“I swear I’m okay now. I won’t do anything stupid like that again,” she said.
“Hard going through something like that all alone,” Dell said, patting her dreads. “Next time, open your mouth. Tell somebody. Tell me.”
It was surprising to see Dell act so caring, until I remembered that she’d launched four kids, including a set of twins, and two grandkids into the world, quite successfully, and mostly alone.
The kitchen was a crazy hive of activity when Will breathlessly barreled in, tossing a small paper bag on the prep table in front of me.
“Cassie, I tried to reach you but there was no answer. No black truffles, only white. That okay?”
“You asked for black, right, Dell?” I hunted around for my phone, realizing I’d probably left it in Jesse’s truck when he dropped me off that morning.
“I did.”
“Does the color of the damn truffle even matter?” Will asked her.
“It always matters,” Dell said, pressing that point home in the form of a lesson to Claire.
Will exhaled and dropped his chin to his chest. “Fuck. I can’t do anything right.”
“Come on,” Dell said, drying her hands on a tea towel and grabbing Claire by the sleeve. “I’ll show you where to hunt and gather.”
Dell and Claire left us standing in the kitchen. I immediately rose to leave, the way I always did when it looked like I was going to be alone with Will.
“Wait,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”
My stomach clenched. I turned to face him.
“I wanted to say thanks,” he said. “I already thanked Dell, and now I want to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being such a support for Claire. And such a good example.”
“A good example?”
“Of a grown woman who has her shit together.” He continued without waiting for my reply. “Every time you show up here without hurling something at my head, you’re setting a good example. Every time you pick her up and take her to a movie, and come in here early and deal with Dell because you’re better at it than I am, you set a good example. Every time you make a smart decision about the menu, or handle an irate customer with more grace than one person should possess, you set a good example for her. And I just want to say thank you. And I owe you.”
I was getting that deep, warm feeling you get when you look for longer than usual at a face you love. I let myself enjoy that moment, the two of us standing there being kind to each other in a quiet kitchen. Months of resentment slid away. And then, without my permission, my hand lifted to touch that face I once had loved so much. And he let me. He let me touch him without flinching, without stepping back and away. Somehow I had expected the feel of his skin to be familiar, but it was new to me.
“You don’t owe me anything, Will. I care about her.”
He reached up to touch the back of my hand. “Well, I owe you something, Cassie. At least an explanation.”
“For what?”
“For what I said to you, that night. At Latrobe’s. For the way I treated you.”
“No. Don’t—”
“No. You need to hear it. You’ve made all the difference in her life. In both our lives.”
Who knows how long we would have stood there marveling at each other’s faces, our hands touching. We never had a chance to find out, because Jesse walked in at that moment, shattering everything.
“Okay. Yeah. I’m sorry,” he said, immediately spinning away from us as though he’d walked in on his parents having sex. Before bolting, he carefully placed my phone on the nearest counter. “You left it in my truck.”
Will gave me a tacit go after him nod. Strange how the tables had turned; now it was Will urging me to fix things with Jesse. Guilt, that constant, awful companion, followed me out the door.
Steps behind Jesse on the sidewalk, I called his name, one, two, three times. He finally froze in his tracks, his back to me, probably giving his face a second or two to arrange itself into an I don’t really give a shit expression before turning around.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said. “Your phone kept ringing and ringing and I thought—”
“You didn’t intrude. We were just having some kind words over Claire. That’s all.”
“How is she?”
“Good. Better. Yeah. Don’t leave like this, okay? Come back. Come in for a beer.”
I clasped the hem of his T-shirt, giving it a gentle tug. Jesse wouldn’t move.
“I can’t right now.”
“You’re mad.”
“No, baby, I’m not mad. Just realistic.”
And with that, he got into his truck and drove away from me, at first slowly, until he turned the corner at the Praline Connection and sped up, leaving dust in his wake.
SOLANGE
At least twice a year a big movie opened in New Orleans, generally one also shot here. The state provided lucrative tax breaks to drum up film and TV business. But even when I was younger and greener, when it should have been fun to cover red carpet events and to meet famous people, I balked. It was so easy to get pigeonholed as a “female” reporter, instead of a serious reporter, to be given frivolous stories and to be seen as shallow or, worse, glamorous. So when I was assigned to interview a certain Major Movie Star (a.k.a. MMS) in town for his film opening, I didn’t just say no, I barked it and left the assignment meeting.
Denise followed me out, pushing me into my office and shutting the door. She was hyperventilating.
“Solange, you don’t get it. He … requested you. He followed your port lands story while he was here filming the movie. It’s an exclusive interview. Either you get it, or no one from this station does.”
“Oh, wow. He picked me? How, like, amazing!” I faux-squealed.
“I know, right?” she said, my tone having completely eluded her.
“My answer is no,” I said, turning to some papers on my desk.
“Solange Faraday, you know I am a great admirer of yours. You’re my mentor, in fact. But if you think one interview with a hot, smart actor is going to undermine your entire career, then you don’t have much confidence in your body of work.”
“Out of the mouths of babes,” I muttered. I stopped moving papers around. Gus was with his dad that night. I could do it. But …
“There will be conditions,” I said. I told her I wasn’t going to focus all my questions on the movie or his love interest in the movie. Nor did I care about which Italian or British starlet the MMS was currently dating, let alone why he had never married. My plan was to ignore his personal life and talk to him about politics, about his well-known international philanthropy and his opinion on voter apathy. If the network wanted a feature interview, I’d give it to them, on my terms.
“And you’re coming with me to deal with his publicist,” I said to Denise, who didn’t even bother to hide her glee. “I don’t talk to publicists.”
When the day came, reluctantly, sternly, I put on some coral lipstick and my nerdiest glasses and buttoned up my blouse to the top, hoping this outfit would convey, “I am not the starstruck type. I am here for a story, not for a star.”
Jazz Fest wasn’t for a couple more weeks, but the Ritz was a madhouse. Denise was a pro, ushering the crew and me through the glut of other cameras and ensuring that we were going last, always the best spot to have if you want extra time with your subject.
When it was our turn, the publicist poked her head out of the suite and called my name like it was my turn at the free medical clinic, pronouncing my name “Soh-LANG.”
“See what I mean?” I said to Denise. “Demoralizing.”
Before we had a chance to do a sound check and color balance, the MMS sauntered into the suite looking all kinds of dapper, his trademark salt-and-pepper hair combed back, his bemused grin firmly in place, his dimpled chin a kind of taunt, his gravelly voice beautifully calibrated. It looked so easy to be him.
“Ms. Faraday, it’s an honor,” he s
aid, his eyes smiling. “Thank you for agreeing to do the interview. I know this isn’t your usual beat.”
What happened next was embarrassing; I blushed. And my reaction was so sudden and difficult to mask, I had to avoid eye contact with Denise lest I appear a total hypocrite.
The thing about charisma is you can’t fake it. Phony charisma falls flat. I had interviewed enough politicians, including Bill Clinton when he was the governor of our neighboring state, to know the difference between fake and real charisma. So let it be said that despite his considerable charms, Bill Clinton had nothing on this MMS. He had a gravitational pull, this man. You wanted to get right up into those dark eyes and run your fingers through that thicket of hair. I shook the MMS’s hand warmly, and then he introduced himself to my crew as if they didn’t know who he was.
We sat in our seats opposite each other, and the DOP gave me the thumbs-up sign for We’re rolling.
After the requisite chat about the movie at hand, and how great it was to shoot in New Orleans, blah blah blah, we launched into a discussion on his favorite topic: how to get the right people to run for office.
“That’s something you’ve said you’re firmly not interested in, right? Running for office yourself?”
“Too much dirt on me,” he said, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “I wouldn’t survive the scrutiny and I hate to waste people’s time.”
“Surely there’s no more dirt on you than there was on Clinton. And he served two terms.”
“True. He came out of that relatively unscathed. Can’t say the same for the women in his life.”
He gave me his infamous smirk, while undoing the cuffs on his shirt. I, too, had to uncross and recross my legs, squeezing my thighs together. Shake it off. Don’t go gaga.
“Are you saying a vivid sex life disqualifies you from holding public office?”
“No. But having one you’re completely unapologetic about does tend to make it hard for America to love you. That is what I’m saying. You are free to do what you want, as long as you exhibit a bit of shame now and again. I’m just not willing to do that.”
“You could help lift that stigma. Take the shame out of sex.”
“That’s not my job. I’m just a guy who dresses up and pretends to be other people for a living.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking about what would happen to my career and my credibility if my membership in S.E.C.R.E.T. were discovered. It would be over for me. There might even be questions about my fitness as a mother, though I doubted they’d come from Julius. He might not be impressed, but he wasn’t the kind of man who thought having a bunch of sex disqualified you from anything, let alone motherhood. Still, I shuddered at the thought of being exposed.
The MMS changed the subject. He began discussing some of the humanitarian work he’d done overseas, particularly in Sudan. I challenged him on his follow-through and on why people don’t take the political and social endeavors of Hollywood stars seriously.
“I don’t expect anyone to take me seriously,” he said, leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees. “I expect people to take the issues seriously though. People are crazy if they think wars overseas have no effect on their local economy, let alone on national security. There’s a reason you have to take off your shoes to fly from Petaluma to Peoria and it has everything to do with what’s going on in places like Syria and Darfur.”
As planned, we wrapped up a little late. Once our mics were off, he stood to shake my hand, holding it between both of his for a few lingering seconds. Or maybe I imagined that.
“This was an enlightening conversation. It’ll be a great segment. Thanks,” I said, reluctantly prying my hand loose.
“Other way around. Thank you, Solange Faraday, for asking real questions.”
First and last name? And a grin? Wow. Okay.
We watched him disappear to an adjoining suite followed by his publicist and a dozen other people in his entourage. My guys silently rolled the cables. Denise folded up the tripods. I changed into my flats. Just as I was about to duck out with my crew, the MMS reentered the suite, this time wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, his face freshly washed.
“They keep the booze in this part of the suite,” he explained. “Have a drink with me, Solange.”
My crew suddenly turned sheepish. Denise shot me a look that screamed: Holy shit! Do not turn him down! But I was thinking this: What if everyone in the newsroom knew I flirted with the subject of an interview? What would they think?
The answer that came to me was delivered in Marsha Lang’s inimitable voice: Who fucking cares, Solange? Our male network on-air talent had bedded plenty of women who were attracted to their minor celebrity. And Bill Rink, weather jackass, was a renowned cocksmith due to … what? His ability to wield a dry-erase marker over a plastic map of Louisiana?
I am forty-one years old.
I am a grown woman.
I am a good mother.
I am single.
I work hard.
I can do what I want.
“Sure. I’d love a drink. Scotch, please. Neat,” I said, turning to face Denise, to whom I mouthed, Oh my god!
And just like that, he and I were alone.
“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question,” the MMS purred.
I turned to face him. “Sure.”
I suddenly regretted putting on my flats and my nerd outfit.
“My question to you, Ms. Faraday, is: Will you accept the Step?”
For reasons I’ll never be able to fully explain, I thought he was teasing me, having secured some insider knowledge of S.E.C.R.E.T. by virtue of his supreme powers as an MMS. Which is why instead of saying Hell, yes! I blurted out, “How the fuck do you know about that?”
He looked taken aback as he placed the crystal cap back on the decanter he was holding.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
Is this actually happening?
“Are you saying you … that you’re a recruit? For S.E.C.R.E.T.?”
There was that sly smile again. “I am.”
“But how? Why? Why would you be a recruit?”
He came out from behind the bar and placed our drinks on the glass coffee table.
“Well, I can ask the same of you. Why would you be a participant? A beautiful, accomplished woman like yourself. What do you need S.E.C.R.E.T. for?”
I stalled, a storm gathering in my stomach. Part nerves, part joy, part shock. Before I could answer, he continued.
“Because it makes total sense for me to do something like this. No-strings-attached sex with beautiful women any way I want, any way they want. And I get to leave without a trace. No obligation to follow through, guaranteed discretion, no money exchanging hands to cheapen the experience. Kind of perfect for a guy like me. Because I don’t do … intimacy. The emotional part. I don’t do that. On the screen, yes. In life, no. But I don’t expect that’s going to be a detriment tonight because I just want to have sex with you. In fact, I’d very much like to fuck you. What do you say to that, Ms. Faraday?”
My mind raced to Step Six. Confidence. I had it in spades when I was “on,” while I was interviewing a subject, playing my role as a journalist. And certainly this man exuded confidence. Enough for the both of us. But now, as a woman who’d thrown on some comfortable shoes and was wearing thick glasses and, Christ, coral lipstick, I suddenly felt inferior, old and dowdy, unworthy of this kind of star attention from this man—famous, handsome, smart, powerful—this man relaxing in an armchair looking exactly like a king overseeing his domain.
“Don’t be shocked, Solange. I’m just a guy in a pair of jeans, having a Scotch after work, who’d like to get a beautiful woman naked and in my bed. If she’ll have me.”
I approached the coffee table, picked up my drink, took a long haul and choked on the vapors. I wiped my mouth and placed the drink back down on the table.
“I accept.”
He smiled, seemingly relieved. As though there’d been any doubt ab
out my answer.
“Good,” he said, placing his empty glass on the table. “Now come here.”
Jesus. It was on.
I stepped closer to his chair, coming to a stop in front of his knees. This is happening, this is actually happening. “Please take your clothes off.”
“Right here?” I looked around the room. “Can we at least … dim the lights?”
He opened the drawer in the table and took out a remote, hitting one button to bring down the lights, another to play a slow, liquid song, the kind your hips involuntarily sway to.
“There,” he said. “Proceed.”
I closed my eyes for a second and drew in a long breath, feeling the Scotch burn my tongue and throat.
“You want me to … strip. For you. Right now.”
He smiled, leaning back. “Yes. I’d love that.”
Doitdoitdoit.
I untucked my shirt, my shaky fingers finding the buttons, and at the same time I kicked off my flats. I am going to strip. For this MMS. His eyes followed my fingers as they opened my silk shirt. I looked down. Fuck. The lacy beige bra wasn’t the worst one to be caught wearing, thank god, but I was not only in mismatched black underwear, I had control-top nylons on under my pencil skirt! Christ, no!
“Um, so, about my lingerie … I didn’t know that I’d be … I would have worn—”
He laughed. “My favorite thing about this whole scenario? Your lack of lingerie. Do you have any idea how sexy it is to have a real encounter like this with a real woman wearing real … underwear? May I?”
He sat up and placed his hands on my hips, turning me around so my back was to him. Now what? He unzipped my skirt, letting it drop to the ground. Then I felt his firm fingers slide under the elastic of the pantyhose, peeling it down over my ass, my thighs.
“Impressive,” he said, plying the spandex. “I’m not just referring to your spectacular ass, but you could kill a man with these.”
Before the mortification could fully set in, he planted a long kiss on one cheek, then the other, his hands squeezing my ass together. His fingers gathered the back of my blouse and tugged it down off my arms. He flung it over the chair in front of me. Now he got busy with the clasp of my bra.
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