped, shooting me a venomous glare.

  “The police,” I said.

  “For the love of God, Spencer! Why on earth would you do that?”

  I blinked. “Because you’re a murderer, Kitty, and a . . .”

  “Hello. Nine-one-one . . . what’s your emergency?”

  “I’d like to report a missing person,” I said.

  “Okay. Who is missing?” the dispatcher asked.

  I looked over at Kitty, my eyes full of my own tears, and then said, “My mother.”

  52

  London

  I knew I had no business showing up here.

  But here I stood . . .

  Dressed in a nude-color, form-fitting sequined dress that draped off the shoulders with a hard-cased crystal-mix clutch and a pair of Jimmy Choo pumps that were killing my feet.

  Out in a balmy, starlit evening.

  Surrounded by lots of red carpet and velvet rope.

  Alone.

  At the marina, looking up at Buff Daddy: Anderson’s three-level floating paradise. The American flag, along with the state flag of Texas, fluttered from its mast.

  I gulped in a breath of night air. The luxury yacht was absolutely breathtaking. But then I swallowed, remembering the first time Anderson had brought me aboard. It had been a gift from his father, and he’d wanted to show it to me. Yet I hadn’t been interested or impressed with its teak-planked decks, oversized Jacuzzis, the voile privacy drapes, or its beach-chic areas.

  Now I panicked at the thought of not being able to climb aboard. I ran a hand along the side of my head; my hair was pinned up into an elegant French roll. And then I nervously touched my neck. I’d purposefully worn one of the diamond necklaces Anderson had given me one Christmas.

  A knot coiled in the pit of my stomach as five photographers sprang from out of nowhere. I cringed. I should have known the paparazzi would be lurking, I thought, wishing I had worn a wig and dark shades or a huge floppy hat.

  I turned my body slightly on an angle, hoping to not be noticed. So far, they were busy taking shots of a slew of Victoria Secret models posing a few feet ahead of me.

  The waterfront was alive with yachts and partygoers, some dressed in cheesy gold lamé bikinis. And others were topless, wearing nothing but disgustingly short shorts (that showed more of their assets than fabric) with strappy high sandals. And then there were the more sophisticated bunch, the ones I could relate to, who were donned in the best designers their money could afford.

  A tall, muscular, bald-shaven guy with a well-groomed beard held a clipboard in his hand, checking off guests before pulling back the rope and allowing them to climb on board the yacht.

  I only hoped—

  “Hey, there. I know you,” a reporter said as he pointed at me. “London Phillips, right?”

  I contemplated shaking my head no, but then forced a smile instead.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Camera shutters flicked, then came the near-blinding burst of flashes.

  “Hey, London. Are you ready to get back on the runway?” echoed another reporter.

  “You made quite a spectacle of yourself at Club Sixty-Six,” shot another pap dog. “Do you plan on getting drunk tonight?”

  “Will there be any begging tonight?” asked another reporter.

  Oh, they were trying to provoke me into making a scene, but I refused to give them that even as the small crowd in back of me tittered. Still, I nearly died from the embarrassing memory. Yet I remained poised, despite the smile that was already on my face nearly cracking from the inside out.

  “No, no, and no,” was all I could say in response.

  “Does Anderson Ford know you’re here?” asked another reporter.

  “Of course, he does,” I said. “We’re still good friends.” Okay, that was totally a lie, but so what. They didn’t need to know that Anderson hated my guts.

  “Word has it,” said another reporter, “that he plans to pop the question tonight to that hot Russian model he’s seeing . . .”

  My knees nearly buckled. Is this an engagement party? Nothing was mentioned of an engagement party on the Internet or any of Anderson’s social media sites. I was now even following Ivina on Twitter and Instagram. And her pages said nothing either about some damn marriage proposal.

  Click, click, click...

  “Are you still hoping he changes his mind and takes you back?”

  I swallowed. “Not if he’s happy I don’t,” I said tartly. I refused to burst out into tears out here in fear it would land me on Ellen and on the cover of every tabloid and gossip blog known to man.

  “I wish Anderson nothing but the best,” I added for good measure. It was one big lie unless I was going to be the one ultimately ending up with the engagement ring and marriage proposal.

  “There goes Jaden Smith,” a reporter stated, causing all the other pap dogs to quickly scatter away from me to chase down the teen star. Clearly, they had grown tired with me for not allowing their mocking and taunting to get to me.

  But it did.

  I blew out a breath.

  “Name, please,” said surly Clipboard Man as I stepped into view.

  “Umm. London Phillips.”

  He looked me up and down, his gaze slowly sliding along my frame before his eyes returned to my face. He flipped through the printout of the guest list, then raised a brow.

  “Sorry. This is a private party. Your name isn’t on the list.”

  “Please. Check again. There has to be some mistake.”

  Mr. Clipboard Man looked again, then said more forcefully, “Like I said, your name isn’t on the list. Step aside. Next guest, please.”

  I stood planted in my spot. “Please, sir. I really have to get inside,” I said in a voice that sounded whiny.

  He grunted. “Not tonight you won’t. Now step aside.”

  I knew this was a stupid idea. Who shows up at someone’s party without an invite?

  “Please, sir, can you—”

  “This beautiful lady’s with me,” a rich, thick voice said, sidling up beside me. I blushed as he took my arm and looped it around his. “I’m on the list. Devon Blade,” my mystery saver said to Clipboard Man. “She’s my plus one.” He flashed me a conspiratorial smile.

  Mr. Clipboard Man gave Mr. Save the Night a look of skepticism, his glare going from me to him, before finally glancing down at his clipboard and skimming through the list and checking him off. He pulled back the rope and allowed us both through.

  “Thank you,” I whispered as he helped me up the ramp.

  “No problem. By the way, I’m Blade.”

  I smiled. “Nice to meet you. And I’m—”

  “London Phillips,” he said. And then he flashed the prettiest white smile I’d ever seen on a guy. He was young, and handsome, and clearly very rich, judging by the large diamonds in his ears and his Jacob the Jeweler watch.

  “I follow you on Twitter,” he added, noticing the puzzled look on my face.

  Oh.

  “So what’s the deal with you and Anderson Ford?”

  I shrugged. “It’s complicated.” And then I laughed, surprised at my use of the word. He gave me a confused look. “I hate that word.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. Me too. But listen”—he grabbed my hand as we reached the main deck—“if things with you and Anderson don’t work out, give me a holla. I’ll show you how a man treats a beauty like you. I’m the epitome of uncomplicated.”

  I smiled and then thanked him again for getting me on the yacht. I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek

  He flashed me another smile. “Save me a dance,” he said, taking a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray as he walked by. And then he was gone, leaving me to find the object of my desire.r />
  Anderson.

  I sauntered through the crowd of glam and glitter and all things expensive, my eyes sweeping the area as I moved. There were flickering votives everywhere, but there was no sign of Anderson, or his, his . . . ugh . . . that girl he was screwing—or not.

  I found myself wishing for the nth time that I’d stayed home, that I’d never chosen Justice over Anderson. But I was here now (there was no turning back!), and I couldn’t change the past (although I wished like hell I could), and I knew I couldn’t control what happened next...

  God, I needed a cocktail, or two. But I fought the urge to snatch two flutes from off a moving tray as another waiter whisked by.

  “London!” a female’s voice shrieked in a European accent as heels clicked across the deck. I swung around to see a very blond, very blue-eyed, impossibly beautiful girl in a nearly see-through wrap dress and very high heels.

  “Annika?” I said, shocked to see the teen supermodel here. Wondering what she was doing in L.A., and here, no less.

  We’d done fashion week in Milan together, and the Swedish runway powerhouse had been so nasty to me—messy and condescending to the point that I wanted to step out of my heels and fight her.

  “Ohmygod! Look at you!” she said, grabbing me in an unexpected embrace and then air-kissing me. “You look so . . . beautiful.”

  I flushed. “Thank you.”

  “I’m so sorry for the way I treated you during Fashion Week. I was being so bitchy toward you.”

  I tilted my head. “No. You were only being you. But apology accepted.”

  She laughed. “Well, okay. Still,” she said, taking my hands into hers, “you didn’t deserve it. I felt so awful about . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  I gently squeezed her hand. “Don’t be. I’m better,” I stated, referring to my suicide attempt. “What I did was stupid and careless. Through it all, I’m glad to be here, alive and well.”

  Annika smiled. “So am I. I was wrong about you, London. Dead wrong.”

  I gave her a confused look. “About?”

  “About not belonging at Fashion Week or on any runway. The runway is your world, London. I think you should embrace it.”

  “From catwalk to crash cart! Model sensation, London Phillips, hit the runway in more ways than one when the teen socialite pony-stepped her way down the catwalk in a near bloody white gown . . .”

  That’s how one blog had started off about me after my suicide attempt.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe one day.”

  “Hopefully sooner than not,” she said. She leaned in and then lowered her voice. “Imagine it, London. Ivina, you, and me . . . the three of us taking the fashion world by storm.”

  I recoiled. Firstly, I couldn’t imagine it—me back on the runway. And, secondly, the mere mention of Ivina’s name sent my nerves reeling. The only thing I could imagine at this moment was pushing her over the railing and then—

  “London?”

  My breath caught. It was Anderson.

  I swallowed, praying that he wouldn’t embarrass me in front of Annika or the rest of his well-heeled guests. My heart was beating fast. And hard.

  “Let me have a word with you. Now,” he rudely said, grabbing me by the elbow and ushering me off to a nearby room. He closed the door behind us once we were inside.

  Anderson scowled. “London, what are you doing here?”

  “I—”

  “I don’t recall your name being placed on the guest list,” he stated emphatically. And then he gave me a look that teetered between a smirk and a sneer. “Are you stalking me now?”

  I cringed. The word stalking sounded so, so creepy. Desperate.

  Sadly, I’d somehow become both.

  “Stalking you? N-no. Absolutely not, Anderson,” I said nervously.

  He raised a questioning brow. “I don’t know. First you just pop up in New York out of the blue,” he said, glancing over my shoulder, before looking back at me. “Then you happen to be at Club Sixty-Six—trashed. And now you’re here. Uninvited, no less.”

  “I was invited,” I lied. “I’m here with, with . . . Blade.”

  “Blade?” Anderson scrunched his face, then seconds later he raised a brow. “It’s Devon. Not Blade.”

  I let out a nervous chuckle. “I know what it is. Blade is what I call him. I’m his date.”

  “Oh, really?” Anderson asked with a smirk. “Then why is he up on the sundeck dancing with three half-naked girls? And why did he tell me that you were outside begging to get inside?”

  I swallowed. “I, um . . . I wasn’t begging.”

  “Yeah, right. Cut the crap, London. Why are you here?”

  “Are you and Ivina getting engaged?”

  Anderson stared at me, long and hard, before finally answering the question with a question. “Why?”

  “Because I need to know,” I said, feeling myself slowly unraveling from the inside out. “Is this an engagement party?”

  He shook his head, letting out a frustrated breath. “No, it’s not an engagement party. It’s a private charity fundraiser—for Big Brothers; I’m trying to raise money for inner-city kids. And had you been invited, you would have known that.”

  But nowhere on the Internet did I see that, so how was I to know? I didn’t feel relieved. If anything, I felt more anxious. Anderson looked at me with disgust in his eyes. I was slowly peeling apart.

  “But noooo,” he said coldly, “spoiled London wants to try to bum-rush her way back into my life, disrupting my world, and then expects me to drop everything for her.” He made a sound, like that of a buzzer, then said, “Wrong answer. Not gonna happen. You could have had a good man, but you wanted a leech. Now you’ll have to go find yourself another sucker, because I’m all suckered out.”

  A lump formed in my throat. “Anderson, why do you hate me so much?”

  Anderson flinched. Then he sighed, glancing down at his watch. “Look. We’re gonna have to wrap this up. I have a silent auction that’s about to start. But I don’t hate you, London. You hurt me. You chose a bum nucca over me. And I’ve had to get over that.”

  My lips quivered. “I made a mistake. I’m so sorry, Anderson.” I closed the distance between us. “Choosing Justice over you was the biggest mistake of my life.”

  He gave me a doubtful look. “Oh, well. And now you’ll have to live with that. We both will,” Anderson said, but by the slightly sorrowful tone of his voice, I could tell (or at least I hoped) he didn’t mean it.

  Still, I choked back a sob, looking up at him. “Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me, Anderson, and give me—us—another chance?”

  He shook his head forlornly. “Nah. I’m good on that. You can’t be trusted, London. You’re too wishy-washy. I can’t trust that you won’t hurt me again or trust that you’ll ever be able to love me the way I used to love you.”

  Used to?

  Past tense. As in he no longer did?

  I wanted to burst into tears, but I didn’t want Anderson to see me as the same weak, emotional girl. I needed him to see me as vulnerable, but not broken. Yet, I was on the verge of a full-fledged panic attack. I knew it, but I pushed through my words anyway.

  “I do love you, Anderson. I’ve always loved you. I just didn’t know it until you broke up with me and you were gone. I’m so lost without you in my life, Anderson. All I’m asking for is another chance. Please.”

  Anderson reached out, surprisingly, and cupped my cheek in his warm hand. I stopped breathing. I actually shivered as I tipped my face back up to his, hoping, wishing, praying for his lips to brush mine, just one kiss; that’s all I prayed for.

  Pleasepleasepleaseplease . . .

  Anderson was staring at me, nearly expressionless, when he finally said, “There’ll be no kissing and making up.”

  It took a minute for his words to register, and when they did, I felt like I’d been kicked in the heart. Anderson reopened the door.

  “Go home, London,” he said,
his face stony and resolute. “And have a good life.”

  “Please, Anderson,” I gasped, fighting for breath. My whole world was going up in flames. And when Anderson walked out and I could no longer breathe, I broke down and cried.

  53

  Rich

  My Dearest Justice,

  I’m tired of pretending.

  Plus, I’m no good at it.

  Yes, I love you. But I can’t take love to the bank; it only deposits air into my account. And this version of Queen Bonnie and Low Budget Clyde against the world has worn me out and will not work another day. Clearly, I’m not the for-richer-or-for-poorer kind of girl. I’m simply for richer.

  And yeah, yeah, we fought the other day, and when you came back home, we made up and tore the sheets off the bed.

  But I’m done with that fix.

  You can keep it.

  Or call London, Kaareema, or another one of your hoes to come over and deal with your pipe-slinging Band-Aid.

  Unlike them, I’m experienced enough to know that a hot and desirable woman like me can find a no-strings-attached, pipe-slayin’ healer anywhere, all shade.

  I have standards, Justice. And up until this evening, I thought you knew that. That is, until you came for me all sleazy and left a hundred-dollar bill on the nightstand, like I was some cheap ho, and a note that read, “Go to the grocery store, and while you’re there fill out an application.”

  Clutchin’ pearls!

  Boy, you got me all the way twisted!

  You don’t send me on errands! That’s what a house manager is for!

  Furthermore, what the hell is a hundred dollars supposed to do for me?

  And fill out an application?

  How dare you?!

  To think we’ve been together all of this time and all you know how to do for me is put me in a pretzel position! I am more than just the bedroom tigress, Justice.

  I’m elegant!

  Grand!

  Da bomb. com!

  But did you appreciate those qualities?

  Nooooooo!

  All you did was bring the petty out of me, which is exactly why I’m taking that hundred-dollar bill you left and using it to pay for my three Ubers so I can bounce up out of here!

  So while you’re at some dumb show for the broke and the talentless, trying to sing your heart out, I’ll be moving out and going back where I belong! To my chef, my gold rainspout (where the hot water doesn’t run out), my three-feet-high, four-poster bed, and my brand-new pink diamonds!