Pleasure Seekers

by Rochelle Alers

  His gift was exquisite understated elegance. She would wear the pearls when she saw him again. Ilene returned the necklace to its case and placed it in a drawer of the bedside table.

  She turned off the table lamp, then pulled the sheet up over her body, smiling. She had the perfect outfit to showcase Nakanogo’s gift.

  CHAPTER 35

  A feeling of relief swept over Faye as she told Alana about her marketing campaign that had been rejected.

  Alana swallowed a mouthful of iced tea, her eyes widening. “But didn’t you offer them your backup pitch? You know you never create a marketing strategy without putting together an alternative proposal.”

  Faye stabbed at her salad greens with such force that the bowl almost tipped over. “I was so pissed that I never presented it.”

  “If you’d presented it you probably wouldn’t have lost the account.”

  “I don’t know why, but something tells me that I lost that account even before I opened my mouth. And the fact that John gave it to his so-called niece and another dumb-ass intern who couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag with the directions written inside confirms my suspicions.”

  “You think your boss gave the account to two interns because of internal pressure?”

  “It’s not what I believe, Lana. It’s what I know.”

  “What are you going to do with your alternate pitch?”

  “I’m keeping it for myself. I wanted to present a timeline, beginning with the postwar model. I’d show a Tuskegee Airman in uniform standing beside the 1948 model, then move forward from the fifties to present day. Each frame would feature a black man, woman or family wearing the corresponding fashion for the decade. The last would show a young woman and man in urban wear lounging against the LXR–V. The soundtrack would reflect the music of black artists beginning with Ella Fitzgerald and Nat Cole to today’s hip-hop.”

  Slumping against the back of her chair, Alana shook her head. “That is one fantastic campaign! Your boss is a fool, girlfriend.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, Lana. I’m leaving.”

  “When?” Alana was barely able to control her gasp of surprise.

  “I’m not sure. But I know I don’t want to give them another year.”

  “Do you have something else lined up?”

  “No.”

  “But…but how are you going to support yourself? I know you’re not getting alimony from your ex-husband.” She gave her a questioning look. “What’s going on, Faye?”

  “I’m going to be available to Bartholomew Houghton every weekend this summer.”

  More frightened than shocked, Alana placed a hand over her mouth. “No, no, no. You can’t.”

  “And why can’t I?”

  “Girl, you’re going to get in over your head.” Alana reached over and grasped her hand. “Something told me the man wanted you the night we went to Enid’s dinner party, and I knew for certain when I saw him watching you this past weekend. It could be he’s come down with a serious case of jungle fever, or maybe he’s always had a thing for black women.”

  Faye pulled her hand from Alana’s loose grip. “If that’s the case then why didn’t he pick you or Ilene Fairchild?”

  “It could be he likes blondes,” Alana said glibly.

  Faye rolled her eyes at her. “Cut the B.S., Lana. At the end of the summer I’ll have earned enough to pay a lawyer his fee to take my brother’s appeal, and hopefully by the end of the year I’ll be able to think about setting up my own company. I plan to use the equity in my co-op as a cushion until I sign up enough accounts to support my business without taking out an additional loan.”

  Alana sobered and her expression grew serious. “How much do you need for your brother’s appeal?”

  “At least one-fifty as an initial retainer. Rooney Turner is one of the best appeal attorneys in the country, right up there with Alan Dershowitz. After his staff sorts through the evidence the fee could double or triple.”

  “Dam-n-n-n, Faye. All in all it could cost you half a mill. I followed the Claus von Bulow trial, where Dershowitz was able to get his wealthy client’s murder conviction overturned, but damn!”

  “Turner is known as a bloodhound in legal circles because if there’s the slightest hint that all the evidence doesn’t add up, he goes in for the kill. He’s good, Alana. He said that after he reverses CJ’s conviction he’s going to sue the state. I told him I’m not concerned about suing anyone, I just want my brother exonerated so he can get on with his life.

  “Now, back to Bart Houghton,” Faye said, “It’s only business, Lana.”

  “How long do you think it’ll remain business, Faye? From what I’ve heard, he’s rich as Croesus. And for a white man he’s not too bad on the eyes. I kinda like his George Clooney circa–E.R. haircut.”

  Faye wanted to confess that she liked Bart’s eyes and mouth, which wasn’t too thin yet firm enough to be masculine. “What are you doing this weekend?” she asked, deftly changing the topic.

  “I don’t have anything planned. What about you?”

  “My mother’s coming in on Friday, and we’re going to have a mother–daughter weekend.”

  Tucking a curl behind her ear, Alana stared out the plate-glass window. “If I don’t hear from Enid, I’m going upstate to visit my mother. She wanted me to come up this past weekend, but I told her that I had to catch up on some work.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  Alana lifted a shoulder. “I suppose she’s doing okay. I can never tell by her voice because she always sounds the same. Taylor and his wife stopped by last week to check on her and found that she hadn’t gone out or changed her clothes in a couple of days. Sophia gave her a bath and cleaned the house while my brother went to the supermarket to restock the pantry and refrigerator. Last year Taylor talked about putting on an addition to his house, and have Mama live with him.”

  “What stopped him?”

  Alana shook her head. “I don’t think Sophia wants her mother-in-law living that close to her. I can’t stand that selfish bitch, but I put up with her because she’s my brother’s wife and my niece’s mother.”

  “But your mother is so quiet.” Unlike mine who has an opinion for everything, Faye added silently. “If I hadn’t committed to spending the weekend with my mother I’d go up with you.”

  “What about the following weekend?”

  “I can’t.” Faye told her about the trip to the Grand Cayman Islands.

  “It sounds as if you’re going to have a lot of fun this summer.” There was a hint of wistfulness in Alana’s statement.

  “Don’t forget, I’m going to be working,” Faye reminded Alana. “I intend to use up most of my vacation before I hand in my resignation.”

  “How much vacation time have you accrued?” Alana asked.

  “Forty-two days. Starting this week I’m taking off Fridays and Mondays. I’ve put in for three weeks in July and another three in August.”

  “Won’t that alert HR that you’re up to something?”

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn what they think.”

  Picking up her tea, Alana took a sip. “The folks at BP&O are going to have a shit hemorrhage when you hand in your resignation.”

  A smile of pure satisfaction softened Faye’s mouth. “There’s an expression that says, ‘You never miss your water until your well runs dry, and you’ll never miss your baby until she says goodbye.’”

  “Hel-lo,” Alana intoned, touching her glass to Faye’s.

  Faye held up her glass of tea in a mock solute. “I’ll drink to that. Tell me about your interview with Coco Chanel’s personal assistant.”

  Alana told her about her meeting with an elderly woman who’d met the famous French designer as a young girl and eventually became her maid, then personal assistant. What was to be a one-hour lunch stretched into two as Faye was enchanted by Alana’s story that covered the Great War, Depression, the Nazi occupation of France, Madame Chanel’s love affair w
ith a Nazi officer, her exile to Switzerland and her eventual comeback in 1954 that restored her to the first ranks of haute couture.

  Faye returned to her office, closed and locked the door; she did not open it again until it was time for her to leave for the day.

  CHAPTER 36

  Faye stood at the Long Island railroad’s information booth, waiting for her mother. It was 3:10 p.m., and the electronic board confirmed the train from Saint Albans was in the station.

  She’d called Shirley the night before, asking her to come into Manhattan earlier than they’d originally planned because she was taking the day off. Within minutes of hanging up she had another call, this one on her cell phone. Astrid Marti had called to let her know that the agreement wherein a client must go through P.S., Inc. to contact a companion was no longer in effect because of Bartholomew Houghton’s exclusivity arrangement.

  Her second call of the night came from Bart. He’d confirmed the time she would be picked up the following Friday, and asked that she not bring an outfit for the wedding because he planned to buy her whatever she needed once they arrived on the island.

  A flicker of apprehension had coursed through her when she realized she would travel out of the country with a man who wasn’t her lover or husband, but her anxiety was short-lived. She had to stay focused. At no time could she afford to forget that Bart was her client.

  “Faye Anne.”

  Turning, she saw her mother standing less than a foot away. She’d come up behind her. Moving closer, Faye reached for Shirley’s overnight bag and kissed her cheek.

  There was no doubt Shirley and Faye were mother and daughter. At fifty-five, Shirley’s stylishly cut short curly sandy-brown hair was liberally streaked with silver, and her gold-brown face claimed a few laugh lines around a pair of light brown eyes that sparkled like polished citrines. She’d worked briefly as a pattern cutter in the garment district before opting for marriage and becoming a stay-at-home mother.

  “Mama, you look so beautiful.” Shirley had chosen to wear a tailored pantsuit in a becoming peach shade with a pair of low-heel black patent-leather pumps.

  “So do you, even if you are too thin.”

  Faye lifted an eyebrow at her mother. “It’s the dress, Mama.” The ice-blue sheath dress had artfully concealed her curves.

  Shirley wrapped an arm around her daughter’s waist. “You are thinner.”

  Faye rolled her eyes upward. Shirley was like a dog with a bone. “I always lose a few pounds with the warm weather because I’m eating more salads.”

  “How much do you weigh now?”

  “I don’t know, Mama.”

  She hadn’t bothered to hide her annoyance at being interrogated about her weight loss because she’d made a concerted effort to lose ten pounds. She hadn’t changed her eating habits but had begun walking during her lunch hour three times a week.

  “What hotel did you choose?”

  A secretive smile softened Faye’s lips. “I’m not saying because I want to surprise you.”

  Shirley looped her arm through Faye’s. “You know I don’t like surprises.”

  “This is one surprise I know you’re going to like.”

  “Ladies, the gentleman at the bar would like you to have these.” The bartender set down two glasses, one a manhattan and the other a cosmopolitan.

  Faye stared at a young black man sitting at the bar in the Bull and Bear who nodded in acknowledgment, but before she could signal her thanks he’d turned back to the older man on his right.

  Turning her attention to her mother, who sat across from her with a smug expression on her face, Faye shook her head in amazement. “Were you flirting with that man?” Shirley reached for the cosmo, successfully avoiding her daughter’s accusatory stare. “Were you, Mama?” she asked again.

  Shirley took a sip of the cool pale pink cocktail. “I can’t believe this little thing is so good.” She waved a manicured hand. “Don’t act so put out, Faye Anne. He kept looking this way and all I did was smile and wave.”

  “We came here to have predinner drinks, Mama, not flirt.”

  “How am I going to get grandchildren if I don’t look out for you, Faye Anne? Besides, he looks like a successful young man, given the cut of his suit.”

  Faye had noticed the man when she and her mother sat down at a table in the popular bar on the ground floor of the Waldorf-Astoria. But it hadn’t crossed her mind to flirt with him or, for that fact, with any other man.

  “You’ll never get grandchildren if you feel it’s your duty to pick up men for me,” she said between clenched teeth.

  Unperturbed, Shirley took another swallow of her drink. “You’ve been single for more than two years, and not once have I heard you talk about having a special friend.”

  “I have a friend.” The pronouncement was out before Faye could censor herself.

  Shirley’s hand halted in midair. “Is he special, Faye Anne?”

  She picked up the manhattan and took a deep swallow, welcoming the cold, then the heat, spreading throughout her chest. “No. He’s just a friend.”

  “Do you think he’ll become more than a friend?” Shirley whispered, intrigued.

  Faye met the gaze of the woman she loved beyond description. She hadn’t always done what her mother wanted her to, but Shirley was always there to support her whenever she failed or faltered. Shirley’s “wait until you become a mother then you’ll understand what I’m talking about” was a constant reminder that she wasn’t a mother. She and Norman had talked about starting a family after three years, but their marriage had barely survived the two-year mark.

  “I doubt it, Mama.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want more,” she said truthfully.

  How could she tell Shirley that her friend was a client, a man who paid her to entertain him? In some cultures she would be seen as a courtesan or geisha, but Enid Richards legitimized and made her business morally correct by referring to them as social companions. Although cautioned not to sleep with their clients, Faye wondered if Enid was naïve, or had she chosen to ignore that her clients and social companions were adults who could or would do anything as long as it was consensual.

  Shirley patted her daughter’s hand. “Don’t you want to get married again?”

  Faye gave her mother a long, penetrating look, knowing what she would look like in twenty years. Despite having been out of the workforce for more than three decades, the older woman was as stylish as any contemporary working counterpart.

  “Yes, I do. I miss the companionship of living with someone.”

  “What about the intimacy, baby?”

  Faye nodded, smiling. Leave it to Shirley Ogden to go straight to the jugular. “That’s what I miss most.”

  Leaning over, Shirley pressed a kiss to Faye’s cheek. “Finish your drink before I’m so drunk that you’ll have to call someone to carry me out of here.”

  “Would you mind having dinner in our room tonight?”

  “Of course not, dear. In fact, I was going to suggest that.”

  She knew she’d shocked Shirley when they’d gotten into a taxi outside Pennsylvania Station and directed the driver to take them to the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Faye had selected the elegant hotel as much for its historical significance as for its Art Deco lobby, beautifully furnished rooms and impeccable service.

  Faye finished her manhattan and signed the bill. Rising, she made her way over to the bar. Resting a hand on the shoulder of the man who’d paid her second round of drinks, she thanked him for his generosity. And before he could ask her her name, she walked out of the Bull and Bear, Shirley several steps behind her.

  Quickening her pace, Shirley caught up with Faye and looped an arm around her waist. “You’re going to have to help your mama because I’m slightly tipsy.”

  Faye smiled at the petite woman. “You only had two drinks.”

  “My limit is one nowadays.”

  “You need to get out more. You and Daddy u
sed to party quite a bit.”

  Shirley sobered quickly. “We used to do a lot of things together. Everything changed when that whore accused CJ of rape and assault. How could he rape someone who opened her legs for every man in the neighborhood?”

  “Please let’s not talk about that now, Mama. I wanted you to spend the weekend with me so that we can have a good time.”

  Shirley took a deep breath. “You’re right, baby.”

  Faye didn’t want to talk about her brother. Even though he’d confessed to sleeping with the married mother of three who’d made it a practice to trade her body for food or drugs, he’d vehemently denied raping or beating her.

  CJ had made mistakes in the past because he hadn’t always made the best choices, but Faye knew her brother was no rapist.

  She walked into the Waldorf’s lobby and gasped inaudibly. Bartholomew Houghton had approached a statuesque redhead who apparently had been waiting for him. Dressed in a Chanel dinner suit, the slender woman appeared to be in her early forties. He offered his arm, and as she took it he glanced up and met Faye’s gaze.

  Faye stared wordlessly at him, her heart pounding a runaway rhythm as he stared back with complete surprise freezing his features. There was a silent moment of recognition and acknowledgment in the gray orbs before he looked away.

  Never breaking stride, Faye led her mother to a bank of elevators that would take them to their suite. She didn’t recognize the woman with Bart as one of the companions who’d attended the P.S., Inc. dinner party, nor was she at his Southampton gathering.

  She knew Bart was as shocked at seeing her as she was, but why, she asked herself as she entered the elevator, was she so flustered just because she’d seen him with another woman?

  Shirley pushed the button for their floor while questions assaulted Faye like invisible missiles. Why would it matter who he saw when he was only her client? Why when he’d said they were friends? And why when he’d said there wasn’t even the remotest possibility that they would ever sleep together?