Tamara spotted Aaron just before he grabbed her and planted a kiss on her cheek.
“See, I told you everything would turn out great.”
“I know.” She smiled up at him. “I was just worried.”
He gave her a hug. “I’m sorry about the way I acted. It’s just that when I want something I want it. And when I can’t get it, then I sometimes act a little immature. I guess that’s from being the only child.”
“We all make mistakes.” She shrugged. “I made a few myself.”
“So, can I make it up to you tomorrow with a romantic Valentine’s Day dinner for two? I’ll cook whatever you want.”
He smiled at her hopefully, and Tamara all of a sudden started remembering the good times they’d had before the stupid blowup. She would love to spend Valentine’s Day with him. But no, she had to stay focused. She didn’t want to get caught up again, and she sure didn’t want him to make a promise she couldn’t keep, so she said, “I’ll let you know.”
He raised his eyebrow. “You’ll let me know? Right,” he said as he walked away.
Tamara knew the next morning that she had arrived. She had come to New York and done what she was supposed to do, and that was make it happen. She poured a glass of orange juice and began to listen to her messages. The first message was from Maurice Harold.
“Good morning, Miss Murphy. I just wanted to tell you, you did an excellent job. I am so happy to have you on board. You have to get the New York Post. We are in there thanks to you, and on Page Six. What do you know about that? We’re in the Daily News, too.”
Tamara listened to all of her messages again. Yes, she decided, she was definitely a hit. They love me, they really love me, she said to herself. And I love me. And that was so important to her. She called Aaron and turned him down. She wanted to spend the day alone. Yes, it was Valentine’s Day and yes, she was dateless, but by choice; and no, she was not going to sit back and watch Valentine-inspired television; she was going to go out and treat herself to the best spa treatment.
She took her time getting out of the house, then went and had a deep-tissue stone massage and a paraffin pedicure. She felt all the tension and stress she had encountered over the last month and a half drift away. She then went and took in the latest Will Smith movie. It was almost 8:00 p.m. when she strolled down 125th Street on her way home. She looked at a passing bus and saw an advertisement for MoBay’s Uptown Restaurant. She remembered the cabdriver telling her that they had great mojitos, and it was only two blocks away, just across Fifth Avenue. She decided to stop in and have a drink. As she went into the restaurant, she smelled the aroma of beef ribs and decided she would sit and have dinner, too!
She had taken a seat and grabbed a menu when she noticed her downstairs neighbor sitting alone looking miserable. Her straight black hair was covering her almond-shaped eyes, and she was looking down at the table while carelessly stirring her drink with her finger.
Now, there was someone who looked like they could use a friend. She got up and walked over. “Do you mind if I join you, or would you prefer to be alone?” she asked in a friendly tone.
“Actually, I don’t prefer being alone, but I don’t want to be with no man.”
Tamara chuckled. “You’re buzzed, aren’t you?”
Dior raised her glass. “Why not? Care to join me?”
“With pleasure.” Tamara took a seat. “By the way…”
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” both women said simultaneously.
CHLOE JOHNSON
by Deja King
January 10, 2008
Chloe Johnson parked her 2008 candy-apple-red drop-top Benz in the circular driveway of her parents’ estate. The moment her Manolos hit the pavement, Chloe was overcome by the ninety-eight-degree scorching heat, which was typical for a Houston summer. Not missing a step in her five-foot-four-inch strut as she reached the entrance of the three-story neoclassical gated estate beautifully situated on two acres at the fifth tee of River Oaks Country Club, Chloe turned the key in the lock, slowly opening the front door and entering the foyer. Once she was inside the comfort of air-conditioning, her heels tapped the herringbone floors as she passed the two-story mahogany library, making a beeline to the sunken living room. Upon her grand entrance, the first words out of Chloe’s mouth were “I’m moving to New York.”
The abrupt announcement lingered in the air as Mr. and Mrs. Johnson both remained silent for a few minutes wondering if they’d heard their only daughter correctly.
“My dear Chloe, you mean you’re going to visit New York and do a little shopping on Fifth Avenue?” Mrs. Johnson, who bore a striking resemblance to movie star legend Dorothy Dandridge, asked with just a touch of southern twang in her voice as she sat on the plush silk taffeta chair in the huge living room.
“No, I’m moving there,” Chloe stated firmly, eyeing her parents.
“You can’t move to New York,” Mr. Johnson said, calmly taking the final sip of his cognac as he peered through the wall of glass overlooking the park-view setting. “You’ve been heading up our teen line for almost four years now. We need you here in Houston, helping to run the family business. The business that’s been passed down to generation after generation and will someday be yours. You belong here in Houston, with your family,” he continued. “So whatever idea you have about going to New York is out of the question.”
Mr. Johnson walked over to the silky oak wood bar and poured himself another glass of Rémy Martin Louis XIII cognac and Mrs. Johnson continued to read her book as if the conversation were over.
Chloe marched forward and placed her Hermès Birken bag on the mahogany end table before sitting down on the cream mohair velvet couch. She lifted her chin up and primped her shoulder-length golden brown hair. Chloe then put a fingertip at the crease of her mouth to make sure her crème de la femme MAC lipstick was in place before speaking.
“Daddy, you know that I adore you, but I am moving to New York. It’s about time that I make use of my journalism degree and pursue my goals. Of course I love cosmetics,” she said with an undertone of sarcasm, “but my dream is to someday run my own magazine. That will never happen if I stay here in Texas. I’m sure you understand.”
“No, I don’t,” he countered, jiggling the ice cubes in his glass. “What? You want me to give you my blessings and then place a few phone calls so you’ll have the job of your dreams waiting for you in New York? Because I know you have no intention of starting at the bottom,” Mr. Johnson said matter-of-factly.
“Actually, that’s exactly what I plan to do. I don’t want to use your connections. This is one accomplishment I will obtain all on my own,” she said haughtily. When she saw his mouth harden around the edges she quickly changed tactics.
“Daddy, I’ve worked for the best, which is you,” she said in a softer tone. “I’m more than capable to go to New York, excuse my French, and kick ass.”
To her relief, Mr. Johnson let out a slight chuckle. She knew he always admired her fire—he always said it reminded him so much of himself.
“Chloe, I don’t understand any of this. Why would you want to move to such a dreadful city when you have all this luxury right here in Texas?” Mrs. Johnson asked, placing her book down on the couch next to her.
“Mother, I wouldn’t expect for you to understand,” Chloe said dismissively before turning back to her father.
“Daddy, your country club friends and Texas are all you know. When I went away to Boston for college I realized there is so much more out there than debutante balls and bouffant hair.” She ignored the grimace she was sure her mother flashed at that last statement and continued. “When I came home I was still afraid to be out in the world without the security of Daddy. But after working four years in the family business, it’s time to cut the umbilical cord.”
“My dear Chloe, I know a lot more than the country club and Texas. I’ve traveled the world and have been to every state and nothing compares to Texas. There is no other place for me.
This is where I belong,” he stated with confidence.
“Then let me have the opportunity to decide if your destiny is my destiny.”
Mr. Johnson gave Chloe a puzzled look. “And how do you go about deciding that?”
“Going to New York and pursuing my dreams. If I fail, then I fail, but at least let me try to fly. Ever since I was a little girl you told me that cowards hide in the shadow of certainty and trailblazers step into the light of the unknown. I’m asking you to allow me to take the path of the unknown and see where it leads me.”
“If you’re serious about this, Chloe, then you have my support,” Mr. Johnson said.
“Oh, Daddy, I knew you would understand.” Chloe ran to her father and gave him a long hug. She took in the intoxicating smell of her father’s cologne and felt safe in his strong arms.
She’d never be able to tell him, but that was the other reason Chloe desperately wanted to escape to New York—hoping to find the elusive Mr. Right. Of all the men Chloe dated, none of them could hold a candle to her father. Plus, the ones who did have it all, once they found out her dad was the legendary Leon Johnson, their focus was no longer on dating her but competing with him, and of course it was never a match.
Leon Johnson exuded the essence of power. He didn’t have to talk about it or be about it, because he was it. Chloe had so much respect and admiration for her father, she thought no man would ever compare. But she decided the only way to break the cycle and free herself from her father’s clutches was to go to a place where everybody didn’t know her name.
“Of course I do. I was twenty-six before and I can identify with your need for independence,” Mr. Johnson reminded her. “Just know, it won’t be easy. You’ll have to sacrifice a lot.”
“I know—for one, the brand-new Benz you got me for my birthday. At least until I get settled I don’t see the logic of taking the car with me. I understand most New Yorkers take taxis and subways. I’m looking forward to the experience. But I’ll manage, you’ll see, Daddy. When I come back home I’ll have my dream job.” And my dream man, she said under her breath before kissing her father, and then her mother, on the cheek.
“I’m sure going to miss seeing her face every day at the office,” she heard her father say with a sigh as she closed the door behind her.
“Leon, don’t worry, she won’t be in New York for long. No Benz, and having to take taxis and subways…it took all my strength not to laugh. The girl was born with a Tiffany’s spoon in her mouth for heaven’s sakes. Struggling isn’t even in her extended vocabulary. Trust me, Chloe will be back,” Mrs. Johnson said with a chuckle.
She’s wrong, Chloe said to herself as fire flared in her eyes. After all, I am my father’s daughter.
Her first night in New York was spent just strolling down 42nd Street taking in the brash seductive signs of Roxy Delicatessen, Times Square Brewery, J.P. Morgan Chase, and Swatch. The top-notch visual styles combined with the lights and action made the streets sizzle with energy. She admired the New Victory Theater, New York’s oldest active theater, originally named the “Theatre Republic.” Built in 1900 by Oscar Hammerstein, the venue helped establish 42nd Street as the city’s new theater district. Chloe then made her way to Restaurant Row on 46th Street between Broadway and Ninth Avenue. The three-block stretch had cuisine to enjoy from all around the world. Whether you were in the mood for Italian at the historic Barbetta, craving a French feast at Le Rivage, Russian cuisine at Firebird, Thai at Bangkok House, or steak from Broadway Joe, the choices were endless. Chloe couldn’t remember if New York or Las Vegas was the city that never sleeps, but she figured they had to be running neck and neck. After relishing the nightlife of Times Square, Chloe decided to check out a club she read about in Page Six called One over in the Meatpacking District.
When Chloe arrived, the line was halfway down the block. The velvet rope separating entrance into the club and mere mortals desperate to enter was intimidating to her. In Houston Chloe’s face was familiar on the social scene due to the numerous times she appeared in the business and lifestyle sections of the newspapers or local television interviews done on her and her family.
Chloe was a Johnson and in every city of Texas that was instant clout. Here in the big city of New York she felt like a faceless nobody. “There is no way I’m waiting in that long-ass line. I’m Chloe Johnson for heaven’s sake. I’ve had intimate dinners with men who own their own country and I’ve never had to wait on them. Why should I have to wait to get into some silly nightclub?” she asked out loud, trying to hype herself up as she began to recall her pedigree.
Chloe stood at the side of the building and pulled out her mirror. She slid off the band that was holding her hair in a loose ponytail and it fell cascading around her shoulders. She then used her fingers to fluff it out before applying fresh lipstick to her full lips. Chloe scoped out her attire, and although she wasn’t in her normal drop-dead flawless nighttime getup, her curve-defining True Religion jeans, formfitting blouse, and glam Italian Luciano Padovan stilettos would do fine. She unclipped three top buttons, giving just the right touch of cleavage. Chloe strutted toward the daunting doorman and stopped in front of him as if unfazed. “I’m Chloe Johnson and my people are waiting inside for me,” she said with each word dripping of confidence. The burly gentleman stood impassive for a moment and Chloe could tell he was sizing her up. She raised her hand to her hip and tilted her head off to the side and looked up to the stars as if one herself, continuing with her performance.
“You can go right in,” he said, letting her through the velvet rope. Once Chloe had passed the doorman and entered, she got an instant adrenaline rush and broke into a huge smile. But her smile quickly turned to fascination upon walking through the narrow hallway illuminated by a single red light leading into a scenic New York moment. It was simple but opulent with exposed brick and cinder block walls that rose above the rosewood floors and buttery brown leather booths to meet the vaulted twenty-foot-high ceilings and wide skylights. With the pulsating beat of Nas’s latest track blaring from the speakers, the voodoo-inspired look was even more intoxicating.
“Would you like a drink?” the female server clad in a Versace microskirt uniform, which came dangerously close to revealing a bit too much, asked Chloe.
“Sure, I’ll have a Bellini.”
After the waitress walked off, Chloe took a seat at a small table beside her. She observed the predominately European crowd that consisted of scantily dressed women who were gyrating their hips more seductively than any woman she’d seen on a music video, unrecognizable men who presented the aura of success, and of course sprinkles of famous actors, athletes, and music entertainers whom you would only find lounging in an exclusive New York City club.
“Here’s your drink. But to sit at this table your tab has to be a minimum of a thousand dollars,” the waitress informed Chloe.
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t see the Reserved sign? It’s there for a reason.”
Chloe looked down on the table and in plain view was the glossy card that said RESERVED.
“Well, I guess that means I’ll be standing,” Chloe said, handing the waitress a twenty for her drink. She could easily afford the thousand-dollar price tag but couldn’t imagine throwing her money away just to occupy a table. After downing another Bellini and observing the energetic crowd for twenty more minutes, she was ready to call it a night. As Chloe made her way to the exit she was startled by a pair of strong hands clutching her waist.
“Leaving so soon?” a deep voice whispered in her ear. Chloe turned around, furious that someone had the audacity to put their hands on her.
“Who the hell are you and why do you have your hands on…” Chloe’s voice trailed off when her eyes locked with the mystery man’s. She had never seen such deep inviting eyes, and they made her light on her feet.
“I apologize,” he said, releasing Chloe from his grasp, but her natural reflex pulled his hands back in. He smiled before saying,
“Does that mean you’ve changed your mind and have decided to stay?”
Before Chloe could answer, the champagne bottle flying in the air less than two feet away from them interrupted her thoughts. The chaos exploded out of nowhere. Two sets of entourages who were sitting in booths next to each other were now in a full-fledged brawl, fists swinging and bodies being thrown.
“We have to go,” three imposing men said, whisking the mystery guy away. In the midst of all the action surrounding them, neither one had an opportunity to say a word; it all happened so quickly. In the blink of an eye he had vanished, and through the crowd of men fighting and spectators running for cover, Chloe had no way of seeing where he disappeared to.
Chloe headed home full of disappointment. For a brief moment in a club, a place she’d never expect it to happen, she felt a connection to a man unlike any other. Full of solemnity, she opened the door to her one-bedroom loft in Midtown. It was definitely not the caliber of her penthouse at the Villa D’Este, but it would do for now
For the duration of the weekend Chloe unpacked her clothes, had furniture delivered, and decorated the place, giving it a southern feminine touch. She fantasized about what might’ve happened if the fight never happened in the club and she had exchanged numbers with the mystery gentleman. “This is stupid, daydreaming about a man I’ll never see again. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. I need to focus my energies on something I actually have control over,” she reasoned, picking up the real estate section of the newspaper. Once settled in, Chloe planned on taking a look at some beautiful brownstones she’d heard about in Harlem. Harlem was supposed to be so hip and happening these days. Maybe she’d buy one. Or on second thought, rent one, since she’d heard how expensive those things were and she didn’t want to have to run to Daddy for the down payment. Or maybe just rent an apartment in one.
Diamond Playgirls Page 14
