The Accidental Diva Page 16

  “No,” Billie replied quickly.

  “You know what? I propose a toast,” said Monica. “To Billie’s fancy new boyfriend. And no, not your average, bean-counting, Wall Street motherfucker, but an edgy, downtown writer with favorable reviews from the New York Times.”

  “You did Google him!” Billie was incredulous.

  “No, I didn’t,” Monica said, looking insulted. “Hello? I do read. Anyway, how about a toast?”

  “They don’t have drinkth, you idiot.”

  “Oh. Well, forget it. Billie, that reminds me. Did you see Beige?”

  “Yeah, on her way out. Why?”

  “Oh. My. God. She was so fucked up.”

  “Oh no,” Billie moaned. “What happened?”

  “She came in with this, like, twenty-year-old Enrique Iglesias lookalike, and she was rubbing those skinny tits all over him…”

  “I told you, I think he is an Iglethiath,” Kim said, frustrated. “Just not the famouth one.”

  “Anyway. She looked so desperate. And he was totally ignoring her. It was like in Sixteen Candles when Molly Ringwald just turns around and leaves Anthony Michael Hall on the dance floor looking like a fucking tool. And he left with one of the Hilton sisters.”

  Billie gasped in horror. She couldn’t imagine that happening to Paige. She seemed like such a mankiller, with all the fancy husbands, and the jewels, and everything.

  “I thought she was with that rich Italian guy,” said Monica. “What’s the deal?”

  “I really don’t know. I’m sort of shocked, to tell you the truth.”

  “So am I,” said Monica, leaning in conspiratorially. “But you wouldn’t know it, would you? I just got BOTOX! My forehead’s totally frozen. Look, I’m trying to look shocked.” She stared at Billie and Jay, her face registering no emotion.

  “Sweetie, that’s really creepy,” said Billie. She shot Jay a sympathetic look.

  “God, she’s been doing that all night,” said Kim.

  “Monica, why did you get BOTOX? You’re twenty-eight years old and have zero wrinkles.”

  She shrugged. “It was free. Go ahead, Jay. Touch my forehead. I’ll try to frown.”

  “That’s okay. I believe you.”

  “No, really. It’s fucking wild. Just try it.”

  Jay gingerly touched Monica’s forehead, his expression reading “How did I get here?”

  Billie was instantly over this moment. “Well, ladies, we’re heading to the bar. See you later?”

  “Okay, doll,” said Kim. “And, Jay, you’re a very lucky man, you know that?”

  “I tell myself that every day,” he said, flashing the grin that made Billie’s thighs tremble.

  As they were walking away, Monica shouted her name. Billie turned around, and Monica mouthed, “So. Fucking. Hot.”

  Billie giggled and waved the girls away.

  The music then switched to “Back That Ass Up,” the current smash by southern fried rapper Juvenile. The crowd went wild, and watching the super-sleek celebrities and fashion people “back their asses up” was a sight to see.

  Even more interesting was that the guest celebrity DJ spinning the track was the famed department store heiress Tuffy van Arsdale, a twenty-year-old zillionaire who, a mere two years before, had been named “Deb of the Year” (a title for which Jackie O had only been a runner-up). She had been such a vision of pristine femininity in a taffeta Oscar de la Renta ballgown. At the moment, Heiress Tuffy was behind the DJ booth clad in a distressed leather micro-mini dancing quite provocatively with Bijou Phillips, a cigarette hanging from her pouty, highly glossed mouth. The next day, Page Six would label her “Bare-ess Tuffy” because at around 3 A.M. she began showcasing her early gymnastics training by doing back handsprings along the bar, all the while flashing her raunchy pearl G-string.

  Billie and Jay squeezed past throngs of dancers and made their way to the landing on the other side of the room. Billie heard her name being called, and she turned around to see who it was.

  “Billieeeee!” Sam C. was full of cheer. He’d loved Billie ever since she’d been responsible for the only positive review of his fall 1995 collection. So what if it had been a beauty, not a fashion, piece? “Howareyouohmygod! You look so sexy, you slut, though I could smack you for wearing Cavalli!”

  She threw herself into a breast-first hug. “SweetieIwasinsucharush! This was the first thing I grabbed. And you, look at you! Very sleek in your all-black ensemble.”

  “Well, we’re all black on the outside.”

  Billie burst out laughing. Jay chuckled, too, but was momentarily distracted by the stunningly beautiful Tyra Banks and Kimora Lee Simmons shimmying past him to get to the bar.

  “Even though it’s not mine, I have to say, this little minidress is darling. It’s so, like, cheap 1980s slut, I love it. Very Jodie Foster in The Accused.”

  “Excuse me for a moment while I go set myself on fire.” Billie was outraged. “Who gets compared to a Solid Gold dancer and a trashy rape victim in one night?”

  “Honey, calm down. Those are such clever references! In fact, I think I’ll base my entire fall collection around them both.”

  “Hmph.”

  Sam changed the subject. “So, Billie, I am deeply interested in your professional opinion. Above all others. No, I’m serious. What do you think of Thrust?” Sam looked like the Wicked Witch gazing into a crystal ball. “Be brutal.”

  “Oh, I love it! It’s just delicious, you know? It’s quite crisp at first, but the drydown is so sensual and whisper-soft. Oh, it’s to die. To die!”

  Earlier, she’d told Jay she thought it smelled like Glade. She hoped he wasn’t too disgusted by her.

  Sam was nodding ferociously. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes. It’s all about the drydown. That’s exactly the effect I wanted. Like a lingering kiss.” He looked at Jay, who seemed to be trying to figure out what “drydown” meant. “I like your look.”

  “I’m sorry. Sam, this is my boyfriend, Jay.”

  “I really like your look, Jay. Very, like, preppy meets gangstahomeboy-chic. What do you do?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  Sam looked shocked. “Really? You look like a rapper! I actually thought you were Method Man. You know, from Wu-Tang Clan? Did anyone ever tell you you’re the spitting image of him?”

  Jay shook his head no, visibly through with him.

  The designer jabbered away. “I just love Meth. He looks so delicious in my clothes. I’m sure he looks even better out of them. You have an incredible look…it’s very tough. Grrr. I love it.”

  Billie wanted to die. “Wow. Well, darling, we were just heading over to the bar, so…”

  “You know what I’d love, Jay?” Sam continued, enchanted with the handsome homeboy. “I’d love to see you in an Oxford and fitted chinos. Something with a fitted leg.”

  “I don’t know, man, that just don’t make it for me.”

  “No, really. It would be thrilling to see someone like you in a very lean, tailored look. Sort of a JFK Jr.–at–Hyannisport vibe.”

  Jay’s expression darkened. “Someone like me?”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, I simply wanted—”

  “Why don’t I forget the chinos and audition for the cast of Oz?”

  “Oz! What? No! Oh, heavens, I’ve created a situation…”

  “Sam, Sam, please, just stop talking, okay? No, it’s fine. Just let it go. Really.” Billie was talking very quickly in an attempt to smooth things over, while Jay glowered with anger. She knew the only reason he didn’t knock Sam C. out was because it surely would’ve confirmed what he thought about him. Luckily enough, at that very moment a Patrick McMullan, party photographer extra-ordinaire, demanded a photo of Sam with the sexy black couple. “Wait!” shouted Sam, as he thrust
a bottle of Thrust in Billie’s hand. Then, a lightning-bright flash was met with two nervous smiles and a withering, don’t-fuck-with-me glare that would later be immortalized in Paper magazine.

  After much pomp and circumstance, Billie and Jay managed to extract themselves from the designer. They gave each other “we’ll talk about it later” looks and made their way over to the bar. There were cries of “Billie!” and “Look, there’s Billie and Jay!” from a crowd that included Vida, Git TaSteppin, Renee, and Moses.

  “Wassup! Where you been, Miss Stop and Chat?” Vida looked like a rock star in Dolce & Gabbana beaded hip-huggers and a plunging white tank top. With her sky-high stilettos, she clocked in at about six-foot-three. Billie felt like her backup singer.

  “I know, right?” Renee said, indicating to Moses that she needed a refill. “I could’ve died and risen in the amount of time it took you to get here.”

  “There’s my cheery Renee,” said Billie, giving her a kiss. “Look, I can’t help it! This isn’t just a party for me, you know. It’s work, too.” Renee was wearing Prada’s signature fall piece, the leaf-embroidered skirt. “Girl, I see you!”

  “Isn’t she pretty?” Moses was starry-eyed. Git appeared to be resisting the urge to bitch-slap him.

  “And I’ll be eating with food stamps for the rest of my life,” said Renee.

  “Oh, you don’t eat much anyway,” said Billie.

  “How’s my writer doing?” Renee had talked to Jay the day before, but couldn’t resist bugging him a bit. “I need an update.”

  “Two more chapters, love, two more chapters.”

  Renee beamed, clasping her hands together under her chin. “You’re such a star!”

  Jay was utterly relieved to see Git, his old friend. They gave each other pounds. “’Sup, baby?”

  “Chillin’, chillin’,” said Git, nodding as usual to the beat in his head. “What the deal, baby?”

  “A nigga needs to get quite drunk.”

  “True, true.” Git signaled the bartender, and Jay ordered a gin and tonic for himself and a Cosmopolitan for Billie.

  “How long you been here?”

  “Man, too long. This party ain’t shit.”

  “Git!” Vida was furious. “I don’t want to hear it. For real, I’ve had it up to here with you tonight. I try to hook you up and this is the thanks I get.”

  “I ain’t asked you to pimp me out. I ain’t asked you for shit.”

  “Billie, you will never believe what just happened. I got Gracie Cullen over here. Gracie Cullen, the head of artist development at Artistry Records. And I introduced Git to her. Do you know what struggling singers would do just to get her secretary on the phone? I get her over here, totally big Git up, and then this motherfucker refuses to flow in front of her.”

  “I ain’t no motherfucking puppet.”

  “You flowed on the spot at Jay’s show.”

  “That’s different, he’s my nigga.”

  “That’s bullshit, Git. How do you expect to get anywhere if you don’t seize opportunities like this? You have to put yourself out there. You can’t get bought without selling.”

  “That ain’t me. I’m keepin’ it real.”

  “Keepin’ it real? Nobody ever makes it keeping it real. I’m so sick of black people and ‘keepin’ it real.’ That’s just laziness. It’s an excuse to accept whatever wack situation you’re in and not be ambitious. If Biggie kept it real he’d still be selling crack in Clinton Hill. If Renee kept it real she’d be somewhere in North Carolina right now, trying to control her five screaming kids at the Waffle House.”

  Moses smiled wistfully at this warm-and-fuzzy domestic image, but Renee fumed. “Why’d you have to pull me into this?”

  Git interrupted, “It just ain’t me. I’m about blowin’ up from the streets, on some grassroots shit.”

  “You know what?” said Vida. “I just hit the wall. It’s a wrap. I’m tired of trying to put you on.”

  “Good. Leave me the fuck alone and worry about your own shit.”

  “Look around, Git. Check this party. Clearly my shit is on point.” Proving her point, she waved back at Courtney Love, whose new cheekbones were lovely.

  Moses looked very uncomfortable. “Git, maybe I can help if you have problems with public speaking. I’ve taken some courses…maybe I can give you some pointers? First of all, try imagining yourself in a safe place…”

  A vein popped out on Git’s forehead. “You know what, nigga? I got your safe place—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jay interrupted. “This ain’t the time, son. It ain’t the time. Come on. We’ll be back.” He threw his arm around Git’s neck and dragged him away from the group. Moses excused himself to go to the men’s room.

  “I’ve told him not to be so damned chipper,” Renee said gravely.

  “Oh, Renee.”

  “I am so fucking tired of carrying that man, y’all,” said Vida, as TLC’s “No Scrubs” started playing in the background. “Hah! Tuffy has good timing.” She began fiddling with her earpiece as her assistant’s high-pitched voice came squeaking through. “What’s up…Whitney and Bobby? No, they’re not on the list, but let them in. No, I know he’s a fugitive; we’ll just deal with the cops later. Can you imagine the press?”

  “There goes the neighborhood,” muttered Renee.

  Vida clicked off her assistant and sighed. “My cup runneth over.”

  “Sweetie, maybe you should go a little easier on Git,” suggested Billie.

  “Why? I’m just trying to help him further his career.”

  “But you’re his girlfriend, not his publicist.”

  Struck silent, Vida lit a Marlboro.

  “I mean, it’s so the classic black male thing,” philosophized Renee. “Too proud to accept any help, but so afraid of failure and insecure about his place in society that he subconsciously keeps himself down.”

  “Wow, Renee, that’s too deep for a party.”

  “But it’s true,” agreed Vida. “And I’m tired of being the stereotypical black woman that believes in him, and carries him, and keeps getting let down. It’s just not a good look.” She exhaled wearily and untangled her dangly earrings out of her headphone wires. “I mean, I can’t be responsible for uplifting an entire generation of young black males.”

  “Oh, girl, don’t kid yourself,” said Billie, downing her Cosmo. “You wouldn’t give a man who had all his shit together the time of day.”

  “The fuck I wouldn’t. Moses is looking cuter to me every second.” Just then, Vida broke out in a victorious grin. “Look, Moby’s here! God, I’m so glad he showed.”

  Renee squinted at the bald, pasty techno-pop star. “He looks like a suppository.”

  “Yeah, but he’s so hot right now. He’s filling my alterna-quotient.” Vida winced as Bonnie screeched through her earpiece again. Apparently, Australian singer Kylie Minogue was trying to get in. “Kylie Minogue? The chick who sang ‘Locomotion’ like ten years ago? Where’d she come from? She’s such an eighties One Hit Wonder…what, does she have Toni Basil with her? I don’t care if she’s huge in Europe, so’s David Hasselhoff. No, our stock will plummet. Tell her we’re filled to capacity.”

  “Did you ever think,” said Billie, “growing up in Bermuda, that one day you’d have the power to turn away the ‘Locomotion’ girl from your party?”

  “Just a simple girl with a dream,” Renee said in amusement.

  “Go ahead, you bitches, make fun of me. It takes very careful editing to pull off the kind of party Sam C. wants. Did you talk to him, by the way?”

  “Yeah,” said Billie. “He told Jay he looked like a rapper.”

  “No!” cried Renee.

  “Hmm. Jay and Git are so not coming back,” surmised Vida.

  * * *

 
• • •

  At that moment, the two of them were at the bar across the room doing tequila shots.

  “That girl’s on some real different shit, yo,” mumbled Git, slamming his shot glass on the bar.

  “I ain’t never seen no shit like that.” Jay was adamant. “She made you look like a thundering idiot, son. I don’t care what the pussy’s like.”

  “The pussy’s nice, son.”

  “Still.” He motioned to the bartender for another round of shots.

  “It’s like this. I want my shit to be organic. You can’t force your art. Like you. You ain’t runnin’ around pimpin’ yourself. You got discovered on the word-of-mouth tip, nahmean? That’s whassup.”

  “True.”

  “Vida’s talking about she wants to be your publicist.”

  “The fuck outta here. When’d she say that?”

  “The other day. I told her she was trippin’. We ain’t products to be packaged and sold, nahmean? I ain’t…I ain’t…Will motherfucking Smith. I ain’t gonna rock some shiny suit and coon around in a Hype Williams video. A nigga got integrity, nahmean?”

  A nigga also has no job, thought Jay. “True. But lemme get at you for a minute.”

  “’Sup?”

  “Are you putting yourself out there to be discovered? I mean, what’s your plan?”

  “I mean, I…it ain’t about a plan, per se. I’m just busy writin’ and shit. I’m honin’ my craft.”

  “Yeah, but what about open-mike nights? You got a demo tape? I mean, who’s really heard you? It ain’t a game, son. Don’t sleep.”

  The bartender brought them their shots. They clicked the glasses together and downed the tequila. “Uh, I’ma just lay in the cut for a minute, ya heard? I…uh…I don’t want nobody to really hear my shit till it’s mad tight.”

  Jay looked at him like he was crazy.

  “I mean, I ain’t tryin’ to be no baller and shit. It ain’t about the paper, son, it’s about the art. I’m on my own time. Nahmean?”

  “Whatever man. Just don’t fuck around and end up talking about you coulda been a contender.”

  “Jay, you my man, but I ain’t come here for no heart-to-heart.”