by Deidre Berry
Thinking about what he means to me made me teary-eyed and sentimental.
“Thanks, Kylie-Poo. You are everything to me!” I said, giving him a big hug. “That’s why you and me, we must never part. Promise?” I held up my pinky, and we pinky-swore, which for some reason made Kyle sentimental as well.
“Love you too, pumpkin,” Kyle said, looking verklempt. “Happy birthday!”
“All right, now let’s get this party started, shall we?”
I went over to the iPod docking station, where I found my favorite song, pressed play, and cranked up the volume.
Biggie’s voice came booming through the speakers, and Kyle and I danced to “Juicy,” a song that had become a tradition for us to play on either of our birthdays. Plus, the song was quite personal to me because it summed up perfectly how my life had played out so far.
An Affair to Remember
At eight PM sharp, Donovan and I arrived outside 30 Rockefeller Plaza in a white, chauffeur-driven Bentley Continental GT. Right before we got out of the car, he slyly sent someone a text message, which I assumed was to alert our waiting guests that we were on our way up to the Rainbow Room.
“You look stunning tonight,” Donovan said as he took my hand and helped me out of the car.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Dorsey,” I said in a Southern belle accent. “And I must say that you look quite dashing yourself this fine evening!”
Donovan laughed and we walked arm-in-arm into the Plaza, both dressed to the nines and looking very coupelicious, him in a rich, dark brown Armani suit with a peach buttoned-down shirt and matching pocket square, and me in my black Cavalli number, accented by diamonds galore.
We complemented each other perfectly.
In the elevator on the way up to the sixty-fifth floor, Donovan made small talk, trying to lead me to believe that we were just having a simple dinner.
“I think I’m in the mood for surf ’n’ turf, tonight,” he said, caressing the nape of my neck. “How about you?”
“Hmm, I’ll have to check the menu, but steak and lobster is always good,” I said, hoping I sounded innocent and clueless.
Donovan escorted me off the elevator, and we were met by a violin quartet who were all dressed in formal attire and playing 50 Cent’s ode to birthdays: “In Da Club.” Go, Shawty, it’s ya birthday!
“Wow, what’s all this about?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face.
Donovan, also trying to appear clueless, said, “Good question. . . .” Then he opened the doors to the banquet room where 150 of my closest friends yelled “Surprise!”
I dropped my jaw and gave them the wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look that I had practiced in the mirror all afternoon.
The Rainbow Room is already gorgeous on its own on an ordinary day, but walking into it that night felt like walking into a dream.
I surmised that the theme was pretty in pink, because everything in the room, from table linens and napkins to the bouquets of peonies that adorned each table, was decorated in various shades of pink, from bubble gum to fuchsia, which all blended well together.
I spotted floral designer Preston Bailey standing off to the far side of the room trying to be inconspicuous, and knew that it was his talent and sheer genius that was responsible for creating such a breathtaking atmosphere. Donovan must have paid him handsomely for his services.
Everyone was there. Well, everyone besides members of my biological family, but Zoë, Sandra, Giselle, Janine, Penny, Sherry, Katrina, Kyle, Pilar, Kelly, and Helene, my stylist, were all in attendance, looking shiny and beautiful. But the biggest surprise of the night was that my girl Tameka had temporarily emerged from the rock she’d been hiding under to come show love and celebrate my special day.
The party was wonderful.
Pre-dinner cocktails were pink grapefruit margaritas and a signature drink created especially for me called Eva’s Raspberry Supreme, which was a tasty concoction of champagne and raspberry-flavored vodka with a hint of grenadine, garnished with a skewer of fresh raspberries.
Dinner was course after course of all my favorite gourmet foods, and instead of the usual birthday cake, there was a lavish cupcake tower with a huge array of flavors, my favorite being tropical coconut cake with mango sauce.
People made great toasts to me, we all danced, and good humor flowed as freely as the champagne.
Then John Crosby showed up.
John was Donovan’s friend, colleague, and mentor. He was twenty years older than Donovan and had carved out a career for himself at Goldman Sachs. From the minute Donovan came on the scene, fresh out of business school, John took him under his wing, and the two would eventually come to be like father and son.
In addition to attending dinner parties and countless other social functions with John and his wife, Carol, Donovan and I vacationed with them at least twice a year, so I knew John well, and was happy to see him.
Donovan, on the other hand, looked nervous when John entered the room, and knowing him as I did I sensed that he was reluctant to go greet his friend and welcome him to the party.
I nudged Donovan and whispered, “Aren’t you going to go say hello?”
“Of course,” he said, forcing a smile and kissing me on the forehead. “Enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I turned my attention back to my guests who had formed a Soul Train line and were cutting up something serious to Young MC’s old-school cut “Bust a Move.”
“Come on, Eva, get in here, girl!” Tameka dragged me out to the dance floor, and I was so glad to see she had let her hair down and was having a good time despite her personal woes.
“Hey! It’s my birthday, it’s my birthday . . .” I went down the middle of the Soul Train line doing a combination of old-school dances starting with the pop lock, which segued into the robot, and then the cabbage patch.
Forget that the guest list was exclusive, and was a veritable who’s who of New York African-American society; we were turning the Rainbow Room out! Then I heard John Crosby yell something about wanting his fucking money and wanting it NOW!
All eyes shot across the room to where Donovan and John’s quiet conversation had taken a wrong turn and become heated. John looked wild-eyed and full of rage, which was disturbing to me because he was normally such a nice, mild-mannered guy.
“I wonder what’s up with that?” Zoë mused aloud, as I excused myself to go see what all the ruckus was about.
Donovan and John were around the same height, but when I joined the two men Donovan looked like a little boy being admonished by his father, plus there were beads of sweat on his top lip, a sure sign that he was under duress.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said. “But you two aren’t talking business at a time like this, are you?”
“No, just a small misunderstanding,” Donovan said. “Everything is all cleared up now, right, John?”
“Yes, for now.” John had lowered his voice, but his body still reverberated with anger. After giving Donovan a long, hard look, he then turned to me with a smile and a warm hug. “Happy birthday, Eva. This is quite the party, isn’t it?”
“It is! Donovan always goes all out, so it is definitely one to remember.”
“Good deal, but because life has a way of changing on a dime, be sure to really take it all in, and savor the moment. . . .” said John, whose face was friendly, but his tone was cryptic as hell.
Okay . . . Thanks for weirding me out on my birthday . . . Creepyguy.com!
“Well, sorry you can’t stay longer, John, but please give Carol our best,” Donovan said, walking John to the door.
Afterward, the good energy returned, and the party went on for a couple more hours as if nothing had ever happened.
I danced with my guests in the middle of the revolving dance floor, which after a while started to feel like being on one of those tilt-a-whirls at the amusement park.
Tons of pictures were taken, and I came away with a haul of birthday presents that you wouldn
’t believe. I received so many gifts that I couldn’t even open them all. Donovan had anticipated that would be the case, so he’d arranged to have them delivered to our apartment by van.
That was my Donovan, always thinking of everything.
Around two AM, waiters offered warm chocolate chip cookies along with shots of cold chocolate milk, then passed out goodie bags filled with random but great gifts like Ojo Personal Video Phones, gold pave bracelets by Gabriella Francesca, Laura Mercier candles, an assortment of gourmet snacks from Dean & Deluca, and a bottle of Rutherford Cabernet Sauvignon 2000.
I waited until the end of the night, when Donovan and I were back in the Bentley, to ask the question.
“So, what was that situation with John Crosby all about?”
“Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over,” he said, loosening his tie. He avoided my eye contact, and I knew he was lying. I could have pressed further, but decided to let the matter drop. Besides, if he had explained in detail what the deal was with John, it would have probably just gone over my head.
Donovan could be so technical at times. He was so passionate about his career, and the day-to-day activities associated with it, that he often failed to realize that not everyone shared the same passion or interest.
While Donovan was taking off his tie and suit jacket, I got comfortable as well.
I had danced almost the entire night, and my dogs were barking something ferocious. I unstrapped my heels, sunk my feet into the plush lamb’s wool rug, and reflected on the night.
Putting the incident with John aside, it was one of the most memorable birthdays ever, second only to my twenty-third, when Donovan took me to Bermuda, where we stayed at the five-star Cambridge resort for a week and had private beach dinners for two, every night.
I snapped out of my reverie upon noticing that Thaddeus, the driver, had taken the exit into La-Guardia Airport. “Why are we heading to the airport?” I asked Donovan, who looked like he had been deep in thought himself.
“I told you to be up for anything, remember?”
“Yeah . . .” I said with anticipation
“Well, we’re going to Paris, baby!”
“No way!”
“Have I ever lied to you, Eva? Seriously, we’re hopping on the jet and we’re leaving tonight—right now as a matter of fact.”
I screamed like a little girl on Christmas morning. Paris was, and will forever be, the fashion capital of the world, and since I was a fashionista through and through, Paris was to me what Mecca is to Muslims. A pilgrimage that the seriously devout make every year without fail.
I stopped screaming when I realized that I didn’t have one essential thing. “Donovan, wait, I don’t have my passport.”
He reached inside his suit jacket and flashed both his passport and mine. And the screaming continued.
“I should have known!” I planted kisses all over Donovan’s face. “You always cover every base!”
I was beyond excited. I had expected to perhaps spend the night at a ritzy hotel, but a trip to Paris was just over-the-top. But then again, that was Donovan for you. It couldn’t just be Christmas at home with just the two of us, it had to be Christmas in St. Bart’s on a yacht with several of our friends.
He was impulsive and unpredictable, yet it was always in a good way.
A private jet was one of Donovan’s many extravagant toys, so if he woke up and the weather did not suit him, he would say, “Rio is always nice this time of year” or “Shaq is having a party at Mansion tonight in Miami. . . .” which I would take as my cue to start packing for a trip.
“So how long are we going to be gone?” I asked.
“A couple weeks . . . who knows? But, I’ve been planning this trip for a long time, and the only stipulation is that this be a fun, relaxing vacation with no electronic devices whatsoever, including cell phones.”
Huh? I looked at Donovan as if he had suddenly started speaking a foreign language. Leave my phone behind? That caused me great concern. My cell phone was like an extra appendage to me. In fact, it was more like a lifeline, much like the placenta is to a fetus.
I clock a minimum of five hundred minutes on my phone every single day, and Donovan should have known that asking me to give it up was the equivalent of asking me to leave civilization and go backpacking through the wilderness. I could do it, but then what would be the fucking point?
“Donovan, baby, let’s be reasonable about this. . . .” I said as if trying to talk him down off a ledge. “I need it to at least check in with Zoë and Kyle every so often.”
“No . . . hell, no! I have made up my mind, Eva, and I’m not budging on this. Look, I know that you are the center of all this social activity that you feel you have to keep up with, but surely you can go a couple of weeks without the incessant texting, e-mail, and phone calls about who had an abortion, who hooked up, who wants to hook up, and who is abusing what substances.”
“It’s not all about gossip, Donovan. I am on the board of some very important committees, remember?”
“Right, how could I forget? Committees that meet every six months only to talk about the next party that you all plan to throw for yourselves. Listen, if it will make you feel any better, I’m giving up my laptop and BlackBerry too.”
“Completely? As in you’re not even going to take them on the plane with you?”
“Now you’re getting it,” he said as if I were mentally challenged and had just learned how to tie my shoes.
That was major.
Donovan was constantly working the hell out of his BlackBerry and all of his other electronic doodads, using them to stay on top of industry news, and seal multimillion dollar deals.
If he could do it, I most certainly could too. I would miss my friends and social circle, but at the same time it was a chance to relax and get away from all the hoopla. Donovan was right. The world was not going to catch on fire if I missed a couple of phone calls and text messages. I could check on all the he-said, she-said bullshit when we returned to the country.
Besides, I hadn’t brought my charger along with me so the whole issue was really null and void, anyway. I handed my cell phone over to Donovan, which he stowed away in a storage compartment along with his own.
Traveling is great, but there are preparations that have to be made and I hadn’t made any.
As the car got closer to the airport, I ran a list of all the pros and cons through my head. The general presidential election was two weeks away, but I had already cast my vote for Barack Obama by absentee ballot, so I was good in that regard.
I had previously RSVP’d to several events that were coming up in just the next week alone.
There was the Stella McCartney trunk show, the launch party for Pilar’s vanity line of “luxury” handbags, the ASPCA fund-raising gala, and the premiere of Spike Lee’s new joint.
It was also time to start helping Kyle prepare for his annual Halloween bash, which is always an all-out extravaganza.
They were great, lovely events, but they all paled in comparison to a trip to Paris.
Last, being a black woman, my primary concern about going abroad was my hair. Thankfully, I had gone to Helene’s hair salon just the day before and had gotten my weave freshly done with a blend of the finest human hair that money could buy. It was also a good thing that I had packed a head scarf and all of the hair products I needed in order to properly take care of it, so with careful routine maintenance and wrapping my “hair” at night like I normally do, then I should be good for up to three months. But I couldn’t see us being gone that long.
Donovan and I were welcomed onboard his Gulfstream 550 by the flight crew that I had come to know very well. Alex the pilot and Ginger the flight attendant were both as friendly and accommodating as ever, and set us up right away with down pillows and cashmere throws to keep warm.
“Can I get you folks some snacks or refreshments of any kind?” Ginger asked.
“Oh, no, thanks,” I said, patti
ng my stomach. “We just came from a party, and I really couldn’t consume another thing even if I wanted to.”
“Okay, well, call me if you need me.” Ginger smiled, then pulled the front curtain closed and disappeared into the cockpit.
Hmm . . . I raised an eyebrow wondering what really goes on up in the cock-pit between a hot flight attendant and an equally sexy pilot.
As always, Donovan had thought of everything. He had brought along a comfortable traveling outfit for me to change into, and then we both settled into our plush leather seats.
Once we were in the air I looked down on the city and blew it a kiss, bidding New York a fond farewell, for now. It was a ritual that I performed with each trip that I took, because besides Chicago, New York was where my heart was, and I missed it terribly whenever I was away for extended periods of time.
I looked over at Donovan and noticed that he suddenly looked more content and relaxed than I had seen him in a very long time. He could pretend that this trip was all about my birthday, but I knew better. He was overworked and needed to take some time away from the grind to de-stress and wrap his head around all that was starting to happen in the financial sector.
From what I had gathered from Donovan and news reports, investment banks were failing, along with long-standing brokerage firms. The failing economy was fueling the presidential debates, and slowly but surely, it was becoming an undeniable fact that investors suddenly had very little money to save, let alone invest in a volatile market.
I reclined in my seat, and sighed.
I hoped that Paris would do Donovan some good, and help bring him back around to his old, happy-go-lucky self.
Caviar Dreams
Seven hours later, around five PM Paris time, Donovan and I arrived at de Gaulle Airport.
We stayed at Le Meurice, an opulent five-star hotel right in the heart of Paris. Decorated with elegant gold-and-white French furniture reminiscent of the Louis XVI era, our four-room suite was luxurious beyond belief.
