The Accidental Diva Page 13

  She began her speech, voice shaking ever so slightly. She’d practiced this on the train. “This morning was the worst. I had such a scare. I’d left my apartment door unlocked all night…I don’t know what I was thinking, I’ve been working so hard, I don’t know. And I woke up and my medicine cabinet had been ransacked!”

  “No!”

  “Yes!” Billie leaned in conspiratorially. “And, well, I have terrible migraines so I have some fairly potent painkillers.”

  Annabel’s eyebrows raised and understanding flooded her face. “That devil is making a killing on the black market today,” she announced, wisely.

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Precious, what a nightmare! You could’ve been…Oh, well, let’s not even go there. Are you all right?”

  “Of course, of course. Nothing else was stolen, and I had the locks changed.” Billie exhaled dramatically. “But anyway, that’s why I was late. You have to forgive me, I’m so flustered…”

  “My Billie.” Annabel beamed at her, and crushed her to her bosom in an enormous hug. “My darling, darling Billie. I’m surprised you came at all, after the horror you’ve been through. You know, you’ve always been my favorite.”

  Billie smiled bashfully at the VIP Clairene exec.

  “So, come on in and I don’t want you to worry about a thing.” She took Billie by the arm and paraded her past the stations and the break-dancers toward the front of the room. A group of girls waved at her, and she smiled back sheepishly. Her mentor, Trina, from Radiance magazine, frowned disapprovingly and raised an eyebrow. As a black girl in a white industry, it’s especially important always to be on point. Those are just the rules.

  Then she did a double take. Why did three of those girls have cornrows in their hair? Had there been a press trip to Jamaica over the weekend?

  “You missed the presentation and breakfast, but I’ll catch you up. Do you like what we’ve done? Isn’t it just funky, Billie? When I saw the space all decorated I just wanted to get on down, you know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  “Clairene, as you know, is a very classic haircare brand. Our tradition is soft hair, gleaming, touchable, silky-smooth hair. Christie Brinkley hair. But Billie, that’s not really keeping up with the times, now is it?” It was a rhetorical question, and Annabel continued. “I’m sure you went to the collections, yes? The hair was edgy, it was textured, it was, well, Billie, it was urban. Did you see Kate Moss in those glorious cornrows? I tell you, a revolution has started, Billie, and Clairene is one step ahead of the bunch. That’s why we decided to introduce Street Style. It can quite literally transform your hair into a gazillion different styles. And here’s the most exciting news! We recruited none other than Christina Aguilera, princess of punky-pop, to be our spokesperson!”

  Annabel seemed to be on the verge of hysteria. Billy reacted appropriately. “How thrilling! What a coup…Is she here?”

  “Why, yes, she is, Billie, and so is the fascinating woman responsible for her signature look from her video…Oh, I’ve gone and forgot what it’s called?”

  “‘Make It Hurt.’”

  “That’s right. Catchy! Anyway, she’s an extremely talented African-American woman named Pandora? You’ll just adore her. Now, Billie, we’ve arranged a very special treat for you girls today. We’ve arranged for each of you to get a photo taken with Christina. And Pandora’s actually giving some editors cornrows! Isn’t that just fun!”

  Aha! “So adorable.”

  “And, Billie, I have to tell you, I’m so pleased you really got into the spirit of the event. Especially after the traumatic morning you had!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The spiked hair! Very Tina Turner!” Just then, they were interrupted by Christina’s manager. She loudly whispered to Annabel that her client was due on TRL in twenty minutes, and could they wrap this up? Annabel excused herself with a jaw-breaking grin and bounded away.

  Billie’s hands flew up to her hair. It was everywhere. How could she have walked around like this? Should she borrow a Kangol hat from one of the dancers? Frantically, she looked around and saw a station that had been deserted by its model and National Hairstylist. Billie grabbed an abandoned jar of Gel-Wax, scooped out a huge dollop, and smoothed it down over her hair. Thankfully, it began to fall under the weight of the product. What was this stuff? It felt like something you used to polish your car.

  “Sweetie, what are you doing?” said the National Hairstylist, appearing out of nowhere, clearly possessive of her materials. “Leave your hair alone! It looked so cute before, all spiky and crazy!”

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t the look I was going for,” growled Billie, in no mood.

  “Maybe it should be,” she shot back, grabbing the jar from Billie and returning to her station.

  Bitch, Billie thought, and sighed. Her game was slipping.

  And in more ways than one. Pandora was here! Billie tried to tell herself that the hollow pit in her stomach was hunger, and not guilt for blowing off her interview with the hairstylist. Dammit. Pandora’s presence was a sign from God to get back on the horse. She had to find her and schedule an interview—airtight, this time.

  “Holy shit.”

  Billie spun around. It was her friend Monica, the aristocratic-looking, filthy-mouthed brunette from Cosmo. With a head full of braids and all kinds of scandal written all over her face.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “My eyes are so deceiving me. Come here right now, missy.” She dragged Billie into a corner.

  “What?”

  “Did you just, like, get back from field hockey practice, or what?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Billie Burke, in all my days I’ve never seen you in Abercrombie & Fitch.”

  Billie looked down. She was wearing the sleeveless knit mock-turtleneck she wore to do the laundry. She’d had it for a million years. Her boobs had stretched it out so far that it hung limply a good five inches away from her waist. And it was wrinkled to death. And it had “Abercrombie & Fitch” emblazoned across the chest in bold red letters.

  “No, no, no, no…” Billie moaned, throwing her hands over her face.

  “Now, technically there’s nothing wrong with Abercrombie. Tenth-graders and dykes would be lost without them. But you work at fucking Du Jour, for chrissakes!” She stomped her foot for emphasis. “Woman, have you forgotten yourself?”

  “I know, I know. You have no idea what I went through this morning…” Wait, she didn’t have to lie with Monica. “Okay, I have no excuse. I was just in bed.”

  “Then, yeah, you have no excuse.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Monica. I was so late today I shouldn’t even have shown up. I’m a disgrace.”

  “No you’re not. You’re just fucking burned out. Grab something from the fashion closet as soon as you get to work. You’ll be fine, sweetie.”

  “Okay, but look at my hair!”

  “Look at your hair? Look at me! White girls in cornrows are the worst. I feel like Vanilla Ice in drag.”

  “Why’d you do it, then?”

  “You know I can’t turn down a freebie. But nobody else could, either. Look over there.”

  To the left, Pandora’s fingers were flying over Randi Rimmerstein’s long blond hair. Mademoiselle’s beauty director was freakishly tall and universally disliked for her grand sense of entitlement—she was rumored to have expensed her entire wedding and her honeymoon. At the moment, Randi was hunched down on a tiny stool, her bloodless face a portrait of mortal agony. Her lower lip trembled, her jaw was clenched, and her hands were knotted into tight fists. Through it all Pandora happily braided away, oblivious to the fact that Randi was near death.

  “Karma’s a bitch, right?”

  B
illie burst into a fit of giggles. “Somebody stop the bleeding.”

  “It did hurt though. Usually when my hair is being yanked that hard it’s at least accompanied by a slap on my ass.”

  “You are such a slut.”

  “I know. I think it’s catching.” She winked at Billie. She’d heard rumors. “Okay, I’m leaving now. And listen, you just had an off day. You’re the best-dressed bee-yatch I know. Byee!” She sauntered away singing LFO’s “Summer Girls”…a little ditty about some guy named Rich and girls that wear Abercrombie & Fitch.

  Billie made a face, decided to turn the bad shirt and the big hair over to the Lord, and headed over to Pandora.

  The hairdresser had just finished up Randi’s hair and was gathering up her supplies. The event was drawing to a close.

  “Pandora, hi! Remember me? Billie Burke from Du Jour? We met backstage at Sam C. a couple weeks ago.”

  “Of course I remember you,” Pandora said, delighted. She was massaging her fingers. “How are you, girl?”

  “Good, good. Well, I had a crazy morning and I was horribly late, but I’m so glad I finally made it. Hi, Randi. You look incredible.”

  “Thank you.” Trembling, she leaned in closer to Billie and said, “They should’ve handed out Vicodin before we did this.”

  “Such a thing to say, Randi, when you know Billie’s meds were stolen this morning,” hissed Annabel, who appeared out of nowhere.

  “What?” Randi asked, puzzled.

  “Nothing,” Billie muttered.

  “Now, Billie, even though the event is over, I’m so glad you had a chance to chat with Pandora,” continued Annabel. “Let me know if you need any more information about Street Style Gel-Wax, okay? I’m just going to run and wrap some things up, but, Billie, let’s stay in touch!”

  Billie nodded and smiled, and Annabel scurried away.

  Randi scowled. “This event is asinine. Annabel Brixton is a classless wretch, and I’m writing a letter to Clairene saying exactly that. See you soon, Billie. Lovely to meet you, Persephone.”

  “She’s not very nice,” said Pandora.

  “Not really. But you did a beautiful job on her hair.”

  “Between us, this whole thing, I don’t know, it’s kinda cheesy.”

  “Well, yeah…but don’t look at it that way. The most important magazines in the country were here. They’ll think of you first when they’re writing spring trend pieces. Of course, you have to talk to me before you talk to them…” Billie smiled at her.

  Pandora smiled back. “No doubt.”

  “I’d love you to be the primary source for my article on beauty trends at the spring shows. When are you free?”

  “Well, my book is at the salon. Do you want to call me later today?”

  “Sure, I’ll do that.” She saw that Pandora was packing up, getting ready to leave. For some reason she wanted her to stay and talk. She felt comfortable with Pandora—she supposed it was the hairdresser thing. They always had a bit of therapist in them. “I wish we would’ve had more time today. It’s my fault…I was so late, and I left my invite at work, so I forgot you were going to be here…”

  Pandora put down her heavy duffel bag with her hair supplies. Billie supposed it was obvious she needed someone to talk to.

  “What’s going on? Is something wrong, girl?”

  “No, no, nothing’s wrong. I’m just a little worried. I’ve been sort of slacking off at work. I have this new boyfriend, and I’ve never really had one before, and I’ve kind of let everything go.”

  “Honey, you know that’s such a mistake.”

  “I know. It’s so not me. I hate what I’m turning into.”

  “Beyond it being wrong to pick a man over your career, don’t you know that that’s the kiss of death for them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As soon as a man sees you leaving everything behind for them, they lose interest. It ain’t fun for him anymore. You have to make him work for it.”

  Billie raised an eyebrow. “You are very, very wise.”

  “Who is this guy? What does he do?”

  She smiled. “He’s a writer. A writer with a tortured past.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh no what?”

  “He sounds difficult.”

  “He so isn’t.”

  “Maybe not yet. I have one of those.”

  “Really? Can I be your relationship intern?”

  “But he’s not my boyfriend. Not really. Just a mad close friend that I’ve known for a mad long time. And he’s wearing me out. I never know where we stand; sometimes it’s on, sometimes it’s off. He can be so moody…it’s the worst.”

  “He sounds like a nightmare. Why do you keep him around?”

  Pandora paused. “Because when he’s good, nobody can touch him.”

  Billie nodded.

  “Anyway, all I’m saying is be very careful with those tortured-writer types. They suck you in and it’s impossible to get out. Like the mafia. Make sure you keep your own thing going, or else you’ll disappear. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Billie smiled. “Thanks for listening to me whine. I’ll call you today. Take care, girl.”

  “All right.” Pandora watched Billie leave.

  * * *

  • • •

  Later that evening, Billie and Jay sat on Billie’s floor watching The Real World and eating Hot Pockets. The rest of her day had followed much like it started. She was late to an editorial meeting, passed off a cocktails event to Sandy, and put off calling Pandora until tomorrow. She did, however, borrow an amazing, one-shouldered Calvin Klein jersey top from fashion. She wondered how many comped spa appointments she’d have to book at Bliss for the fashion girls to let her keep it.

  Except for the top, her day bombed.

  “How was your day?” asked Jay.

  “Fabulous!” answered Billie.

  “That good, huh?”

  “Yeah. I met the best girl. Did I tell you about her? She’s the hot new hairstylist on the scene, and she’s black.”

  “Word?” She knew he wasn’t really listening, caught up in the antics of the Hawaii cast. He thought Ruthie was bananas. Was someone going to send her to AA, or what?

  “Yeah. She’s getting all this publicity. Her name’s Pandora, which helps.”

  Jay looked at her. “What’s her name?”

  “Pandora. Do you know her?”

  “No. No. Uh, no.”

  “Anyway, we really hit it off. My industry’s so whitewashed, you know? It makes me so proud to see another one of us out there, you know, making it happen. But then I got sad.”

  “Why?”

  “She was telling me about this sort-of-boyfriend she has? And she was like, he’s moody and hard to read. And it just sucks. Here’s a woman that’s so successful and she’s strung out on some loser that’s playing her.” She grinned at Jay. “I’m a lucky motherfucker.”

  Jay tried to smile back, but it came out more like a queasy grimace. “That you are.”

  “It’s such a shame, though.”

  “Billie, I mean, there’s always two sides to a story.”

  “I know, but still.”

  “Maybe it ain’t even like that. Maybe she’s making their thing out to be more than it is.”

  “I doubt it. She’s sort of no-nonsense. She doesn’t strike me as the head-in-the-clouds type.” She paused. “What is this? Why are you defending him in absentia?”

  “I ain’t defending him,” he said. “I’m just presenting another side. Let’s watch Ruthie.”

  Billie ended up getting immersed in the show, and soon forgot all about the conversation.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next night, Ja
y didn’t stay over. He explained that meeting the Cinemax producer so soon after getting offered a book deal was like a sign from God for him. He had to buckle down and really focus, for the first time in his life. So that night, Jay stayed home to work on writing his manuscript. Billie was understanding.

  The second night he stayed home she was sad. The third night, she was destroyed. And when he didn’t show up for their date to see the Mahogany revival at the BAM theater, she was inconsolable. She waited for him outside the Brooklyn Acadamy of Music for half an hour, and then finally went in, alone. During her favorite scene, when dashing Billy Dee says to Diana Ross, “Success means nothing without having someone to share it with,” she openly wept into her popcorn. Life meant nothing without having someone to share it with.

  Back at home, she tried to call Jay a million times, but he wasn’t picking up. It was so unlike him. Even if they didn’t spend the night together, he always called to say good night. Torturous thoughts ran through her head. He’s with another woman. He doesn’t love me anymore. Maybe I shouldn’t have put out on the first date—it’s true, no man wants to settle down with a slut. Finally, at 1 A.M., he picked up.

  “Hello?” He sounded groggy.

  “Jay? Where have you been?”

  “What?”

  “Where the hell have you been? You totally stood me up at Mahogany. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  “Awww, fuck.”

  “I’ve been trying to call you all night. Where were you?”

  “Baby, I’m so sorry. I forgot. I don’t know what happened. I’ve been here, at home, writing and shit. I forgot. What time is it?”

  “It’s not about what time it is. Jay, how could you forget? We had a date. I waited outside for you for two hundred years. I really can’t believe you just forgot.” And now I sound like one of those shrill, demanding girlfriends.

  “Baby, I’m so sorry. I was in the zone. I was flowin’, and…I don’t know,” he said. He sounded like he felt horrible.

  “In the zone? What zone, the Twilight Zone? You could’ve at least called, or answered the phone.”

  “I know, I know. I turned it off, though.”