A Love of My Own (7 page)

6
__________________

It was a humid Tuesday evening in early July, and I jumped from the taxi to the street and then through a gold and glass door. A nervous anticipation bounced in my stomach as I rode up the elevator with an attendant to Davis's Fifth Avenue apartment. I wondered if I'd be dressed appropriately since I'd only changed my shirt and tie and had kept on the suit I'd worn to the office that day.

Davis's wife, Veronica, had insisted on giving a small dinner party for me to welcome me to New York City. I was hoping that Davis had told her I was gay so I wouldn't have to spend the evening entertaining some beautiful woman she had invited just for me.

When I reached the penthouse I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Seconds later, an older white man in a tux opened the beveled-glass door and greeted me with a very stately, “Welcome to the McClinton residence. And you would be?” as he looked me over from head to toe as if he were measuring me for a better suit.

“I'm Raymond Tyler.”

“Yes sir, you're the evening's guest of honor. Please follow me, Mr. Tyler,” he said as he turned to lead me down a long hallway covered by a colorful Persian rug. I could hear the buzz of conversation and laughter coming from the end of the hall.

I was led into a large mahogany-paneled room with three chandeliers that looked like dripping diamonds. It was the size of a small ballroom, grand and gilded, with built-in bookshelves and gold-trimmed books. A shiny baby grand piano occupied a space next to a life-size marble statue. When I walked into the room, Davis saw me and signaled for me to join him. He was holding a monogrammed brandy snifter with an amber-colored liquid and smoking a cigar. He was also dressed in an elegant navy blue tux with a white shirt sans tie. As I moved toward him, I suddenly wished I had at least changed suits. I felt like the Eddie Murphy character in the movie
Trading Places.

“Raymond, over here. I have someone I want you to meet.”

“Davis, how are you doing? This apartment is amazing,” I said as I looked around the spacious room with its high ceiling. It was so large that calling Davis's place an apartment didn't sound appropriate.

“I don't think you'd call this an apartment,” a large lady said as she chuckled with the musical laughter of a bubbly socialite. I guess she was a mind reader.

“It does have more than twenty-five rooms,” Davis said as he smiled at me and the lady.

“I'm Danielle DuBois,” the woman said as she extended her plump hand, flaunting a large diamond on her ring finger.

“Nice meeting you, Miss DuBois,” I said as I took her hand and shook it gently.

“The DuBois of Philadelphia and Newport,” she added. I didn't know what she meant by that exactly, but I just nodded and smiled like I knew.

“What are you drinking, Raymond?” Davis asked.

“White wine,” I said.

“Tell me you're kidding? I've got some fifty-year-old scotch that you must try,” Davis said.

“Maybe later. Just some wine right now,” I repeated.

“What about some champagne? I know my butler keeps the Cristal chilled,” Davis enticed.

Since it seemed like getting a glass of wine was going to require an act of Congress, I quickly agreed. Davis disappeared, and I started to walk slowly around the room, admiring the books and artwork. I glanced out a large window, which looked out onto a busy Fifth Avenue, when I heard a female voice say, “You must be Raymond.”

I turned around quickly. I was facing a tall, beautiful lady with an egg-shaped face and long auburn hair. She was wearing an elegant egg-yolk-colored evening gown and an emerald necklace surrounded with diamonds the size of Spanish peanuts.

“I'm Veronica Meadors McClinton,” she said as she gave me a quick peck on my cheek and handed me a drink. “My husband asked me to give this to you.”

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the glass. “Nice to meet you.”

“Come, let me show you around. I also want to introduce you to our daughter and some of our guests. I invited only eight people, and I just hope none of the gossip columnists find out about this little dinner. I'll have hell to pay if some of my
B-List
friends find out I had a dinner party and didn't invite them. I find it best to ask people to only one or two events a year or else they get a little too comfortable,” Veronica said as she offered me the soft hint of a smile. There was an impatient edge to her voice, but I could tell she was trying hard to be nice.

I followed Veronica back down the long hallway as she pointed out different rooms, including a music room and a twenty-five-seat screening room. Veronica led me to what seemed like another part of the house, where she gently opened the door. I could see that it was a child's room, and I noticed a white lady wearing a modest uniform, with a book, sitting on the edge of the full-size canopy bed.

“Is she sleeping?” Veronica asked, and the lady nodded. Veronica then turned to me and put her slim finger to her lips and whispered, “Maybe you can meet her next time.”

“I'll look forward to it,” I said as I noticed the face of a young girl with small hands covering her nose.

I toured Veronica and Davis's apartment in awe. The master suite was larger than my temporary residence and included a thousand-square-foot closet with floor-to-ceiling drawers and a special chilled area for furs and cashmere sweaters. I discovered that he had a staff of six that lived in the residence—a nanny, a chef, and two maids, one for the day and one for the evening, as well as a butler and Davis's personal valet who was on twenty-four-hour call.

“So, where did you go to school?” Veronica asked.

“The University of Alabama and then Columbia Law,” I said proudly. “I also have an MBA from the University of Washington.”

“What about prep school?” Veronica asked.

“I attended public school.”

“Oh, you poor thing, but you're from the South, right?”

“Yep, a proud son of the new South,” I said.

I could tell Veronica was not impressed with my education or Southern upbringing, and I suddenly felt like I should repeat my Ivy League law education but decided against it. I was sure Veronica was trying to make me feel ashamed of my public school background, so I raised my eyebrow to let her know she had said something insulting, but I wasn't about to go off on the boss's wife in her own house.

Just as it seemed Veronica was getting ready to ask something else about my background, another white lady with a plump, pleasant face approached us and said, “Madame McClinton, dinner is served.”

“Thank you, Marion,” Veronica said as she looped her arm through mine and led me to the dining area. It looked like something out of a British murder mystery, with a long table covered with a white linen tablecloth and adorned with blue Wedgwood china and crystal goblets.

I listened intently to the guests' conversation, which mostly included yachts, summer homes, and parties, losing money on technology stocks, and how hard it was to find good personal assistants. When I didn't join in, there was a friendly silence interspersed with more comments about wealth and the silliest of people, especially black people who actually thought earning a million dollars might make one a millionaire. I suddenly missed Trent and recalled how we would enjoy talking about different guests at events like this, even though I couldn't ever remember a dinner party like this in Seattle.

After courses of soup, salad, and tuna tartare, one of the guests complimented Veronica on the food. She took a sip from her wineglass and said, “Thank you, darling. I slaved over a hot checkbook all day.” Most of the guests laughed, and I gazed into my empty soup dish, wishing I hadn't emptied it so fast.

Based on the gentleman sitting next to me during dinner, I figured Davis had told Veronica I was gay. He was a tall, brown-skinned man with thick eyebrows that looked like they had been painted on. He told me his name was Mathis, and when I asked if he had a last name, he laughed and said, “I used to before my parents disowned me. It's a very interesting story and I would love to tell you sometime.”

I smiled back like I might be interested, and he whispered, “My place, of course. If I can decide which one.”

“Must be nice.” I smiled.

“Where do you summer?” Mathis asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, do you have a place in the Hamptons or the Vineyard?”

“No, I just moved back east,” I said.

“Then I'll have to invite you to one of my soirees this summer at Fire Island,” Mathis said.

“I see you two are getting along wonderfully,” Veronica said. She had left the head of the table and looked pleased with herself and the party as she circled her guests like a socialized vulture.

“Oh, Veronica, darling, you didn't tell me that Mr. Tyler was so handsome,” Mathis said.

I looked away in embarrassment while Veronica said, “Who knew.”

Then Mathis and Veronica both laughed and touched hands. The laugh sounded fake. Who was I kidding, it was fake.

I turned to my left and was looking in the face of Danielle and decided to engage in a little small talk.

“So, are you from New York, Ms. DuBois?” I asked.

“Darling, please call me Danielle. I used to live in New York, and I still have a place here, but my husband and I live in Paris.”

“So, what brings you to New York?”

“The evening, of course. Veronica and I go way back, and when she calls and tells me she needs me, well, I just call my pilot and head across the waters,” she said, laughing.

“So, you just came for the evening?”

“Yes. I might do a little shopping in the morning and then head back to the most fabulous city in the world.”

I smiled politely and finished the rest of the excellent piece of beef the chef had prepared.

After dinner Davis and Veronica led us into the music room, where they had a frail man with glasses playing the piano and a lady in a red velvet dress playing the violin. The music was beautiful, but I was ready to go back to my apartment.

I was hoping the servants would move faster with the coffee and after-dinner drinks, but they didn't seem in a hurry. All the men were smoking cigars and one of the ladies was smoking and coughing at the same time. I was getting ready to bolt, when a tall, well-built white man walked over to me, extended his large hand and said, “I was sitting at the end of the table, I wanted to introduce myself before I left. I'm Chris Thomas.”

“Thanks, Chris. How are you doing?”

“Davis has been bragging about how he had convinced this hotshot lawyer from the Northwest to come and oversee some of his interests,” Chris said, smiling. He looked like a corn-fed football player and had a handsome face, curly brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes.

“So, that's what he's been saying. What do you do, Chris?” I asked. I suddenly wished I hadn't, because it seemed like the question I had been asked more than my name by the other guests. I assumed Veronica hadn't bothered with providing her other guests with my bio.

“Oh, I'm a lawyer.”

“What kind of law do you practice?”

“Very little these days. I'm a partner in Cook, Johnson, and Kahill. We specialize in employment discrimination cases. Have you heard of us?”

I vaguely remembered a large firm from when I had practiced in New York in the early nineties, so I said yes. Chris and I continued our conversation, and one of my impressions had been correct. Chris, who was from Lincoln, Nebraska, had played football at Harvard and later for the Chicago Bears. I told him about Kirby, and he recognized his name. When I asked how he knew Davis, he told me they had met at Harvard. He also said that his wife, who was unable to attend dinner this evening, was one of Veronica's best friends.

I found out Chris and his wife, Debi, had created a foundation for AIDS prevention that serviced minority neighborhoods. When I told him about More Than Friends, the foundation I had set up in memory of my best friend, Kyle Benton, Chris suggested I send him some information on it. Chris also told me that his wife was a doctor doing AIDS research and felt like they were coming awfully close to a vaccine.

When I told him about Kyle and our wonderful friendship and eventual loss, Chris pressed his large hand on my shoulder in a very comforting gesture. It was as if he understood that I missed my friend still after all these years. “Time doesn't always cure everything,” Chris said.

I wondered why Chris and his wife were so interested in AIDS, but I decided to save my questions for our next meeting, since Chris insisted that I have dinner with him and his wife very soon. There was something warm and humble about Chris. I found myself drawn to him and agreed immediately to meet for dinner. I thought it was interesting that the only person I enjoyed conversing with was the lone white guest.

When Mathis cornered me as I was getting ready to leave, I was thankful I had given my last business card to Chris.

From
Bling Bling
Confidential

Davis didn't have any African Americans as members of his household staff or as executive assistants. He was concerned that the lines between professional and personal were so easily blurred when it came to his own people. Besides, he knew if they saw how he and his family lived it would breed jealousy and contempt.

7
__________________

“Zola, I'm sorry I'm running a little late,” Kirsten Dawson said as she sat down at a corner table at Judson Grill in midtown.

“That's all right. I know you're busy. Thanks for agreeing to have lunch,” I said as I took the last sip of my club soda. Kirsten was a tall and lean brown-skinned sister with beautiful locks down her back. She was wearing a thin peacock-blue sweater that was filled to capacity and a shapeless black skirt. She had earrings in both her ears and her nose and wore very little makeup. She had a delicately pretty face, but I wondered why it had never occurred to her to pluck her eyebrows.

I had arranged the lunch with Kirsten, who was one of the city's top freelance celebrity writers, to convince her to do a rewrite of a cover story on Halle Berry that we had pushed back several months. Her name alone on the cover of a magazine could mean at least an additional twenty thousand in sales. Still, she had the reputation of being notoriously late with stories, was resistant to being edited, and always required final approval on her stories. Perfect for Yancey B., I thought. You had to handle Kirsten with kid gloves like she was more important than the talent. Cross Kirsten, and she and her agent might disappear for months, holding the story hostage.

“Yes, I am. I just left a meeting with
Vibe,
and when I leave here, I'm headed for
In Style.
Bringing in the benjamins,” Kirsten said as she grabbed one of the menus standing on the table.

“What's good here?” I asked.

“Everything. I love the shrimp and avocado salad. Delicious, and the onion rings are the bomb,” Kirsten said.

The waiter came over and asked Kirsten what she wanted to drink, and she ordered a martini. I never understood professional people who could cocktail during lunch and then expect to be productive in the afternoon. It was an off-the-record policy at
Bling Bling
that staff members didn't drink during lunch. I knew I couldn't expect the same from freelancers, even though I was paying the bill.

“So, how much time do we have?” I asked.

“I've got a couple of hours. What do we need to talk about? I know you loved the story,” Kirsten said confidently.

“Yeah,” I said softly. How was I going to tell her the feature needed some major work? This was one of the reasons I didn't really like hiring the heavy hitters, but they could get to the major celebrities that neither I nor any of my staff writers could snag for a one-on-one interview. The best some of my staff writers could get was a phone interview. Kirsten was the type of writer who was regularly invited to the sets of movies and into the homes of stars. Her access really allowed the readers to feel like they were there at the interview.

“When will the article run?” Kirsten asked as she removed the martini olives and laid them on her bread plate. She finished the drink with two long gulps while waiting for me to answer.

“Well, we're still waiting for some pictures. Do you think there's any way we could get some pictures of Halle and Eric's wedding? No photos have run yet, so it would be major a coup for
Bling,
” I said.

“I don't think we can get any photos,” Kirsten said. I guess she had forgotten how she boasted about being so tight with Halle's publicist that she could get anything out of them she wanted.

“Do you think we can talk to Eric's daughter about what a great mother Halle is?”

Kirsten rolled her eyes and looked at me like I had called her a bad name and said, “I don't talk to children.”

“What about some of the people Halle went to high school with? I mean, if we could talk to the girl she had to share the title of prom queen with, well, that would be just priceless,” I said.

“How am I going to do that?” Kirsten asked as she motioned for the waiter. Before I answered, the waiter came over and Kirsten ordered another drink, but this time she requested a double.

I wanted to tell her it was called reporting, but all I could think about was the beautiful and talented Halle Berry gracing my cover with Kirsten's name running across some amazing outfit Halle would wear for the photo shoot.

“What about some of her ex-boyfriends?” I suggested.

“Why?”

“I just think the story needs some more quotes. A little more depth,” I said cautiously.

“More depth? I thought you said you liked the story,” she said, her voice edged with surprise.

“Oh, I do. I just think it could be stronger.”

“I don't know about that. Besides, my schedule is tight. I don't know when I can get around to it,” Kirsten said. I could tell she wasn't exactly feeling good about me right about now.

“What if I got someone from my staff to help out?”

“I don't work well with other people. That's why I freelance.”

“Oh, I understand, but I was just thinking of maybe getting a researcher who could find some of the people I think would make the story stronger and then have you do the interview,” I said.

“I hope you don't expect me to be going to Cleveland or some-
place like that. I really don't like traveling to small towns. Let's order.”

“Okay,” I said, hoping maybe a meal might soak up some of the vodka Kirsten had gulped down and suddenly make her more reasonable. I didn't really know what the next step should be. I was already paying her four dollars a word, which was going to really put a dent in my budget for future projects. I justified paying her the large amount of money because of the additional revenue the issue would bring in. I decided that I should maybe change the subject from Halle and the rewrite and talk about something a little more pleasant.

“Did you get the invitation to the dinner party for some of our advertisers and top writers?”

“Oh, yeah. I'm really looking forward to it. I've got my dress narrowed down to three,” Kirsten said.

“I know you'll look beautiful,” I said.

“Well, you know I won't come in there half stepping. You never know when Mr. Right Now might show up,” Kirsten said, laughing.

The waiter placed our entrées down, and I was relieved I no longer had to make small talk. A dull silence covered our corner of the large dining room, broken when Kirsten ordered a glass of Merlot. I figured I would just rewrite the story my damn self.