Married on Mondays (31 page)

She sat next to me, and I overheard Velvet confirm that Grant Hill would be at her premiere. There was such a thing as luck
in the PI world. I was at the right place, right time.

I hadn’t been in pursuit of Velvet at that moment. I’d flown from Atlanta to temporarily distance myself from Darius, to avoid
having Darius’s paparazzi get a snapshot of me in their photos. I was careful because I didn’t want to be identified as a
maniac stalker like the chick who was pursuing Fisher.

After Velvet ended her call, I said, “Hi, Velvet. Congratulations. You are my she-ro. And you’re so beautiful.”

She answered with a flat “Thanks.”

I leaned closer to her and said, “Girl, you went from stripping at Stilettos to Hollywood.” Then I lied, “I used to make it
rain on you, but you’re big time now. Probably don’t remember little ole me.”

Velvet had stared at me as if trying to recall my face. How could she remember me? I hadn’t sprinkled her with dollar bills.
How could anyone remember me even if they’d seen me? I was a chameleon. I changed my makeup, hair, and wardrobe every other
day.

As she continued studying my face, I said, “Carl Weber is my favorite author. Is he going to be at the premiere? I’d love
to meet him.” I smiled at her. Shook my head. “My apology. Who am I to think I could ever go to a premiere? Good luck, girl.”

Velvet eased down from her bar stool. Took five steps. I counted each one before she turned around and took five more in my
direction.

“Give me your address. I’ll mail you a ticket, but I can only give you one.”

“Are you serious?” I said, handing her my card with my Atlanta post office box.

She glanced at my card, nodded, then walked away. No “good-bye” or “nice meeting you.” A few weeks later I was back in LA
to attend the premiere.

Preparing to walk the red carpet, I sat at the vanity in my hotel room. I braided my natural jet black curly hair into eleven
cornrows, then covered my hair with a mesh net stocking cap. I applied a small amount of eyebrow glue to the back of my 100
percent human hair eyebrows, then perfectly layered each blonde-colored brow over my jet black brows. Then I glued and attached
my light brown eyelashes. I trailed a thin line of glue along the edge of my hairline, then attached my full-lace twenty-two-inch-long
strawberry blonde wig. I stood, held my head upside down, brushed, then fluffed my hair. Instantly I went from being a fair-complexioned
African American woman to looking like a Caucasian woman with the perfect tan.

I applied my concealer, foundation, and brown eyeliner. I stroked on various hues of sparkling blue eye shadow, toned it down
with a hint of magenta, and brushed a soft pink lipstick on my mouth. I inserted my light bluish-gray contacts. After easing
into padded butt booster panties that would make Serena Williams jealous, I stuffed silicone breast pads into the sides of
my bra to sandwich my D cups into a façade of DDs that gave me amazing cleavage. I stepped into iridescent stilettos, picked
up my purse, and double-checked to make sure I had my ticket. I kissed the plastic covering on my photo of Darius, then placed
it back in my purse. His picture was my good luck charm. With Darius by my side, all things were possible.

Slipping my room key into my handbag, I left my suite and made my way to the lobby. The bellman smiled at me. “You are one
gorgeous woman. Can I, make that,
may
I assist you?”

“Thanks, but no thanks. My driver is outside,” I politely said, exiting the hotel.

I eased into the backseat of my white stretch limousine and gazed out the window, lost in thought about how I’d befriend Darius’s
mother tonight. Was my seat even close to hers? I had the advantage, being that I knew what she looked like and she had no
clue who I was.

A long line of limos led to the theater. My driver opened my door, I swooped my hair to one side, thrust my breasts forward,
arched my back, and smiled as though I was Mrs. Darius Jones. An usher escorted me to my seat. I sat one row directly behind
my future mother-in-law. By the end of the night, I would become Jada’s newest best friend or her worst enemy.

A very pregnant woman being escorted by a tall thin man with a long ponytail stepped sideways in front of Grant and Jada.
When the pregnant woman sat down next to Jada, Jada turned to Grant and stared into his eyes. Squinted. Frowned. I noticed
Jada’s jaw tighten.

Halfway through the movie, the pregnant woman moaned and held her stomach but continued watching the movie. The screening
was nice but I was in PI mode. Things moved quickly. After the credits rolled, the director proposed to Velvet, the pregnant
lady’s water broke, Velvet accepted the marriage proposal, then Grant asked, “Honey, is that my baby?”

My jaw dropped. I thought I was on top of everything, but this was new and valuable information. Jada’s cell phone rang, temporarily
interrupting the flow of things. Honey answered Grant, “It’s not your child, but these babies are your twin boys.”

Jada stopped speaking into her phone long enough to call Honey a liar. Jada walked off, then cried, “Fancy was hit by a drunk
driver. We’ve got to go to the hospital.”

Bingo!
I said to myself.

Jada yelled, “Grant! Did you hear me? Darius’s wife was hit by a drunk driver! Let’s go!”

I guess people have the right to be consumed with their issues. Jada was worried about Fancy. Grant was worried about Honey.
And I was concerned with Darius and finding out what hospital Fancy was in.

My intention to get Darius was no fly-by-night suck-his-dick groupie trick. Oh, no. I was determined to either marry him or
massacre him. If I couldn’t have Darius Jones, no woman would, especially Fancy. I’d make sure Fancy’s hospital stay was permanent.

I stood in the aisle, waiting to follow Jada to the hospital.