by Kim Baldwin
Kash closed her eyes and suddenly felt all of nineteen again. “It’s not like I expected her to suddenly become gay or anything. But I guess I wanted her to know because I was tired of hiding my attraction.” She sighed, remembering the shocked expression on Chris’s face.
“She’d always been one of the most open-minded people I’d ever known, and we were close, so I thought she’d take it fine. But she freaked and completely closed me out. Moved out of the dorm and in with a guy she barely knew, and stopped returning my calls. To this day I don’t know whether she really was rabidly homophobic or…Well, later I wondered whether she didn’t perhaps feel something for me, too, but couldn’t deal with it when I brought the issue front and center. Anyway, that ended the only real, significant friendship I’d ever had. I’d always been pretty…solitary, and she was the first person I really deeply trusted.”
“I can’t imagine how difficult that was for you.”
“It was hard to trust again, after that,” Kash confirmed. “Until I met Lainie, about four years later. After Christine, I kept all my relationships with women casual and brief. No strings.”
“No expectations meant no disappointments,” Isabel said.
“Yes.” Remembering Lainie was much more difficult, for no amount of time could make that wound feel any less painfully fresh. Why, when I remember her, don’t I ever see her during one of her cruel moments, there at the end? Why do I insist on picturing her as she was the day I met her?
“I was blown away the minute I saw her, which was during one of my first jobs out of college. Lainie was breaking into modeling, and she came to the studio in New York where I was working to get shots for a portfolio.” Kash could still recall the patchouli undertones of her perfume as she swept by, all confidence. “I was only an assistant then, right in off the street, and she barely noticed me.”
Her voice had dropped to a lower register than normal. She wished she had some water; her throat felt constricted. “Our paths crossed a couple more times after that, at one shoot or another, but I still never registered with her. Not until People magazine did a story on me. The next time she saw me, backstage at some awards show, she introduced herself as though we’d never met. But I didn’t care, because suddenly she couldn’t wait to spend time with me.”
“You were in heaven,” Isabel said.
“Yes.” It was easy to talk to Isabel, perhaps a little too easy, but she couldn’t stop now. “I hadn’t been famous long enough yet to know about women who will throw themselves at you for the right phone number, invitation, or introduction. She made me believe she loved me, that we had a future together, for six months. Until she had gotten everything she wanted from me and had snared someone who could give her more. Oh, and as a parting gift, she sold everything I had ever told her in confidence—most of it in bed—to the tabloids, a chapter at a time.”
“Oh, Kash.” Isabel’s voice was so soft Kash barely heard it.
“It was a long time ago.” But it had changed her, hardened her, badly. She had never been the same, and she knew it. “After that, I rarely let a woman get close. The few who did? Well, they always wanted something from me, too. So I started making everything clear and obvious, right up front. A fuck for a favor. No illusions about what was involved.”
“Always?” Isabel asked. “Surely some women have been genuinely interested in you?”
“No,” Kash insisted. “Never.”
“No disrespect intended, Kash, but maybe you hang out in the wrong circles. And when was the last time you really gave someone a chance?” There was no challenge or malice in Isabel’s tone, only gentle inquiry. “Or honestly opened yourself up to the possibility? You didn’t with Gillian, who had no interest in asking for any favors or anything else from you. And you’re pushing me away—and I want nothing from you except your company, as long as I can have it. I don’t want the photos, the cover, the magazine…all of that stuff. I really don’t. I’m doing these shoots only because I’m obligated to, and because they’re a way to be near you.”
“Gillian’s your friend and a lovely woman, and I don’t mean to criticize her unfairly. But I would bet she wouldn’t have come on to me if it wasn’t for who I am.”
Isabel didn’t refute the assertion, because she wasn’t sure she could. “Well, your celebrity isn’t a selling point as far as I’m concerned, Kash. I respect your talent, of course, but I’m not interested in you because of what you can do for me.” She settled back against the couch. “I know probably nothing I can say will convince you of that. But it’s the truth.”
“Isabel, if I didn’t believe you, I wouldn’t have told you all I did.” Kash took a couple of steps closer. “I do think you’re one of those rare women who say what they mean and mean what they say, and don’t have some hidden agenda. It’s a refreshing change, and I won’t deny that I’m powerfully attracted to you. That’s pretty obvious. But I guess it’s precisely because you are different from the type of woman I’m usually with that my usual…well, let’s say that the way I usually am with women…doesn’t feel right with you. I’m not sure I can explain it better than that.”
“I wish you could, Kash. I want to understand, because I don’t see anything standing between us.”
Kash ran a hand through her hair. Jesus, I’m terrible at this. “Isabel, ever since Lainie, I can’t be with a woman unless I can absolutely control everything that happens. I don’t know any other way to be.”
“Okay, I think I understand that.”
“I’m not sure you do,” she said, exasperated. “To put it bluntly…what I mean is…I can’t get off unless I completely dominate whoever I’m fucking. They become an object to me, in a sense.”
Isabel studied Kash’s face intently but didn’t interrupt.
“I don’t want to think about what they might want. It’s about what I want. It’s part of the deal. If I screw them, then I don’t mind so much when they screw me.” God, I wish I had a drink. “Oh, I make sure they leave happy. I know if I don’t, that will end up in the tabloids, too.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “But none of them will get the satisfaction of making me come. Most of the time, they’re not even around. I wait until I’m alone.”
The next admissions were the hardest. “I can be very…demanding and aggressive sexually, Isabel. And rough, particularly if the woman I’m with is blatantly trying to deceive me that she doesn’t really want something else from me. It’s always consensual, but…” She paused. “Sex has become, for me, a way of doing business.” She knew that sometimes women probably agreed to do things with her they might not ordinarily, only because they wanted a favor badly enough.
“Don’t you see?” Kash was suddenly tired of trying to explain and understand. “Do you get it now? I can’t be that way with you. It doesn’t feel right, somehow. You’re too different for me.” I think about what you want too much. And I don’t feel the same need to dominate you, but if not that…then what?
“Is there anything I can say…or do…to make it possible for you?” Isabel asked. “To change your mind?”
“No. Nothing. I can’t. We’re from different worlds.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Kash. Brief affairs are totally against her nature, but she’ll make an exception for me. Of course she would be the rare woman I can’t just fuck and forget. “I’m sorry, Isabel. From now on, we should keep things between us strictly business. It’s better that way.”
She turned to go, trying to erase the image frozen in her mind of the disappointment on Isabel’s face.
*
When Isabel and Gillian left the hotel the next morning for Isabel’s makeover, Kash was already waiting in the car with Massimo. Isabel, in the lead, slipped into the front seat next to him, leaving Gillian to get in the back with Kash.
She and Kash exchanged few words beyond perfunctory good mornings, and they avoided eye contact. Isabel was a little afraid that Kash might somehow be able to sense how her day had started
out, and she guessed that Kash was trying to keep her distance.
Isabel had awakened that morning in the middle of a very hot dream, in which Kash was fucking her while “I Get Around” played in the background. It was far more realistic than most of her dreams. In fact, she was still trying to convince her stirred-up hormones that it had all been imaginary and that she wasn’t going to be getting any more real opportunities to experience Kash’s touch. Doesn’t seem to matter that she wants nothing further with me. And her self-confessed “issues” weren’t a deterrent either. In fact, Kash’s sexual-control proclivities—much to her surprise—were extremely enticing.
Morning rush hour was a nightmare, with Massimo demonstrating amazing kamikaze driving skills and his command of every conceivable Italian curse. But they arrived at the salon with all body parts intact and only a few minutes late for Isabel’s appointment.
Clifton Mengam had gained the same kind of acclaim for doing hair that Kash had achieved for taking pictures, so he had long since dropped his last name from his business cards. He had established a chain of salons in Rome, Milan, New York, and Los Angeles and often created the cutting-edge and always highly flattering coiffures of actresses attending red-carpet events.
One of his assistants settled Isabel comfortably into a chair, under an aubergine cape with the large swirled C that was Clifton’s trademark. Her cappuccino arrived in the hands of the man himself.
The famed stylist was a handsome black man with a broad, welcoming smile, whose soft-spoken demeanor contrasted to his imposing six-foot, three-inch height. He seemed casually dressed in faded jeans and a white linen shirt, but she could tell the shirt was finely tailored and his shoes looked expensive. In his early thirties, he wore his hair cut very short, with neatly trimmed edges.
“Buon giorno, ladies,” he warmly greeted them all, then presented Isabel with her cup and saucer, also adorned with his trademark C. “Miss Sterling, benvenuta. Welcome. May I call you Isabel?” Both his English and his Italian carried a faint accent, a suggestion of his Surinamese heritage.
“Of course.”
“Grazie, Isabel. I am most pleased to be the one chosen for your makeover.”
“Very nice to meet you.”
“Kash!” Clifton smiled broadly at the photographer, who was setting up her equipment. “Wonderful to see you again. Come va?”
“Non c’è male, Clifton,” Kash replied. “How is it you seem never to grow a day older?”
They hugged and exchanged the customary duet of cheek kisses, and Clifton introduced himself to Gillian before he returned to stand behind Isabel.
He ran his hands through her hair, taking measure of the texture and weight, as he studied her face in the mirror for a full minute or two. “Beautiful hair,” he said at last. He spread the long blond locks over her shoulders. “You have not cut it for many years.”
“Hmm. Twelve or fourteen, or so,” Isabel said. She was impressed by his gentle touch and unhurried assessment.
“So are you excited about this change, or a little nervous?” Clifton had a twinkle in his eyes, like he could see through her veneer of polite enthusiasm.
Isabel couldn’t contain a smile. “I know I’m very lucky to be the beneficiary of your talents, and believe me, I’m appreciative. I admit, however—hoping you won’t take offense, please don’t—that I’m happy with the way I am. I didn’t enter myself in the contest that won me this makeover, you see.” She pointed to Gillian. “My friend there did. So although I’m sure I’ll be happy with the result, because I know you’re a whiz at this…it’s not like I’m seeking a change.”
Clifton nodded knowingly. “It is wonderful to be content with how you are, as you should be—you’re a beautiful woman. Very beautiful.” He continued to run his hands through her hair, considering the possibilities. “But I am willing to bet that if you trust me completely, you will leave here not merely happy with the result, but really thrilled.”
“Thrilled, huh?” Unlikely. I’ll be happy if I don’t leave here with a blue Mohawk. It can always grow out.
“Thrilled and amazed,” Clifton promised with a smile and a wink.
“This I gotta see.” Isabel sighed resignedly.
Clifton rattled off instructions in Italian to one of his assistants, who busily began to mix two colors of hair dye.
“First, I will add highlights and lowlights to your hair,” he told Isabel. “They will add a lot of shine and depth to your beautiful natural color. Then I will cut it, to a couple of inches below your shoulder.” He indicated the length with his hand. “And give you some soft bangs, long. Here…” Sweeping over her forehead with his fingers, he indicated the path his razor would take. “They will better frame your face, show off those high cheekbones. And your eyes. You’ll see.”
As Clifton worked with his colors, Kash started clicking away, circling them. She was happy for the chance to study Isabel’s face in her viewfinder while Isabel was distracted and unguarded. He’s right. She’s lovely just as she is.
When she got into photography, her camera was her artist’s easel, her method of connecting with the world. But her long zoom lenses had also made her the ultimate voyeur, bringing faces and bodies intimately close for study and appreciation while allowing her to maintain her distance and veil of disinterest.
Her eyes really are the most interesting shade of blue. Deep and endless, the sky on a perfect cloudless day. Calming. She felt buoyant whenever Clifton said something to make Isabel laugh or smile that marvelously imperfect smile.
He was a master at it, too. Kash had seen him in action often, behind the scenes at some awards show or runway event, taking care of the hottest of the hot. Like bartenders and psychiatrists and priests, stylists heard all types of stories and confessions. While maintaining total discretion, he still managed to tell marvelously entertaining stories about his clientele. And between what he learned on the job and picked up as the voracious reader he was, he could talk to absolutely anyone about anything.
Kash was enjoying both the view through her lens and the bits and pieces of new information she was learning about Isabel through the warmly gregarious Clifton.
“Cakes! How wonderful. My medium is hair, yours is fondant. They are actually not so different.” Clifton motioned his assistant for another cappuccino for Isabel. “It is all about making the vision a reality and that delight on the client’s face when they see it for the first time.”
“Exactly,” Isabel said.
“So tell me,” Clifton said, “your most challenging task, most rewarding, something along those lines. The memorable ones.”
“Hmm.” Isabel pursed her lips.
Kash zoomed in and focused. Click. Click. Zoomed in some more. Such nice, full lips. And soft. Christ. So soft. Why the hell didn’t I kiss her when I had the chance?
“Well, I’m kind of known for my kids’ cakes. You know, for birthdays, mostly. Whatever the child likes, I try to do something appropriate. Making a football cake—now that was a challenge. A three-dimensional one, mind you, to scale. With frosting the right color and texture. The stitching. Only with the kid’s name instead of Rawlings.”
“Sounds marvelous.” Clifton finished administering the color to her hair, and while they waited for it to set, he sipped espresso with her.
“I was the most proud of a cake I made of the Disney castle—you know the one I mean? It’s patterned after one in Germany.”
“Neuschwanstein,” Clifton supplied. “King Ludwig the Second.”
“Hey. I’m impressed. Exactly right.”
“Izzy, they’ve got a computer here,” Gillian chimed in. “You should call up your Web site and show him pictures.”
“You have a Web site?” Clifton set down his coffee and went to retrieve his laptop, which was currently displaying his day’s schedule of appointments.
“Yes. Izzycakes dot com,” she answered. “I do freelance work, mostly for bakeries.”
“They’re so amazing th
at people are always saying they can’t bring themselves to cut into them,” Gillian enthused.
Clifton typed in the address, then grinned. “Brava! Incredible work, Isabel. I had no idea you could do something like this with flour and sugar. The castle must have taken a very long time. It is so wonderfully detailed it could almost be a photograph.”
The comment drew Kash’s attention to the screen.
Clifton wasn’t exaggerating. Isabel’s cakes were stunning in their complexity and meticulous attention to detail. The windows in the castle were thin sheets of colored sugar as translucent as stained glass. And the roses and leaves on her wedding cakes were so realistic Kash could swear they had been plucked from a garden that morning.
“All of this is handmade?” she asked. “That’s all really edible?”
“Every bit,” Isabel said. “Hate to have a client bite into something that’s going to choke them. Wouldn’t be very good for business, now would it?” Her teasing tone helped to defuse the tension between them.
Kash met her eyes. “I really have to apologize, Isabel. When Miranda told me you decorated cakes, I sort of made fun of what you do. I was picturing those big sheet cakes with Happy Birthday, Junior written on them and little plastic football players stuck into the icing. But this is truly impressive. You’re much more artist than baker.”
“You’re forgiven.”
Kash wondered how else she had underestimated Isabel. There was certainly more to her than was readily apparent.
“Your cakes for children are quite something, indeed. I can see how you are known for them,” Clifton said. “So…you like kids, obviously. Do you have any of your own?”
“No,” Isabel said. “Not yet. Maybe some day, though.”
