Fiona Love

by Sherrod Story

  She sang a piece of one of Fiona’s old songs at Lani’s request, and Fiona was shocked. The girl could sing her damn near better than she could!

  “Well, little girl,” she said, grinning at the woman-child she’d kept more than once over night while Lani ran the streets. “I think you gon’ be a star.”

  Lola beamed and threw herself into Fiona’s arms. Fiona didn’t know it, but she was this young girl’s idol. Outside of her mother and godmother, she couldn’t think of a woman she admired more. Fiona knew she wanted to be a singer and had encouraged her every step over the years.

  “Where Baby?”

  “Gettin’ blowed at the crib surrounded by her sleeping children while writing a poem,” Lani said, in a slow, dramatic voice.

  Fiona burst out laughing. “Why you talk about her like that?”

  “That’s my girl. But you know she be trippin’. Natty let me hear “Damn,” Lani was nothing if not thorough. “And I was thinking,” and so it went.

  Fiona had never been fat. Cleo dogged her food too closely and she was 5’9” and a former dancer herself. A good one. But working out with Lani four times a week soon had her so trim and slim she appeared sculpted.

  “Thank God,” Lani told Cleo one night when she picked Fiona up from the dance studio. “Since very few people would actually call Peter a clothing designer.”

  Peter and Fiona had become friends more than a decade ago when Fiona first came to New York to do her thing in the music business. She’d needed a way to eat though, and 9-to-5’s weren’t convenient. Mechante was already making a name for herself as a model, and she swore Fiona could do it too.

  So Fiona modeled through a mid-range agency and managed to get picked up for a few good runway shows because of her long legs and her walk. Breasts hadn’t been in then. She’d done a ton of catalog work. People liked breasts in catalogs.

  She’d met Peter at one of the better shows, which one she couldn’t remember. He wouldn’t know either. His evening cocktail hour(s), a ritual he’d started not long after he met her, were now legendary. But he would be able to tell her what she was wearing. He had amazing recall for clothes and jewels.

  The first time they met they talked all night. Peter poured beer down Fiona’s throat, and she held her own until about 3:30 when she fell asleep at the table, still holding her last brew.

  Peter ignored her grumbles, stuffed her in a cab and took her to his place, where he proceeded to take care of her like only a gay man can. He undressed her and put a t-shirt over her head. Then he reached underneath it and removed her bra so she’d be comfortable.

  “I’m gay as the day is long, and a gentleman,” he told her years later. “And I had a helluva time keeping my hands off those tits!”

  He brought ‘a hot rag’ to wash her face as she lay in his beautifully appointed guest bed.

  She remembered it vividly, stuck as she’d been in one of those quasi-alert beer comas where you could hear but not see or move. That face wash though, the firm strokes of witch hazel-soaked cotton, the moisturizer he’d smoothed in afterwards. He’d treated her like a doll. Peter loved women. That’s why he designed lingerie for one of the most famous European companies in the world.

  “If I wasn’t thoroughly enamored of cocks,” he once told her, with a pronounced but extremely appealing leer, “I’d be the biggest whore in the world.”

  He made her drink some mint tea and take two aspirin then tucked her in and doused the light.

  “Good night, Fifi,” he’d whispered in his deep southern drawl.

  The next day he made her a scrumptious booze recovery brunch of waffles with real whipped cream and some kind of compote, fruit he’d ‘mangled in the blender.’ It tasted wonderful. Naturally he had gorgeous underwear for her to take home.

  “I love having women over,” he said, and came over to hug her. He hugged her a lot. He even kissed her, which had been a surprise. He did a good job too. She’d actually started to kiss him back before she remembered he was gay and pushed him back. He pouted at her and blinked sky blue eyes lazily.

  “You would be a slut,” she told him over fresh-squeezed orange juice. “But you would be a hell of a housewife.”

  “Thank you,” he said, matter-of-factly, then bullied her into his next show.

  ******

  “Damn” came out, and it was an instant hit. Apparently Natty was right. The music industry had been waiting for her next effort. A popular Latina singer with international appeal wanted to do a duet, and Fiona flew to New York for a shut-in session with the singer and her producer while they wrote and recorded the song. Then there was the video to consider, and time seemed to slip through her fingers like water.

  Work became the crutch she used to keep memories of Daney at bay. She played with Flora during meetings, and the different members of her team got used to seeing the little girl under Fiona’s feet as she talked on two different phones and stood on a box while Netty pinned various swatches of material on her or ripped them off.

  It felt good not to think, so she allowed Andrea and Cleo to sweep her into a publicity whirlwind, and Natty, with his insistent and gifted talent, picked up the slack where they left off in the studio. Within its dark, comfortable walls Fiona knew she was creating some of the best music of her life.

  “Shit,” she joked to him as another long day and evening turned into night. “If I’d known all it took was a little heartbreak to unlock my pipes, I’da got into the love game long time ago.”

  They both knew she was lying, but Natty loved Fiona so he just laughed.

  “Aside from “Damn,” which song you think she wrote about Daney?” Netty asked Cleo. “I think it’s the ballad.”

  Cleo shook her head. “Nope. It’s the one about that man.”

  Later the song would be titled simply, “Him.” It had a rough, old-school speakeasy type vibe, about a man who was the perfect fit for her. He thought like she did, made love like she did, they even laughed at the same off color jokes. She said she could have built him herself ‘out of clay and wood, ‘cause he was everything he could be, and did everything he should.’

  “Cheesy, no?” Fiona laughed when she played it for them.

  Sugar just shook her head. Sometimes Fiona’s self-deprecating humor was ridiculous. The song was fabulous, and though Fiona was scrabbling sometimes noticeably for cover, she knew it.

  Chapter eleven

  “Is all my shit packed?”

  “What shit are you referring to?” Netty asked. “You won’t be wearing clothes at the show, remember?”

  Fiona blinked at her.

  “Yes, Ms. Bitch. Everything is packed. We waitin’ on you.”

  “I’m ready!” She pulled a pinner out and lit it.

  “No!” Cleo yelled. “We gon’ miss the fuckin’ plane! Peter’s already called 50 times wonderin’ why you not in New York yet.”

  “The show don’t start ’til day after tomorrow. What’s the beef?” Sugar asked, lugging her carry-on to the front door.

  “Peter’s always a tad nervous before a show,” Fiona said lightly.

  Netty snorted. “Is that a fashion euphemism for a shit load?”

  “Mechante called,” Cleo said, removing a bottle of juice from Fiona’s hand and replacing it with water.

  “Is she meetin’ me at Boomer’s tonight?”

  “She already there. She gon’ pick us up from the airport.”

  Fiona bounced excitedly. She hadn’t seen her girl in almost a year.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting this chick,” Sugar said, grinning at her boss’ excitement.

  Mechante met them at the airport all right, in a white stretch limo, from which she waved frantically through the sunroof.

  “Bitches!” she yelled, alerting every paparazzo around before she dashed out.

  Fiona shrieked and dropped her bags to run into her old friend’s arms. She inhaled the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 and kissed both of Mechante’s satiny cheeks exuber
antly.

  “You cut your hair. You look fabulous,” Fiona pronounced, running an eagle eye over her friend’s lean, elegantly clad figure in dark blue denim and a man’s tailored white shirt.

  Mechante laughed, the light catching the tiny diamond in her nose. “Go on,” she grinned, squeezing Fiona affectionately. “I’ve been drunk for two days.” She probably had. It didn’t matter. Mechante could go without sleep for a week and still look gorgeous.

  Fiona ruffled the short cap of wavy sand-colored hair. “Trying to imitate Jean Seberg?”

  “Nope. That bitch was tryna imitate me.”

  They all laughed, and Fiona made the introductions.

  “You’re the skin-tastic Sugar I’ve been hearing so much about?” Mechante hooked a slender arm through Sugar’s as they walked to stow their luggage in the trunk of the limo. “We need to talk.”

  Mechante and Fiona would have stayed up all night talking, but Peter showed up at Boomer’s just before nine o’clock with two seamstresses in tow. He flipped when he saw Mechante’s hair.

  “You little shit! Why didn’t you tell me!” he snarled. “Your fucking suits are for long hair!”

  “Oh, blow over,” Mechante said, waving his words away. “Stop freakin’ out, already. You’re gonna give yourself an attack before the show even starts.”

  He grabbed her and Fiona by an arm and towed them into a bedroom, spewing Southern-tinged filth the entire way. He paused only once, to bark at the seamstresses trotting at his heels to please hurry the hell up.

  Of course Fiona and Mechante stole the show. Peter insisted that Mechante’s haircut necessitated a frantic reshuffling of models, and coincidentally this put her in the rotation right before Fiona. Every time they passed each other they did something that drew an uproarious response from the crowd. Once Fiona did her trademark hip shimmy from back in the day, and those in the audience who remembered her modeling days laughed so loud the buzz grew deafening as others Twittered trying to catch up. At the end of the show when Peter emerged to take his bow, the applause was deafening as the two surrounded him, each kissing a cheek. He was so happy he nearly swooned.

  “So what happened?” Mechante asked that night. She was leaving for Europe the next afternoon.

  Fiona didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. She just began to talk. It grew late as she told her old friend the story of her and Daney’s breakup. Sugar came in to give her a light facial and Mechante begged to get one too. Then they got into their nighties and crawled into bed much the same way they had as children.

  “Well,” Mechante said, when most of the details had trickled out. “That’s fucked up.”

  Fiona relaxed lying next to her old friend. Only Mechante could have understood her relationship to Daney. Mechante was free in her heart. She made no effort to speculate on the whys or what ifs, she simply grabbed Fiona’s hand as she spun her tale and squeezed it tight.

  “We were together for months before we split,” Fiona said quietly. “And at no time did our passion wane. It grew! We had one of those rare relationships where man and woman are perfect complements of the other. There was no, where is this going? Or, will you be faithful? I never once worried that Daney was with another woman.”

  She and Daney communicated on another level. There was a multi-layered connection between them, physical, spiritual and –

  “Other,” Mechante said.

  Fiona nodded. “Yeah.”

  After weeks of photographs, they had agreed to maintain their silence but to stop worrying about being photographed together.

  “It’s too restricting,” Dane told her. “We can’t alter our behavior to the point where we don’t do things. That’s bull shit. We’re not doing anything wrong. I can’t hide how I feel,” he told her. “I don’t want to. I can stand close to you, smell your perfume, brush up against you, and instantly get hard. I’m compelled, after all this time, to call you all during the day, for no reason, and when you don’t answer I get itchy.”

  She was staying with him in New York when they had that conversation, so when Andrea told her she was invited to a movie premiere that night that she needed to attend, she brought Daney along.

  The media nearly blinded them on the red carpet. Netty had outdone herself on Fiona’s pale pink mod mini and matching kitten-heeled mules. Daney wore black Armani, his white shirt open at the neck.

  Her hand remained clasped in his the entire night. One of the world’s most notorious supermodels appeared near them, and Daney didn’t even blink. He didn’t respond much to anyone, especially not reporter’s questions, but occasionally he’d kiss her knuckles or the back of her hand.

  Columnists were swooning the next day. E, notoriously harsh on celebrities, wrote that Fiona appeared to have found the perfect vintage man to go with the perfect old-school dress. She just laughed.

  “I hated to tell them it was new. Netty picked it up for a song on one of her bargain missions,” she told Daney later. “But I like that they call you vintage,” she teased, stealing a kiss and dancing out of reach when he pretended to cuff her.

  “That’s why I love Daney,” she told Mechante.

  She didn’t notice her use of present tense, but her best friend did.

  “Whatever the situation, if he was with me, he was cool. Even if he was at a meeting, or talking shit to one of his boys, he never wanted me to be anything other than me. Never. He liked everything about me, even the shit that sucks.”

  Mechante brushed them away when tears fell, but she did ask, “Then why be bothered with Tino?”

  “I didn’t,” she said quickly. For a long moment Fiona said nothing. “I never messed around with him. I should have handled some things differently, but I guess it didn’t seem all the way real. So what could it hurt, you know?”

  Mechante laughed, a soft, gravelly rasp in the dark. “Silly broad. I knew that bored distraction you’d cultivated was going to bite you in the ass eventually. And now you’ve lost your inspiration.”

  They sat in silence, absorbing.

  “Our love was real,” Fiona said. “He was a real man.”

  “Daney’s attraction to you is very old-fashioned,” Mechante observed.

  It was. He walked on the sidewalk closest to the street, ordered their food in restaurants and insisted on carrying everything. He was also bossy, and Fiona had quickly learned to let him take the lead in public. She didn’t mind. He was adept at leading the way, but they both knew whose wishes were deferred to first. Daney asked Fiona’s opinion on food, drink, movies. He’d even call her after his business meetings to run ideas by her, and he used the things that she told him.

  “Daney never once tried to tell me not to do something,” Fiona said, a note of quiet pride in her voice. “He might raise his eyebrows and ask ‘is that necessary,’ in his vaguely French way, but he never tried to control me. Outside of bed, of course.”

  Mechante laughed.

  “When I had to shoot the cover for one of the fashion bibles, a very sexy cover with my tastier bits covered only by a tiny bikini bottom and a very thin sign, all Daney said was, ‘That’s fuckin’ gorgeous.’ Then he took the magazine home with him. I went to his place later and found he’d had it framed, matte and everything. It was gorgeous.

  “When Vibe wanted me nude on their cover Daney decided he’d tag along. Then he offered a few excellent suggestions to the photographer, all of which gave me mad sex appeal, and maximum coverage. But he’s smart. He coached everything so light, the photog thought it was all his idea! Once he had his way, Daney sat back like the perfect guest. He even called out and got everyone snacks from the local bakery.”

  Fiona paused and wished half-heartedly for a smoke.

  “Most people got hung up on me and Daney’s individual and collective celebrity, the press coverage, the paparazzi shots of us. But we were enjoying a thoroughly normal courtship. Early in our relationship I heard him tell his brother, ‘That’s what I like about Fiona. She looks and sound
s like walking sex, but she’s very ordinary. No radical ideas, no random fits of hysteria or bull shit. She thinks like a man, almost. Only she does that occasionally nutty chick shit like randomly crying with joy or taking an extraordinarily long time in drugstores buying dumb shit. She takes care of a baby. She takes care of her people, goes to work, comes home, fucks me, or we go out. It’s normal.’”

  “Daney was very protective of me,” Fiona said now, snuggling down under the sheets.

  “You miss him,” Mechante said.

  “Yes. I very much do.”

  Chapter twelve

  “Try it again, Feef. This time, though? I want you to sing it like you wrote it.”

  Fiona stared at Natty through the sound booth glass. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t want you to hold back because you’re scared of the lyrics. You wrote ‘em. Ain’t no shame in havin’ a broken heart,” he said deliberately, to anger her. “There is a great deal of shame, however, in punkin’ out on a beautiful song because of it.”

  He watched as she walked out of the booth and around the wall until she stopped in front of his seated figure. He didn’t see the blow coming, but he certainly felt it. Heard it too. The sound of her hand cracking against his face was like a gunshot in the suddenly silent studio.

  Fiona didn’t stick around to see what chaos her actions wrought, she was already rolling high speed from the room. Natty caught her just as she stepped out onto the street.

  “Wait a goddamn minute!” he snarled, spinning her around and abruptly freezing when he saw the tears streaming down her face. He ignored her struggles and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Feef,” he whispered, burying his face in her soft neck. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. He feathered gentle kisses over her cheeks and forehead, refusing to let her go when she pushed against his chest. When she finally relaxed he kissed her gently.