“Maybe they just liked the world music.”
Mila turned and looked at Tracy full-on. Finally, she rolled her eyes. “You keep right on thinking that.”
“Look at her husband, though,” Tracy pointed out. “He’s about as … white as you get.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Mila demanded. “Girl, please.”
“Mila, you over here makin’ trouble?”
Justin Hoyt approached his wife from the rear and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her on her exposed shoulder. Justin was tall and thick, like a guy who used to work out every day but whose muscle mass was softening and becoming covered in a layer of yet-to-be-acknowledged fat.
“You know me,” Mila sang, leaning into her husband’s kiss.
“Yeah, I do. That’s how I know for a fact you over here makin’ trouble.”
Tracy smiled at Justin. “No, she’s on her best behavior. We were just speculating about how our hostess got interested in So Def.”
Justin leaned in like someone about to participate in a conspiracy. “She tell you her theory that she was just chasing Black dick?”
Mila lightly smacked Justin on the side of the head. “Mind your business, Justin!”
“Thought so,” Justin said shaking his head. “Tracy don’t listen to her craziness. Why don’t you ladies just ask our hostess how she got interested in hip hop instead of speculating. And then go grab one of those kobe beef skewers and have some more wine.”
“As a matter of fact, I think I will,” Tracy said, holding up her empty glass.
Leaving the bickering couple behind, she ambled over to the bar that had been set up out on the terrace of the Wolfes’ high-rise apartment. It was on the Upper East Side in a very old, and celebrated building. So old and celebrated in fact, that Tracy had been impressed when the car dropped her and Brendan off. Surely So Def didn’t pay well enough for their employees to afford this kind of residence. Then Brendan explained that Simone’s husband came from a “shipping family or something.” And of course, there were no poor “shipping families.”
In addition to the bar, the terrace had ample room for the café tables and chairs that were arranged nearby, and at which many of the guests sat, enjoying the temperate and beautiful New York evening, and the view of Central Park. As Tracy approached the bar, she saw that Thierry Wolfe was there as well, holding a glass half-filled with amber liquid. His already ruddy complexion looked slightly flushed, probably from the drink.
“It’s stunning, isn’t it?” he said, waving an arm to indicate the skyline.
“Yes. It’s an enviable view,” Tracy said as the bartender handed her a fresh glass of wine.
“I had not yet moved to New York when my wife sent me a picture of this view,” he said. “And once I saw it, I told her to buy the place, even though I saw little of the interior.”
Tracy smiled, imagining what it might be like to be able to afford that kind of snap-decision about acquiring prized New York City real estate.
“It was frightfully overpriced of course,” Thierry Wolfe continued in the loose-lipped way of a man well on his way to getting drunk. “As are most things in this city.”
“As they are,” Tracy agreed taking a sip of wine.
From the bar, she could see Brendan inside, now talking to Simone, appearing to be in debate about something. He was leaning in slightly, his face uncharacteristically serious, nodding occasionally at some point Simone was making. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit and dark-blue dress-shirt open at the collar. It was Tracy’s favorite color on him.
“Simone speaks highly of your husband,” Thierry Wolfe said, following her gaze. “She enjoys working with him a great deal. Says he has, ‘the gift of the gab’ as you Americans would call it.”
“He enjoys his work,” Tracy said nodding and looking over at Brendan again.
“And you have children, you don’t mind me asking?”
“Yes. I don’t mind. We have one.”
“I am acclimating to Americans and your … customs,” Thierry explained. “A woman might tell you she shares the same gynecologist as Meryl Streep but get offended if you ask whether she works outside the home. It’s all very odd.”
Tracy laughed. “That’s true. And no, it’s not offensive to ask whether people have children.”
“Unless …” Thierry began. And then he stopped himself, instead taking a long swallow of his drink.
“Unless?” Tracy prompted.
“Unless the reason they don’t have children is that they cannot. I found that out the hard way unfortunately.”
Grimacing, Tracy nodded. “But that’s not because you don’t recognize American customs. It’s a gaffe anyone could make.”
“Good. That’s a relief.”
“So, do you and Simone?”
“Oh, no. Not yet. She is very …” He struggled to identify the right word. “She is immersed in her career right now. In few years perhaps. When she has time to immerse herself in parenthood instead of work.”
“And you will, also?”
“Will I also, what?” He furrowed his brow.
“Immerse yourself in parenthood.”
“But of course. It takes more than one to make healthy children. More than one to raise them as well. I’ll travel less. Or take the family with me, I imagine.”
Tracy thought of Brendan and his time at the office; and increasingly, his time on the road. A few years ago, he hadn’t traveled almost at all. But the adrenaline rush of managing artists and playing a role in their development had never left him, so, slowly, he had begun dipping his toes back into that realm.
Nominally, he was still chief operating officer, which was a largely administrative and business management role, but now, he helped develop artists as well, particularly when they aroused some excitement in the company, and in the industry. When he traveled for work, Tracy hadn’t considered tagging along, nor had he ever suggested it unless he was leaving the continental United States, which ironically, was when Tracy was least apt to want to go, especially with Layla in tow.
“You have … a son? A daughter?”
“Daughter,” Tracy said. “Layla.”
“Layla,” Thierry repeated. “Beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Thierry Wolfe leaned back against the bar as though the conversation had just begun, and he was settling in for the long haul. Over his shoulder, back inside, Tracy noticed that Brendan and Simone had taken seats that were facing each other and were settling in themselves.
“Would you tell me if you were attracted to another woman?”
Tracy was sitting on the edge of their bed, removing her shoes while Brendan walked past her, taking off his shirt. They hadn’t left the party until almost twelve-thirty, and after a quick message to the babysitter and the Griersons, decided to leave Layla overnight after all. Tracy had exhausted all her worry earlier and now, once reassured that Layla was well, turned her worry to something else entirely.
“Nope.”
“Brendan! Are you serious? You wouldn’t ...?”
“No. Why the hell would I want to do that? Do you know you?”
“I think I would admire your honesty.”
Brendan laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“I would! I would …” Tracy thought for a moment. “Okay, so maybe I would be a little angry, but …”
“A little angry? Remember that time you said I ‘smiled too long’ at Layla’s Pre-K teacher?”
Tracy rolled her eyes.
Well he had smiled too long at her. As she recalled, the woman was a little too THOT-ish to be working with children anyway, and as if by divine intervention had been replaced after only a month in the position. Chances were, she wasn’t the only mother who had complained.
“So, no, I wouldn’t tell you, Mrs. Cole. Because you can’t handle the truth!” he said in a bad impression of Jack Nicholson, pushing her back onto the bed.
Standing over her, his legs s
traddling hers where they hung over the edge, Brendan began by unzipping her cigarette pants and peeling them over her hips.
“But because I know you don’t ask hypothetical questions, and even though I’m sure I’m going to be sorry for inviting this nonsense, which woman are you imagining I’m attracted to?”
“Guess.”
“Hell nah. That’s a trick right there. Because if I guess the wrong woman, you’re going to accuse me of naming someone that I am actually attracted to, when really all I would be doing is trying to answer your stupid-ass question.”
Brendan was working on her top now but had stalled at the neck because it couldn’t come off unless she unfastened the small pearl button at her nape.
“Okay. Simone Wolfe.” Tracy sat up partway and unbuttoned the blouse, allowing Brendan to pull it over her head.
Brendan froze and pulled back a little, his brows furrowed. “Oh, I see what’s happening.”
“What’s happening?”
“You’ve been talking to Mila.”
It was Tracy’s turn to freeze. “How did you ...?”
“See, she’s worried Justin is attracted to Simone, so she’s transferring her insecurities onto you. And just between us, Justin is attracted to Simone, but I told his ass I would fire them both if he ever acted on it. There. Problem solved. Damn. Have I told you lately how fucking gorgeous you are? You should stay naked.”
Tracy blushed. “I was trying stuff on for the party and none of my old stuff even fit. And when I get pregnant, I’ll probably …”
“You should just stay naked and not even leave the house,” Brendan said talking over her expressions of self-doubt. He peeled her underwear down and Tracy lifted her hips to allow him to do it, obligingly keeping them raised when he palmed her butt-cheeks.
Brendan smiled.
“And then I’d drop in every hour or so … just to get some … take a shower and go back to work.”
“Caveman, much?” Tracy laughed.
Brendan kneeled in front of her nudging her legs apart. Sliding his hands up past her ribcage, he shoved the cups of her bra up, rather than removing the garment altogether.
Whenever he was in this posture, kneeling in front of her, Tracy was immediately excited. To her, Brendan was everything; he had all the power in their relationship, whether he knew it or not. And so, to see him prostrate before her was like having a king consent to become the servant. Just because he wanted her.
4
Brendan glanced down at his phone and laughed out loud, before collecting himself and looking back up into the slightly confused, quizzical eyes of Simone Wolfe.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just something from …” He let the rest of his sentence drop and placed his phone face down on his desk to avoid further distractions.
The source of his amusement was a two-word text message from Tracy. It read: Babymaking. Tonight.
“Do you need to … attend to that?” Simone indicated the phone with one long, slender finger.
“Nope. Better attended to when I get home,” he said. “So, where were we?”
“Talking about Jean-Bernard, and his American debut.”
“Right. Well, look. I think Justin and you should just follow your instincts on that one.”
“You haven’t listened to the music, have you?” Simone arched a perfectly-shaped brow. Leaning back in the chair, she folded her arms.
Brendan smiled at her. “No. I haven’t. But that’s only because …”
“Brendan,” she said. There was a slight French inflection in the way she pronounced his name, which made it sound almost exotic.
“Simone, I’d love to help you out. But these new French guys y’all are bringin’ over … it’s not a passion project for me like it is for you. And I do have a job …” He indicated all the papers strewn across his desk. “And it’s not artist development.”
“I know. But I trust your instincts,” Simone said. “All I want is your opinion. Listen to the music. That’s all I ask.”
“What’d Justin say?”
Simon shrugged. “He liked Jean-Bernard, but I don’t think he gets it. I think he likes it because he likes the accents. Hearing French spoken to a hip hop beat.”
Brendan laughed. “I don’t bring much more to the table than that, either. I mean, if you want to talk to someone who understands French hip hop, talk to Shawn. Or better yet, Chris Scaife, Jamal Turner …”
“Our competitors? Shawn, perhaps. But Scaife? If they like him, they’ll steal him.”
“Nah. They wouldn’t do that.”
“SE is a business,” Simone returned. “If they behave like one, they’ll steal him if they like him. Or at least make their own offer. And they have Pouvoir Noir to make their deal more attractive.”
Brendan shrugged.
He knew she was wrong but saw no point in explaining to Simone Wolfe the strength of the code between him, Shawn, Chris, and Jamal. She wouldn’t get it. Business was important to them all, but they were mature enough—and financially-secure enough—not to put a deal before longtime friendships. There was enough talent out there for them to do well by their companies, and not step on each other’s toes unnecessarily. Talent came a dime a dozen. Genuine loyalty and friendships in this line of work were not as easy to come by.
One of the things that made Simone a good hire for So Def was also occasionally a handicap. She had that steely, bloodless, Northern European thing going on—the coolest of cool blondes, betraying little or no emotion, just crisp, precise problem-solving acumen. Though not a warm woman, Simone was striking, if not beautiful. She had a nose that Brendan thought a little too sharp, eyes a little too blue, and too many angles in general.
When she wore slacks with form-fitting blouses, her hipbones were visible. To a certain kind of man, that look was chic. To Brendan, it was forbidding, and unappealing. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why Justin was feeling her like he was.
But what Brendan did understand, was that Simone Wolfe was feeling him, though he wasn’t sure why. Even with her outward impassivity, something told him that he was better off keeping her at arms’ length. That instinct was confirmed after her cocktail party, when Tracy had asked him whether he was attracted to her.
His wife had a sixth sense about that kind of thing. Inside her, a little red beacon lit up, and wailed like a siren whenever there was a woman in the vicinity who might be interested in him. The accuracy of her intuition was almost frightening to tell the truth. But Brendan was careful never to confirm, nor to emphatically deny her instincts because a too-strident denial was as good as a confirmation.
But in any event, he knew—the way men sometimes did, without reason—that Simone was interested in him as more than a boss. Though she was careful never to overdo her requests for help or intercession, there was something there, that made Brendan cautious.
He was way past cultivating an interest in anyone but Tracy. Way past it. And he was as confident as a man could ever be that he would never cheat on her, because his wife left not even a hair’s breadth of room for him to be unfulfilled.
“Okay, you want to know what I really think?” Brendan asked.
Simone nodded. “Please.”
“French hip hop doesn’t have a snowball’s chance of hitting it big in the U.S.”
Simone’s face fell, and then she recovered, sitting forward in her seat. “But …”
“Your subdivision, exploring European music? Is an experiment. One that Shawn thinks makes sense. But if you bring folks over, you should be looking for blue-eyed soul like that dude from back in the day, whatshisname. Simply Red. The new Amy Winehouse, or Duffy.
“Or maybe someone like Dido or Jake Bugg for the weepy teenagers in the suburbs. All that? It translates well. But hip hop? For us in the U.S., that’s one genre that has to be homegrown. Even the Canadian kid, good as he is, took almost ten years to be taken seriously.”
Sighing, Simone leaned back again.
“B
ut hell …” Brendan shrugged. “What do I know?”
“I hope I’m not overstepping.”
Tracy hesitated for a moment, not immediately placing the name. Finally, it was the accent that did it. Thierry Wolfe. Simone’s husband was on the other end of the line, and she wasn’t even sure how he had gotten the phone number.
“Oh, hello,” she said quickly recovering. “It just took me a moment to …”
“I understand. It isn’t often I call the wives of my wife’s colleagues. And I imagine it’s not often you receive such calls.”
“Never,” Tracy corrected him, her tone pointed. “I never receive them.”
“Oh, well, again, I hope …”
“How can I help you, Thierry?” she asked him, her voice brisk.
Tracy was not ignorant of her appeal to men. She had lived with it her entire life. Even before puberty, she recognized the way masculine gazes lingered on her with interest. Sometimes it was a benefit, and sometimes not. In the past, she had been strategic about when and how to use it; but now, as a married woman, she never did.
“When we met …” he began.
Thierry Wolfe had a slow and deliberate way of speaking. He enunciated each word carefully, maybe because he was speaking a second language rather than his native tongue. It made Tracy want to rush him along.
“…we spoke of art, you and I.”
“Yes,” Tracy prompted.
“Since Simone is so busy, I am charged with decorating. And there is an artist, in Fort Greene I have some interest in. You are in Brooklyn as well, are you not?”
“I am.”
“As I said, there’s an artist. He … or she, I’m not quite sure. Well, they’re in Fort Greene and I’ve heard quite good. I thought you might want to accompany me. To his studio. In case there are pieces you and your husband might be interested in.”
Tracy hesitated. “I don’t …” She thought of Layla, and of the dinner she planned to make Brendan. And of the evening they had planned after Layla was asleep.
Four: Stories of Marriage Page 21
