Lovers & Players (6 page)

‘L
ookin’
good
, my man,’ Beverly exclaimed, hands on hips. ‘
Real
good.’

Jett grinned at his old friend. ‘And you–what can I say? You’re
still
the hottest babe in New York.’

‘Yeah, not bad for an old bag,’ she said wryly. ‘I’m gonna be thirty any minute. Freakin’
thirty
! How is that possible?’

‘I heard tell thirty is the new thirteen,’ he said, winking at her.

‘Stoned or sober, you always
did
know the right thing to say,’ she replied, indicating her companion, a thin white dude with a scraggly beard and long hair pulled back in a ponytail, very nineteen-seventies. ‘Meet my man, Chet, he’s a musician.’

‘Hey!’ Jett said, holding out his hand.

Chet responded with a hostile nod.

Beverly gave an amused laugh. ‘He thinks we fucked,’ she said, quite unperturbed. ‘Keep on telling him we didn’t.’

‘Hey, man, I can
promise
you we didn’t,’ Jett assured Chet, whose sour expression remained the same.

Dinner was all about catching up. Beverly wanted to hear everything about his stay in Italy, so over a good old American steak and a side of fries, he filled her in.

Chet did not appear to be the talkative type. He sat at the table totally silent, until Jett got him discussing his music. Then, finally, he warmed up. It turned out he was a session musician who’d jammed with Springsteen and the Stones. He was also in AA, so they bonded over that, and by the time Beverly suggested they drop by Gatsby’s–
the
hot new club–they were not exactly close but at least they were having a conversation.

In the cab on the way to Gatsby’s, Jett changed his mind. ‘Y’ know, I’m feeling kinda jet-lagged,’ he said, stretching his arms and yawning. ‘You two go have a blast. I’m gonna bail.’

‘No way!’ Beverly insisted, giving him a playful punch in the chest. ‘You’re comin’, I insist.’

‘Gimme a break,’ he said weakly. ‘It’s five a.m. Milan time. And my girlfriend gave me
some
sweet send-off.’

‘Too bad,’ Beverly responded, refusing to take no for an answer. ‘Consider this your welcome-back party. You are
not
bailing!’

‘I’m not, huh?’

‘Like I said–no way.’

He grinned and reached for a cigarette. ‘Guess I’m coming.’

She grinned back. ‘Guess you are.’

Beverly knew the doorman at Gatsby’s. She sashayed over to the menacing-looking man, gave him a big hug, a kiss on the cheek, and he ushered them into the club past a milling crowd of wannabes. The scene reminded Jett of the old days when he’d been on familiar terms with every doorman and bouncer in town. They’d all known him. They hadn’t all welcomed him.

Man, he’d been thrown out of more places…

But things were different now. He was in control and he had to admit it was a pretty nice feeling.

Any excuse and Mariska was on the phone. ‘Lulu has a temperature and she wishes to see you,’ his ex-wife informed him.

Max stifled his aggravation. It was late and he did not relish going out again. ‘I’ll come by in the morning,’ he said stiffly.

‘That is not good enough.’ Mariska sniffed. ‘Your daughter wants to see you
now
.’

He knew that Mariska was hoping he was lying in bed next to his fiancée. Anything she could do to disrupt his relationship with Amy was okay with her.

Well, too bad, he wasn’t. He and Amy did not live together. They had not even had sex. Amy wanted to wait until they were married, and he respected her for that. A girl with morals. It made a refreshing change from the usual social piranhas who chased after him for his money, hot to score a rich husband.

‘Okay,’ he muttered.

‘Okay
what
?’

‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

‘I would think so,’ Mariska said, in the superior tone he hated.

Mariska was extremely fond of getting the last word. It didn’t bother him because he was used to it, although after he and Amy were married, things would have to change. No more phone calls in the middle of the night unless it was an absolute emergency. His ex-wife would soon learn that he was no longer available.

He buzzed down to the garage to have his car brought up, not pleased to have to go out, but concerned about Lulu. After calling for his car, he wondered if he should speak to his personal physician or wait until he saw his little daughter, then decided it was best to wait. Damnit, this was so inconvenient.

Mariska greeted him at the door to her apartment clad in a diaphanous negligee and high-heeled mules trimmed with fur. She was perfectly made up as usual, her shoulder-length flaxen hair straight and shiny.

It occurred to Max that she was still a very attractive woman, so why couldn’t she find a man to take her off his hands? It shouldn’t be
that
hard.

Unfortunately he knew the reason only too well. She had no desire to become involved with anyone because she would never relinquish the title of Mrs Maxwell Diamond. It gave her the cachet she required. Social acceptance was of utmost importance to Mariska, and even though she was the
ex
-Mrs Diamond, in her world it still counted.

‘How’s Lulu?’ he asked, stepping inside the marble foyer.

‘Asleep,’ Mariska replied, unfazed. ‘You cannot disturb her.’

‘What do you mean, I can’t disturb her?’ he said brusquely. ‘You told me she
had
to see me.’

‘Unfortunately you took too long,’ Mariska replied, steely-eyed as usual. ‘It is good she is sleeping.’

He wanted to slap her face. He wanted to put his handprint on that creamy white skin and make his mark.

But he didn’t. He kept his temper in check. This move was typical of Mariska, so he wasn’t surprised. ‘I’ll go take a look at her,’ he said, attempting to move past his ex-wife.

‘No,’ Mariska said, blocking his way. ‘You’ll wake her. You know what a light sleeper she is.’

‘Of course I know,’ he said shortly. ‘She’s my daughter, isn’t she.’

It was a statement, not a question. So when Mariska murmured a sly ‘Maybe,’ Max was shocked. ‘What did you say?’ he demanded.

‘I said maybe you should go home now,’ Mariska said, turning away from him.

But the damage had been done.

Max left her apartment in a fury, the seeds of doubt firmly planted.

As soon as he could get away with it, Chris ducked out of Birdy’s party and headed over to Elaine’s, where he joined up with his one writer client, Gregory Dark–a grizzled bear of a man who specialized in writing gritty crime stories based loosely on fact. Three of Gregory’s books had been made into successful movies, and Chris was currently negotiating a major new deal for him at Universal.

Gregory was English, overweight and pushing sixty. He had rheumy eyes that had experienced a thousand hangovers and a shock of startlingly thick white hair. He spent half his time in Hollywood, where he kept a Malibu beach house and the requisite blonde girlfriend, and the other half in Manhattan, where he inhabited a book-filled apartment with his crabby, lesbian-inclined wife.

Gregory was an old-school type guy. He was into drinking Jack Daniel’s, smoking strong Cuban cigars and showing off his extensive gun collection.

‘Have a drink,’ Gregory said, in a deep whisky-soaked voice. He was sitting with a couple of cronies–one of them a former police captain. ‘How’s the shifting shit in California?’

Gregory always made out that he was not a fan of L.A. However, he seemed very happy when he was lounging on the deck of his six-million-dollar house in the Malibu Colony with his blonde babe by his side, and movie stars as his neighbours.

‘We’re making progress on the new deal,’ Chris said, pulling up a chair. ‘Should have contracts for you to look over in the next couple of weeks.’

‘Cannot wait, dear boy,’ Gregory drawled sarcastically. ‘This time I want
everything
.’

‘You’ll get it,’ Chris said, ordering Scotch in a tall glass with a lot of ice. He’d learned how to keep up with Gregory’s drinking habits and still look as if he was imbibing. Ice was the secret. Plenty of it.

‘Excellent,’ boomed Gregory, and, turning to his friends, ‘This boy is the best.’

Chris did not appreciate being called ‘boy’, but he knew it was just Gregory’s way, and since the old guy was such a big-bucks client, what did he care?

After two drinks he made his exit and took a cab back to the Four Seasons. On the way he called one of his assistants in L.A., and listened while Andy filled him in on the day’s business. Nothing he couldn’t deal with on his return to L.A. No major problems, although there was always
something
going on.

Tomorrow morning he’d see his father, and maybe by the time he left New York, he’d be a hell of a lot richer.

I
n a way Diahann Dozier dreaded spending the weekend with her daughter. Whenever they got together there was always a fight involved. Liberty had never really forgiven her for abandoning a going-nowhere singing career and settling for a steady income with a permanent home.

Diahann was well aware that her daughter considered her job as Mr Diamond’s housekeeper demeaning and beneath her. But Liberty was only nineteen and had no idea of what life was all about or how hard it could be. She’d learn soon enough the difficulties of being out there on your own, especially for a woman with a baby to support.

Diahann sighed. Liberty was a beautiful girl, stunning in fact, so if she was smart she’d find herself a decent man and settle down. Enough of this I-want-a-career nonsense. Diahann knew well enough how hopeless it was chasing dreams that never materialized.

Over the years she’d made it her business to discourage her daughter as much as she could, which wasn’t easy, because Liberty was a stubborn girl and there was no getting through to her. Plus she
was
talented, but Diahann knew that talent wasn’t enough to get you where you wanted to go. There were too many pretty girls with talent who were prepared to do anything to make it. Unfortunately doing anything didn’t guarantee a thing. Luck and timing was what it was all about. Finding the right mentor who believed in you and worked steadily to build your career.

Diahann sighed again. Mariah Carey was a shining example of luck and timing. If the famous singer hadn’t met Tommy Mottola, and if the powerful record mogul hadn’t decided to create a star…

Diahann made her way downstairs to her basement apartment in Mr Diamond’s brownstone, thinking that she was happy to have her daughter home–if only for a few days. On the other hand, Liberty would probably be full of criticisms and snippy remarks–unless she’d changed, which was highly unlikely.

It would be so nice if they could get along for once. But Liberty harboured too many issues, and Diahann was wise enough to realize that she was asking the impossible to expect her daughter not to get on her case.

The afternoon dragged by. Unused to doing nothing, Liberty found herself severely bored. She thought about working on one of her songs–there were several unfinished lyrics she was desperate to complete. Then she decided it wouldn’t fly. She had to be in the mood to write: it was impossible to just pick up a pen and create magic.

Too bad. She wished she could. She wished many things–number one being she wished she had a father.

Fact of life: according to Mama, she didn’t. For Mama refused to discuss who her father was, and no amount of questioning had ever produced results. Even Aretha had no clue who that man might be. ‘Your mama never told no one nothin’,’ Aretha had informed Liberty, when she’d first moved in. ‘Lil’ sis left home when she was sixteen to chase some kinda singin’ deal in New York, an’ a few years later, when she got herself knocked up, she never told no one back in Atlanta. She must’ve bin doin’ okay, ’cause she had you all by herself, raised you till she sent you t’ me, never got married, an’ we never heard nothin’ regardin’ no steady man. ’Course, your mama’s always bin private ’bout things, that’s her way. We’re sisters, only we ain’t that close.’

Liberty had listened carefully, for this was more information than Diahann had ever confided. ‘Why do you think she gave it all up and started working as a maid?’ she’d asked.

‘Gave up
what
, sweet thing?’ Aretha had answered, exasperated. ‘From everythin’
I
heard she was strugglin’ from week to week tryin’t’ make a livin’ singin’ in all kinda dives. A steady job along with some place to live must’ve seemed pretty damn nice. No rent. No worries. An’ let me set you straight, she be that man’s
housekeeper
, not his maid.’

‘Same thing,’ Liberty had muttered.

‘No, it ain’t,’ Aretha had argued. ‘It’s not like she’s down on her hands an’ knees scrubbin’ the old dude’s crapper.’

Liberty often thought about the possibilities of who her father was. Before they’d moved into Mr Diamond’s house Mama had entertained plenty of boyfriends. She remembered one man in particular: his name was Leon and he was tall (she was tall), he had artistic hands (so did she) and, like Mama, he was a singer. As far as she could recall he’d moved in for a while when she was five, and treated her as if she was
his
kid. He’d taken her on long walks through Central Park, visits to the zoo and, best of all, every Saturday afternoon he’d sat her down and let her listen to all his favourite recording artists. Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, the Temptations, Gladys Knight. She’d
loved
it. By the time she was seven she was familiar with all the soul greats and, to the amusement of the grown-ups, she could manage a fair imitation of Diana Ross or Patti LaBelle.

Sometimes, as a special treat, Leon and Mama would sing a duet, and she’d sit watching them, totally enthralled, thinking that they sure made a handsome couple, and they sounded wonderful.

Leon had lived with them for a couple of years, until one night Liberty had woken up to a fierce amount of screaming and yelling, and in the morning Leon was packed up and gone.

Looking back, she’d realized that his skin was very black, and so was her mama’s.
Her
skin was light, a creamy milk chocolate, so she’d finally reached the regretful conclusion that Leon couldn’t possibly be her dad. This saddened her, but there was nothing she could do about it.

One memorable day, shortly before she was banished from Mr Diamond’s house, Mama had stood her in front of the bathroom mirror and lectured her about the colour of her skin. ‘See that face starin’ back at you?’ Mama had said sternly. ‘That’s a black face, girl. Black. You hear me?’

‘Yes, Mama,’ she’d said, frightened by the intensity in her mother’s tone.

‘There’s a lot of prejudice in this discriminating world we live in, an’ society will see you as black, so you’d better know it now.’

‘I do, Mama,’ she’d whispered.

‘Then tell me.’

‘I’m black.’

‘That’s right, an’ don’t you
ever
forget it. ’Cause even though you’re light-skinned an’ could pass if you wanted, the truth will always come out.’

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘You’re a smart girl, you can do anything you set your heart on. Don’t
ever
let being black hold you back.’

‘I won’t.’

She’d felt bold that day–after all, it was her
right
to know. ‘Was my daddy a white man, Mama?’ she’d asked, holding her breath. It was not the first time she’d asked that question, but this time she’d hoped for an answer.

Diahann had frowned, rolled her eyes, and muttered something about it didn’t matter, her daddy wasn’t around, never had been, and Liberty should stop asking about him.

Great! Going through life without knowing. It wasn’t fair. She was entitled to the information, and today, trapped in her mama’s apartment, she was determined to find out.

After all, it wasn’t as if she was twelve anymore. She was nineteen, and her mother better respect the fact that she needed to know the truth.