Brown? Chanel was at Brown last weekend? Alarms, sirens, bells, and whistles were all sounding loudly in Porsha’s head.
“I’m sure you did better than you think, sweetie,” Mrs. Sinclaire assured Chanel. “Those interviews are so awful. I don’t know why they put so much pressure on you girls.”
Porsha splashed another puddle of milk onto the floor. She couldn’t keep still. She wished the manicurist would just let go of her leg. “When was your interview?” she asked Chanel accusingly.
“Saturday.” Chanel wasn’t sure if she should mention that Kaliq was there, too. She had a feeling she shouldn’t.
“What time on Saturday?” Porsha demanded.
“Twelve.”
Uh-oh.
“Kaliq had an interview there,” challenged Porsha. “His was at twelve on Saturday, too.”
Chanel took a deep breath. “Yeah, I know,” she said. “I saw him there.”
Porsha flexed her foot in anger. What the fuck? The manicurist slapped it. “Relax,” she warned.
“Kaliq hasn’t called me since he got back,” Porsha growled. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Chanel’s profile.
Chanel shrugged. “Me and Kaliq don’t really talk anymore.” She certainly wasn’t going to mention the fact that she and Kaliq had slept in the same bed in a hotel room and had woken up holding hands. Or that they had both gotten drunk at Cairo’s keg party and puked in the bushes behind his house together. They hadn’t spoken since they got back to the city—that much was true.
“Where has Kaliq been, anyway?” Porsha’s mother yawned. The foot massage was putting her to sleep. “I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“Me neither,” Porsha hissed, and she was certain Chanel had something to do with it. “I wonder why.”
Chanel knew Porsha was waiting for her to make some sort of confession. She closed her eyes. “Don’t look at me.” But the minute she said it she wished she hadn’t. It was almost like she was asking for it.
Porsha stood up abruptly, spilling her bowls of milk on the floor and nearly upsetting her foot bath. “Shit!” the manicurist squealed, sliding off her stool and landing on her butt in a puddle of milk.
“Porsha, what on earth?” her mother cried.
“Excuse me,” Porsha said tightly. Hot tears of rage gathered in her eyes. “I just can’t sit here any longer. I’m going home.” She glanced down at her manicurist. “Sorry about the mess,” she said. Then she stamped out of the room, slipping slightly on the wet tile floor.
“What was that all about?” Porsha’s mother asked Chanel. She was worried about her daughter, but she wasn’t about to go after her and give up being pampered.
Chanel shook her head. She had nothing to do with whatever problems Porsha and Kaliq were having, although she was definitely curious. And she was kind of worried about Porsha, too, despite how incredibly mean Porsha had been to her lately. She appeared to be having some kind of breakdown.
“She’s probably just nervous about the wedding,” Chanel said, although she was pretty sure that the wedding accounted for only a tiny portion of Porsha’s problems. “You know how she gets.”
Porsha’s mother nodded. Did she ever.
29
“This dress makes me look like I have silicone implants in my thighs,” Alexis complained, poking at her legs as she examined herself in the mirror.
“It makes my skin look so pale,” Imani whined. She squirted some lotion into her hands and smoothed it over her arms. “I should have bought that bronze body powder at Sephora,” she added, pouting.
Porsha rolled off the bed in their St. Claire Hotel suite and snatched up the Givenchy dress, letting it dangle from her fingers. It was long and brown and sleek, with tiny pearlescent beads sewn diagonally across the bodice, and two delicate beaded strands, like necklaces, to hold it up. She yanked off her white hotel bathrobe and pulled the dress on over her head. The material clung to her figure, but it didn’t feel tight—it felt great.
Porsha examined herself in the mirror. The dress didn’t make her look hippy at all. She looked gorgeous. Yesterday she’d been waxed, plucked, exfoliated, steamed, and moisturized from her hair follicles down to her toenails at the Aveda Salon and Spa on Spring Street. She had new, warm chestnut highlights in her hair, and her mother’s makeup artist had dusted her entire body with sparkling scented body powder.
Porsha fluffed up her shoulder-length locks, which had just been blown out by her mother’s hairstylist. She didn’t care if Imani and Alexis weren’t happy with their dresses, Kaliq wasn’t going to be able to keep his hands off her tonight. Plus, the dress went perfectly with the Manolos her father had given her for her birthday. Porsha pulled the shoes out of her bag and strapped them on. She was glad she could still be faithful to her dad, even at her mom’s stupid wedding.
“You know you want me,” Porsha said to her reflection, pretending she was talking to Kaliq. She looked amazing, and she was definitely ready to have sex.
“All set,” Chanel said, coming out of the bathroom in a cloud of sweet-smelling perfume. The dress looked pretty great on her, too, but Porsha tried not to look. She had done a marvelous job of ignoring Chanel all through hair and makeup that afternoon. She didn’t see any reason to stop ignoring her now.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Hey, it’s me,” Tahj said from the other side. “You guys ready?”
Porsha opened the door, and Tahj and Brice were standing out in the hall wearing their tuxedos. Tahj had gotten his dreadlocks cut short so that they stuck out from his head in all directions. He looked like a rapper attending the Grammys. For once, Brice looked like the perfect little gentleman, with neatly parted hair and a perfectly tied bow tie. She had to admit they both looked adorable.
“Wow,” Tahj said. “That dress is great.”
Brice nodded in agreement. “You look really pretty,” he said earnestly.
Porsha frowned, reveling in the attention. “You don’t think it makes me look fat?”
What a drama queen.
Tahj shook his head. “Give it up, Porsha,” he said. “You know you’re beautiful.”
She grimaced. “You really think so?”
“Yeah,” Tahj said. “Mookie thinks so, too. He told me. I had to leave him at home, but he’d definitely want to hump your leg in that dress.”
“Fuck off,” Porsha growled, although she was enjoying every minute of it. She turned to Alexis, Imani, and Chanel. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
As the girls filed out of the room, Porsha glanced back at the suite’s sumptuous king-sized bed. Okay, so the next few hours were going to be hell. And sure, she didn’t know where in God’s name she was going to college next year. But today was her birthday, and tonight she was going to lose her virginity to Kaliq in that bed.
“Do you, Cyrus Solomon Campbell, take Eleanor Wheaton Sinclaire to be your lawful wedded wife, to love and serve, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?” asked the minister from the altar of the intimate all-faiths United Nations Chapel.
“I do.”
“And do you, Eleanor Wheaton Sinclaire, take Cyrus Solomon Campbell to be your lawful wedded husband, to love and serve, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“Oh, yes. I do.”
Misty Harrison shifted her hips on one of the chapel’s uncomfortable wooden benches. “Tell me again why they had to get married so quickly?” she whispered to Titi Edwards.
Mrs. Edwards moved closer to her friend and gave her a knowing glance through the little blue veil that was attached to her fabulous peacock feather cap. “I heard she was running out of money,” she whispered. “It was her only way out of debt.”
Mrs. Braxton couldn’t help getting involved. “I heard she fell in love with his summer place in the Hamptons,” she said, leaning forward to whisper in Misty’s and Titi’s ears. “She wanted it for herself, but he wouldn’t sell. So she figured out another way
to get her hands on it.”
“How long do you think it will last?” Misty asked dubiously.
Titi smiled viciously. “How long could you live with that?”
They examined Cyrus, who was looking particularly rosy in his gray pinstriped suit and cream-colored shirt, tie, and waistcoat. He’d worn a gold pocket watch and spats on his shoes.
Spats? What did he think this was, a costume party?
Eleanor looked radiant despite her ridiculous dusky pink Little Bo Peep gown. Her eyes gleamed with happy tears, and diamonds glittered from her neck, wrists, and ears.
But most importantly, the bridesmaids and ushers…
Porsha clutched her bouquet of winter lilies and kept her eyes fixed on Kaliq, drowning out the wedding service completely. A few days ago, Kaliq had finally sent her an oblique text message saying he was sorry he hadn’t seen her in a while, but he’d had to go up to Maine to spend Thanksgiving with his family. Porsha had responded immediately, telling him how nervous and excited she was about tonight. Kaliq had never replied, so she’d had to satisfy herself with the thought that all would be resolved when they saw each other again. As long as that bitch Chanel didn’t get in the way.
Porsha waited for Kaliq’s gaze to shift to Chanel so she could catch him staring at her yearningly. But Kaliq kept right on watching the ceremony, his green eyes sparkling in the candlelit chapel.
For once, Porsha decided to be optimistic. Maybe, just maybe, she was wrong about them. Forget Chanel—Kaliq was as excited about tonight as Porsha was. Why else would he be looking that good? He absolutely radiated sexiness. But then again, so did she. Her Givenchy dress fit her body like a condom, and she was wearing absolutely nothing underneath it except for a pair of stay-up, lace-top stockings. Oh, and her birthday Manolos, of course.
Porsha was ready. She was a bouquet-carrying sex machine.
So why wasn’t Kaliq looking at her?
Kaliq watched the ceremony, feigning interest to avoid eye contact with Porsha. He had noticed that she was looking particularly sexy, but all it did was make him worry about how he was going to handle things later on.
In his pocket was Brianna’s favorite calligraphy pen, which she’d given him to remind him of her while he was gone for Thanksgiving. Kaliq couldn’t bring Brianna to the wedding, for obvious reasons. But he’d promised to meet up with her at the hotel bar during the reception so she could see him in his tux.
He’d also promised her that he’d refrain from smoking a big fat joint before the wedding. Now he regretted it. He was going to have to face Porsha completely sober.
Kaliq stuck his hand in his pocket and gripped the pen. It made him jittery just thinking about it.
Chanel felt jittery, too, although you’d never know it. Whenever a professional got his hands on her face with makeup, the results were unreal. Her hair shone, her skin gleamed, her cheeks glowed, and the brown Givenchy dress hugged her body, accentuating her narrow hips, the curve of her back, and her long graceful legs.
But inside, Chanel was a little messier.
First and foremost, she was worried about Mekhi. He was acting strange. She hadn’t been able to see him at all before the ceremony, but she had talked to him last night. Sort of. She’d done all the talking. Mekhi had kind of grunted at her and said he’d see her at the wedding. Chanel didn’t know what was going on with him, but there was definitely something.
She was also worried about Porsha, despite the fact that Porsha had been ignoring her all day. The girls were standing next to each other, and Chanel could practically feel the tension zinging off of Porsha’s body like static electricity.
Across the aisle, her brother, Cairo winked at her. He looked like a prince in his tux. A male version of Chanel, all exotic-looking and tall, with a sprinkle of freckles on his nose and adorable dimples in his cheeks. Chanel had told him all about her crappy Brown interview, and predictably Cairo had said two words in response: “Fuck ‘em.”
It wasn’t exactly the most reassuring piece of advice she’d ever gotten, but Chanel respected her brother’s carefree brand of wisdom—it worked for him. And she was seriously considering art school now anyway.
She turned her head and tried to locate Mekhi in the audience, but she couldn’t see his messy twists anywhere among the glamorous hats and crisply coiffed dos of the wedding guests. She wondered if he’d even bothered to come.
Mekhi was slumped in a pew in the back, his hands sweating like crazy, trying not to listen to the ruthless gossip going on around him.
“It’s even tackier than I expected,” he heard a woman whisper.
“What on earth is she wearing?” her neighbor whispered back.
“What about him?” the first woman replied.
“And the bridesmaids’ dresses. They’re pornographic!”
Mekhi didn’t know what they were talking about. Everyone in the wedding party looked pretty spectacular to him, particularly Chanel. Mekhi had tried to clean himself up as best he could, but his scuffed black loafers were all wrong and his shirt wasn’t even ironed properly. He’d never felt more out of place in his life.
But Chanel wanted him there and there he was. A lamb ready for slaughter.
“And now, you may kiss the bride,” announced the minister.
Cyrus grabbed Eleanor around the waist. Porsha clutched her bouquet against her stomach to keep from puking. It wasn’t a very long kiss, but any public display of affection between people your parents’ age is enough to make you gag.
Cyrus stamped on a wineglass wrapped in a napkin and the piano player pounded out congratulatory chords.
At last, they were married!
The wedding party followed the couple down the aisle and through the chapel doors. Out on the sidewalk on First Avenue, across from the UN, Porsha tiptoed up behind Kaliq and breathed into his ear. “I missed you,” she purred.
Kaliq spun around and did his best to smile. “Hey. Congratulations Porsh,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
Porsha frowned. “What for? This is like, the worst day of my life.” She stepped closer to him. “Unless you make it better.”
Kaliq kept right on smiling. “What do you mean?”
Porsha was too fed up with things to mince words. She got straight to the point. “I mean,” she said, “I’m not wearing any underwear.”
Kaliq stopped smiling. “Okay.” He rammed his hands in his pockets, fingering Bree’s pen.
“You haven’t even wished me happy birthday yet,” Porsha pouted, sticking out her lower lip. She reached out and patted Kaliq’s pockets. “And you haven’t given me a present, either.”
Kaliq’s hand closed around the pen, hiding it from her. “Why don’t you ask that guy if he’ll take our picture?” he suggested desperately.
The Vogue photographer was busily snapping romantic shots of Cyrus and Eleanor in the back of their Bentley. Porsha went over and tugged on his sleeve. “Take a picture of me and my boyfriend?” she asked him peppily.
But when she turned around, Kaliq was gone.
Down the block, Chanel was waiting for Mekhi to emerge from the chapel, just like she’d promised. He came out and shuffled up to her, his head bowed.
“Sorry about that,” Chanel said, giving him a little hug. “Hope it wasn’t too weird.”
Mekhi shoved his hands in his tuxedo pockets. “It was okay.”
“Well I thought it was weird,” Chanel said. “And I know these people.”
She seemed so genuinely grateful that he was there Mekhi decided to loosen up a bit. “You look really good.”
Chanel smiled. “So do you. Come on,” she said, pulling him over to a waiting limo. She pushed him into the back seat. “Let’s go get drunk.”
They had the car to themselves and Mekhi loved the way the leather seats smelled. He sat so close to Chanel that their legs were touching.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she said.
Mekhi turned his head and their eyes met. The car was ab
out to pull away from the curb and Chanel had the feeling Mekhi was about to say something serious. Then the door to the backseat opened and Kaliq popped his head in.
“Hey, guys,” he said breathlessly. “Mind if I ride with you?” No way was he getting stuck riding in a car alone with Porsha.
Cairo appeared behind him. “Me too?” he asked. He tossed a bottle of peach schnapps onto the seat. “I brought beverages.”
Chanel scooted over to make room. “The more the merrier!” she said gleefully.
Mekhi didn’t say anything.
He lit a cigarette.
30
“You must be thrilled.”
“Congratulations, dear!”
Porsha hadn’t factored the receiving line into her script for this evening’s movie, and her mother and Cyrus seemed hell-bent on prolonging the agony. Her face hurt from smiling, and she was sick of people kissing her and making her tell them how happy she was for her mom. As if. It was bad enough that she’d already been forced to pose for the camera with her lips pressed against one of Cyrus’s nasty fat cheeks.
She still couldn't believe it. Eleanor Wheaton Sinclaire, Upper East Side society hostess, and Cyrus Solomon Campbell, real estate developer, were married today amidst scandal, gossip, and intrigue. They met in Saks last spring, and had been dating ever since. She was suffering from a major lack of confidence when they met, having recently been left by her first husband for another man. But Cyrus made her forget all that. He fell in love with her smile, her newly slimmed-down physique, and her huge Fifth Avenue apartment, and he wasn’t going to let them go. He also couldn’t wait to leave his plastic-surgery-crazed wife. Eleanor fell in love with Cyrus’s cheery outlook on life, his naughty Santa Claus sex appeal, and his incredible Bridgehampton beach house. How perfect for each other could they be?
Yeah, right.
“She’s really cool to hang out with,” Porsha heard Tahj tell someone. He was standing next to her on the receiving line and he kept telling people how excited he was to have such a cool new sister. Porsha knew he was being sarcastic. She wanted to slap him.
Upper East Side #2 Page 15
