The Accidental Diva Page 19

  “What is this regarding?” Poor, shell-shocked Tiffany was all business. Fannie had beaten all the emotion out of her.

  “Um, I wanted to talk to her about…well, it’s private.”

  “Private? Billie, Fannie’s schedule is quite packed…”

  “Okay, tell her it’s about London.”

  “Very well. Hold, please.”

  Billie chewed at a hangnail and wondered if she’d let too much time pass. She should’ve met with Fannie when she first found out she was being considered, like Paige had suggested.

  “Billie? Please come in now. Fannie has a few moments before her lunch appointment.”

  Breathlessly, Billie thanked her and checked herself out in the mirror. She smoothed out her Anna Sui peasant top, and silently thanked herself for wearing her red Gucci slingbacks with the skinny wooden heel. It was well documented that Fannie did not suffer editors in sensible shoes.

  Billie entered Fannie’s office with great trepidation. She could count on her hands the number of times she’d spoken to the industry legend in the five years she’d worked at Du Jour. Fannie Merrick was a total enigma. A tall, chic woman with short, flaming red hair, she was most likely in her early sixties, but one couldn’t be too sure. Her exact age was unknown, as was her place of birth—she had one of those accents that changed depending on whom she was speaking to. What was known was that Fannie had been around the block. She was mostly famous for being, well, famous. She’d been a top fashion model in the fifties and had had numerous top-shelf affairs. She was rumored to have slept with Elvis, Frank Sinatra, and, by many accounts, Marlene Dietrich. The girls in the office referred to her as a “hasbian,” a lesbian only when it’s fashionable. In the sixties, she moved to London and ran around with a jet-setting mod crowd that included famed fashion photographer David Bailey, Mary Quant, the Rolling Stones, and Marianne Faithfull. In the seventies, she became BFF with Halston, and along with Liza Minnelli, put the doomed designer on the map. During a drug-fueled night at Studio 54 in 1978, Warhol photographed her with her still-luscious breasts exposed, French-kissing the supermodel Gia. This candid shot would go on to be an iconic symbol of the freewheeling pre-AIDS era. And in 1983, after recovering from a decade-long hangover, she somehow became editor in chief of Du Jour, with no more editorial experience than Colonel Sanders. It didn’t matter. Fannie had extraordinary style, great connections, and most important, a knack for reinvention. When she decided to be a magazine editor, everyone just somehow bought it.

  These days, however, she was more of a figurehead than anything else. She’d lost interest. She rarely knew what was going on, editorially. She masked her lack of knowledge by never answering a question directly, and running off on lengthy tangents. Many people found her eccentricities charming, but her staff and her enemies (who were, most of the time, one and the same) found her insufferable.

  Fannie sat on the other side of her desk, waiting as Billie took in her exquisitely decorated office. The room was done in tawny earth tones, with minimalist Philippe Starck furniture and antique wood-framed photographs of her fabulous friends adorning the walls. Everything was very, very sleek. When Fannie began to yawn, Billie got the hint and started talking.

  “Fannie, thank you so much for fitting me into your schedule. I know how busy you are…”

  “No, you don’t. But go on.” She gave Billie an encouraging look.

  “Well…I just want you to know I’m so thrilled at the opportunity to go to British Du Jour! I mean, it’s such a dream of mine, Fannie. Thank you for considering me, really.”

  “Don’t thank me. It isn’t personal. I’m not doing you a favor, I just know you can handle the job.”

  “Oh, I know, I meant—”

  “I’m going to be frank, Billie. This is based solely on your performance. I don’t know you from a hole in the wall.” Fannie paused, and looked wistful. “That makes me sad. I’d like to know all my staff, but my life is incredibly chaotic. I’ve always stood in the eye of the storm, Billie, and the fact is, most people aren’t comfortable there. I have to pick and choose my friends very wisely. Do you understand what I’m saying, Billie?”

  Billie nodded. She had no idea what she was saying.

  “Let me back up a bit. You’re very young. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six,” Billie replied dutifully.

  “Twenty-six. Ahh, twenty-six. When I was your age, I was gracing the pages of this very magazine in an advertisement for Revlon ‘Cherries in the Snow’ lipstick. My waist was cinched beyond recognition. I was quite beautiful, but I was a jackass. You, Billie, are not. Are you?”

  “Um, no. I don’t think so.”

  “No, I can tell you’re not. You’re very smart. Your writing is very strong. I know that you lead that department. You’re ready to be a director, age be damned! That’s why I agreed to it when Paige suggested you. Which says a lot, because I’d rather pass a kidney stone than indulge the whims of that peroxided gargoyle.”

  “I’m glad I have your support.” Billie was unsure that this was the proper response, but she went with it.

  “You know, you’re a very attractive girl.”

  “Thank you, Fannie.”

  “You’re pretty and you’re African-American.”

  “Um, yes.”

  “That will get you far, dear.”

  “I’m not sure I…”

  “You have a look. It’s all about a look in this industry. Many girls can write, lots can turn a phrase, a few can string an outfit together correctly. Pairing a Gucci stiletto and a peasant shirt, mixing high and low, that’s style. But most importantly, you’re a pretty African-American girl. That’s your punctuation.” Fannie was standing behind her desk, staring at Billie with her arms folded.

  “Really? Well…”

  “Don’t look so shocked, I’m just telling it like it is. I’m going to tell you a secret. White women love to be around exotic women. It makes us feel like we’re privy to a secret. Use that, Billie. Use that.”

  Billie was at a loss for words. “I’ll…um…I’ll remember that, Fannie.”

  Fannie looked at her for a moment, in silence. She’d recovered from her rousing speech, and as far as she was concerned the meeting was adjourned. “So. Is there anything else you wanted? I have After Eight mints.”

  “No, no, no. No thank you. I just wanted to tell you that I’m working very hard on my Fashion Week report. I think you’ll be very pleased.” Fannie’s craziness was throwing her all off. She felt like she’d been transported into a scene from a David Lynch film. Now, she wasn’t sure what she was even doing there.

  “Brilliant. Are you sure you don’t want an After Eight?”

  “No thank you,” she said, then, thinking better of it, “Well, okay.” Billie accepted the mint from Fannie and scurried out of her office.

  Back at her desk, she immediately tried calling Renee to tell her about her insane conversation. She wasn’t there, so she tried Vida’s cell.

  “Hello?”

  “Vida? Girl. You would never believe what Fannie Merrick just said to me.”

  “Oh, thank God it’s you, Billie. I’ve been wanting to cry all fucking day.” And she burst into hearty, indulgent tears.

  “Sweetie? Honey? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

  “I’m j-just l-leaving a meeting with my new c-c-cell phone client,” Vida barely stuttered. “Billie, Git b-b-broke up with me!”

  “Oh, Vida. Are you sure you didn’t just have a bad fight?”

  “No, no, it really happened,” Vida said, pulling herself together. “He told me I humiliated him and offended his manhood and all kinds of other shit, and that he wanted to be with a girl who was more on his level.”

  “What?” Billie whispered loudly into the receiver, outraged. “What the hell does that mean,
on his level? In other words, you totally intimidate him and he wants a girl who won’t present a challenge.”

  “You know? These niggas. I can’t even. And it’s all because of the thing with the record company chick. I was trying to help a brother out, right? If he’s not man enough to accept help, than he can kiss my ass. Taxi!”

  “Sweetie, if it’s like that, he doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Ugh. I hate this conversation,” groaned Vida. “I sound like one of those chicks from Waiting to Exhale. ‘My triflin’ man done me wrong…’”

  “Vida,” Billie started, cautiously. She knew Vida hated looking vulnerable. “You sound like that because you’re forever trying to save the black man. What about dating somebody who takes you out for once. Who wines and dines you, who pays for things. You need to be Thomas Crowned.”

  “That gold-digging thing is so not cute.”

  “I’m not saying be a gold digger, I’m just saying let somebody wow you for a change.”

  “I don’t know, girl,” sighed Vida. It was apparent she wasn’t really listening to Billie. “Maybe this is a sign from God to slow down.”

  “No, Vida. Git just wasn’t the one.”

  “Whatever. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Thanks for listening, baby.”

  “Anytime, honey. I’m sorry this happened.”

  “Don’t worry about it. The other day, I peeped this FedEx guy that came to our office. Girl, he’s hot to death. He looks exactly like Tupac, but taller? Wait, here’s a cab. I’ll holla at you later.”

  Billie hung up, speechless.

  But she didn’t have time to muse over Vida’s attention-deficit love life. Today was Tuesday, and her final “Culture Club” copy was due on Friday.

  She knew right where to start. After what seemed like hours thumbing through her gargantuan Rolodex, she came across Pandora’s card. “Call me anytime,” it said. She should’ve done this a long time ago.

  Pandora answered the phone on the fourth ring. “Hello, Fresh Hair.”

  “Hi, this is Billie…Billie Burke?”

  “Oh, hey! What’s up, girl?”

  “I’m good, and you?”

  “Can’t complain. I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  “No! Of course not. I…it’s just been so busy here at the magazine. This is the first chance I’ve had to call.”

  “Cool. That’s okay, I’m kidding.”

  “Well, Pandora, I finally have a sec to interview you for my runway trend piece.”

  “Great. So what’s it all about?”

  “Well, there seemed to be so much ethnic borrowing going on. I was hoping we could explore that somewhat.”

  “Ethnic borrowing. That’s a cute way to put it.”

  “Girl, I’m trying to be PC here.” They both giggled.

  “I’d be honored to be in your story. Really.”

  “Perfect. And I wanted to congratulate you. In just the short amount of time since I’ve met you, you’ve gotten so much publicity.”

  “I know…I sometimes can’t believe it. And now Britney Spears wants me to add colored extensions to her hair for her next tour.”

  “No!”

  “Can you believe it?”

  “That’s really incredible. And after this article, you’ll be unstoppable.” She paused. “I didn’t say that to big myself up, it’s just that Du Jour is the most widely read fashion magazine in the world.”

  Tammy grinned. “No, believe me, I knew what you meant.”

  “So, when do you want to talk? Are you available now?”

  “I actually have to finish up a client. Why don’t you come out to the salon? It’s in New Jersey, but it’s right off NJ Transit. You can really get a feel for what it’s like here. You can come out anytime; we close at nine.”

  “Sounds good. I just have some stuff to finish here, and then I’ll come out.”

  “Your job will let you leave?”

  “Girl, this is my job!”

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you in, like, three hours?”

  “Oh, and, Pandora?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How’s the man?”

  “Shady as ever. How’s yours.”

  “As crazy as you said he’d be. But as good, too.”

  “Girl, what’d I tell you! See you soon. Peace.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  Billie hung up, exhilarated. She was back.

  10.

  one big, happy family

  At Fresh Hair, Tammy hung up with Billie and grinned at her right-hand man, Sabina.

  “Who was that?” she asked, blowing out her client’s hair.

  “Oh, just Billie Burke, the beauty editor at Du Jour magazine.”

  “Get outta here! Du Jour? My, my, my, that’s quite white.”

  “I know. But she’s black.”

  “Go ’head! What does she want, to interview you or something?”

  “Yep. She’s coming here today.”

  “I can’t believe it! Girl, we’re blowin’ up. You hear that, Monica?” She gently tapped the top of her client’s head with the blow-dryer. Monica muttered a disinterested “Mmm-hmm” and went back to her magazine.

  “It’s all so surreal,” Tammy said flatly, her fingers robotically working on her client’s waist-long braids. “It’s like it’s happening to another person.”

  Sabina exhaled loudly. “Girl, what is wrong with you? If I was you, I’d be bouncing off the walls. I’m so tired of you moping around here all sad and serious. Are you depressed or something? Do you need Prozac?”

  “You think I’d tarnish my temple with that stuff? I do take St. John’s-wort, though.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You worse than that sad donkey in Winnie-the-Pooh.”

  “You really wanna know?”

  “What am I going on about? Damn.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Fine. I’ll tell you.” Tammy took a deep breath. She didn’t worry about her client overhearing her conversation because she’d been asleep for the past three hours (it took six hours to complete her hairdo). And Monica was too uppity to care. “I’ve been in love with Jay my whole life and I’ve never told him. And it’s eating me up inside. It’s killing me.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What?”

  “Girl, I been knowin’ that.”

  “I just poured my soul out to you, and this is what I get?”

  “Baby, anyone with two eyes coulda seen that’s what’s been going on.”

  “Why can’t he see it, Sabina?”

  “’Cause he’s a man. Men don’t know anything.”

  “What am I supposed to do? I’m miserable.”

  “Tell him.”

  “Hell no. No.”

  “Pandora! Get it off your chest, girl! You can’t live like this!”

  “Ow,” yelped Monica. “My scalp!”

  “Sorry, baby.”

  “Gah-aahd-duh,” Monica whined, highly irritated. “Can you please just concentrate on blowing?”

  “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that…”

  “Sabina.” Tammy didn’t allow off-color jokes in front of clients.

  “Okay, so why can’t you tell him?”

  “Because I think he’s in love with somebody else.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “’Cause she’s the first girl he won’t talk to me about.”

  “Oh.” Sabina didn’t have much to say to this. “Well, forget her. You’ve known him longer. You won’t know how he feels about you till you ask. Please, girl. For your peace of mind, please call this man.”

  Tammy braided in silence, letting their conversation sink in. Maybe Sabina was right.
What did she have to lose if she came clean with Jay? Certainly not him…he wasn’t hers to lose. In fact, she could only gain. Either she’d find out that he loved her back, or at the very least, she’d be relieved of a tremendous emotional weight.

  Tammy would be a grown-up about this. She would be Zen and confront her fears with serenity and calmness.

  Twenty minutes later, after rousing her gorgeously braided client, Tammy banished Sabina from the back office. She couldn’t be Zen in front of an audience. Then she slowly approached the phone. She had a good three hours before Billie would arrive…that was enough time to talk. She took a deep breath, and dialed.

  * * *

  • • •

  Jay Lane stood in the center of his loft, cell phone in hand. He was disturbed. Tammy had just called him and said she needed to talk to him right away. Her voice was eerily…even. This made him nervous. He was well acquainted with her volatile temper, but didn’t know how to react to the calm, cool, and collected Tammy. Goddamn, he thought to himself. Feng shui is a motherfucker.

  Well, here it was. He was actually relieved to finally be coming clean. They were going to get down to the bottom of things. What was she going to say to him? Jay frowned and rubbed his temples, subconsciously mimicking Billie’s stressed-out-with-a-migraine move. Things were so bad between him and Tammy, he didn’t even know anymore how they’d gotten that way. This was ridiculous. Tammy was the closest thing to family he’d ever had…he’d be crazy to let her slip out of his life because of some mysterious, vague misunderstanding.

  He was determined to make it up to her. He’d tell her all about Billie, and then he’d tell Billie all about her. And then they’d all go to Friday’s, or something. They’d be one big happy family. Like on Friends.

  Jay frantically searched his pockets and found that he had enough change for the NJ Transit. Maybe he should even bring her flowers or candy, as sort of an olive branch. What did she like? He looked around and on the kitchen counter saw Billie’s fancy, beribboned tea. Briefly, he felt a flash of guilt for giving away her present to him, but it wasn’t really a real gift, was it? Plus, he never drank tea. Tammy would love this, though. He grabbed the gift and raced out the door, with newfound hope in his heart.