Pleasure Seekers (12 page)

“W
ho are you going out with tonight?”

Ilene adjusted the lights on her makeup mirror to reflect a nighttime effect, ignoring the query from the figure sprawled across her bed. A flick of a sable brush coated with cinnamon eye shadow over her brow bones accentuated the velvety darkness of her slanting eyes.

She selected a sponge applicator, dipped it into a shocking magenta eye shadow and dabbed the color over the crease of her eyelids. Leaning back on the vanity chair, a smile of supreme satisfaction parted her full lips. She hadn’t lost her touch.

Always a quick study, Ilene had watched makeup artists transform her face from an adolescent gamine into a sensual sophisticate, where the arrogant slant of her chiseled cheekbones blended with the tilt of her eyes. There was just enough gold in her brown eyes to give them the appearance of tortoiseshell. Her nose was short, barely the length of the tip of her little finger. It was her mouth and dimpled smile that most people remembered, men in particular.

One Frenchman had whispered in her ear that
whenever he saw her photograph he fantasized about doing naughty things with his girlfriend. His confession empowered her as much as her strutting down a runway with spectators and photographers applauding and capturing her every move.

“Come on, Ilene. Don’t be a bitch. Where are you going?”

Ilene caught the reflection of a profusion of shoulder-length curly hair when the attractive young black woman sat up and folded her legs into a yoga position.

Swiveling on the stool, she stared at Yazmin Symington’s flushed café au lait complexion and dilated pupils.

“Go home, Yaz, and sleep it off. You’re high.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Yazmin’s usually soft Georgia drawl had taken on a hard edge.

“I don’t think I should have to explain why I want you to leave my place.”

“Well,
I
want an explanation.”

Oh, no, the coked-out be-yotch didn’t go there with me,
Ilene thought before she counted to five, praying not to lose her temper.

“I’m not going to explain myself, not when you’re like this.”

Yazmin waved her arms above her head. “Don’t get up on your high horse, Ilene, because you’ve seen me like
this
plenty of times before.”

Ilene stood up and a black silk kimono-style wrap opened to reveal a swell of small, firm breasts above a red lace demi-bra. “Get the hell out!”

A lopsided grin found its way across Yazmin’s face as
she swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I’m going. But there’s no need for you to go ghetto on me.”

Ilene’s temper flared. “You’ll know ghetto when my size tens stomp a mud hole in
yo crackhead ass.
” She’d stressed the last three words. It’d become an ongoing struggle not to revert to a “ghetto ho,” but her neighbor had forced her to go there.

Yazmin came from a family of prominent African-American doctors: her grandfather, father, mother and brothers. The plans her family made for her to join their lucrative suburban Atlanta practice were thwarted when the pressure to succeed had become too much and Yazmin dropped out of medical school in her third year, citing mental and physical exhaustion. She’d begun smoking weed, and when that didn’t do the trick for her she escalated to pills and, on occasion, crack-cocaine.

Ilene dabbled in smoking or inhaling cocaine, but no one had ever witnessed her using the drug. After all, she had an image to protect. Something she said must have penetrated the transplanted Georgian’s drug-induced haze, when Yazmin stumbled out of the bedroom. The sound of a slamming door echoed throughout the apartment.

Ilene refused to let her neighbor ruin her evening, because her life was back on track. She’d paid all her bills, and had some money left over. And she would earn even more tonight when she met a client at Morimoto. The trendy Japanese restaurant was only three blocks away from her co-op.

She finished applying her makeup, then brushed her
hair weave until it shimmered with dark brown and gold highlights. She’d spent hours in the salon earlier that morning taking out the braids and replacing them with tracks of human hair ending halfway down her back. The stylist had touched up her roots until they were bone straight before she sewed in hair that cost as much as Ilene’s co-op maintenance. She thought the straight hair a better investment because she didn’t have to visit the salon every two weeks to have her braids retightened. After all, she was supermodel Ilene Fairchild, and she couldn’t be seen in public with a ratty do.

Walking over to a closet, she slipped a three-tiered black ruffled skirt in silk chiffon off a padded hanger, stepped into it and buttoned the waistband. Peering closely into the full-length mirror on the door, she smiled. The outline of her thong panties and thighs were visible through the delicate fabric. It was just enough to garner the attention she needed. Reaching for a raw-silk blouse in magenta, she buttoned the body-hugging garment with a mandarin collar. Maximo Callucci was still her favorite designer. One season he’d designed an entire line for her body’s proportions.

Ilene pushed her bare feet into a pair of black quilted suede mules with a wedge heel. She reached for a small matching purse with a silk cord strap and a black cashmere shawl. She strutted across the bedroom as if she were on a Milan runway and flicked a wall switch, leaving only a bedside lamp lit. Even when she was home alone she worked at perfecting her trademark walk.

She was determined never to allow her celebrity persona
to slip. The year she’d turned fifteen, modeling had changed her life. Her agent changed her name from Ella Williams to Ilene Fairchild, and before her sixteenth birthday she’d become the darling of Parisian couture houses, and the following year the ward of a man old enough to be her father.

I
lene stopped at the host station. “Ilene Fairchild. I’m here for the Nakanogo party.”

The maître d’ checked the list of reservations, nodding. He beckoned to one of the hostesses. “Please escort Miss Fairfield to Mr. Nakanogo’s table.”

Ilene removed her shawl, tossed it over her arm and followed the woman. This was her first time inside Morimoto and she was totally impressed with its cool, clean, white-on-white look. The setting was a sparkling wonderland for the glitterati sipping exotic cocktails, laughing, talking quietly and enjoying what had been touted as the best sushi in the city.

When a woman pointed at Ilene, heads turned in her direction. A cast member of a popular TV reality show stopped tapping his cell phone long enough to give her a mock salute.

Ilene flashed her dimpled smile.
Oh, hell yeah. I’ve still got it!
She didn’t care what the fashion critics said; she wasn’t too old, she still grabbed the public’s attention, and because her face had graced the covers of the world’s most prestigious fashion magazines, she would always be acknowledged as a supermodel.

Christie Brinkley was still doing television commercials and print ads, and she was over fifty. Just look at her girl Tyra Banks. She’d started a second career with her own reality show that segued into a talk show. The icing on the cake had been when she took her last walk down the runway as a Victoria’s Secret model. Tyra had proven there was life after modeling, and that had inspired Ilene to exploit her very bankable face and body in music videos. She knew she didn’t have the temperament to do television; but she wanted to keep her name and face in the spotlight until she met a man willing to give her the lifestyle she’d had when she lived in Europe.

Anthony Nakanogo saw her, and stood up, the other men at the table following his lead. He ran a hand down the length of his four-hundred-dollar silk tie before bowing to her.

Ilene closed the distance between them, resting her palms on the lapels of his exquisitely tailored suit jacket. She pressed her cheek to his smooth one and affected an air kiss.

“Konban wa.”

“Good evening, Ilene,” Anthony replied in flawless English. Holding her at arm’s length, his eyes sent her a private message.
“Ogenki desu ka?”

Ilene looked at him through artificial lashes fused to her own.
“Hai, genki desu.”

Anthony smiled. “Your Japanese is still very good.”

“That’s all I remember,” she admitted. She’d spent three months in Tokyo and she’d learned enough basic Japanese to exchange polite greetings and order food. Her love
affair with sushi had begun the first time she tasted the raw-fish delicacy, and during her stay she’d become a vegetarian, eating only fish and vegetables. As long as she’d lived in Japan there hadn’t been a need for her to monitor everything she put into her mouth.

The international banker turned to the others at his table. “Ladies, gentlemen, Miss Fairchild will be joining us this evening.” He introduced her to the four men and three women, all of whom seemed surprised that a world-famous supermodel would join them for dinner. She recognized Rohit Sarkar. The handsome actor who was one of Bollywood’s leading men. His dining partner was his latest costar, a twenty-something British actress with three ex-husbands. Ilene nodded and gave each her celebrated smile as Anthony seated her. The man to her left was her client’s Japanese-American partner, Preston Fuwa. Although all of the men wore wedding rings, none were there with their wives.

Ilene found herself completely charmed with the sixty-year-old grandfather from whom she would earn two thousand dollars for sharing dinner with him and his friends. She ate sparingly, sampling tofu and noodles with shiro, miso, wasabi and sudachi—her favorite was the Morimoto sashimi, terrine-like cubes made from layers of hamachi, smoked salmon, barbecued eel and seared toro—while the men dined on copious amounts of Kobe-style beef and lamb carpaccio dressed with Japanese green onions, grated ginger and garlic oil as countless bottles of saki and champagne were consumed by everyone but her.

Dinner was interrupted several times when well-known personalities and a few wannabes stopped by the table to offer greetings to Anthony and Rohit. Once the word got out that Ilene Fairchild was dining with India’s answer to America’s Brad Pitt, a steady stream of men and women sauntered by to glance in their direction.

Anthony and Preston were honored that Masaharu Morimoto, a Nobu alumnus familiar to viewers of Iron Chef, came over to greet them. They spoke Japanese too quickly for Ilene to follow their conversation. She managed to charm the famous chef when she greeted him in his native tongue, and blushed furiously when Anthony translated for Morimoto, saying she was even more beautiful in person. With her straight hair, parted in the middle, framing her small, round face, Ilene was more than aware of her effect not only on men, but also on the women gawking at her.

It wasn’t quite eleven-thirty when Anthony settled the bill, informing the others at the table he’d be back as soon as he saw Ilene safely home. They stood on Fifteenth Street and Tenth Avenue, waiting for a passing taxi.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said in a quiet voice.

Ilene successfully kept her expression impassive. “That can be arranged.”

“I will call for you for this weekend.”

Her gaze narrowed as if she was deep in thought. “I have to check my planner, but I
think
I’ll be available,” she lied. There was no way she wouldn’t be available for the banker unless another client proposed a better offer.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, the elegant man with salt-and-pepper hair pulled out a small flat velvet case. “Perhaps this will help you make up your mind.” He handed her the case before he signaled for a taxi.

Ilene barely had time to react, when she found herself seated in the back seat of a cab. Anthony handed the driver a large bill, telling him that if he got the lady home safely he could keep the change.

The bearded cabbie turned and looked at Ilene with half-hooded lids. “Where you go, lady?” She gave him her address and he stared at her as if she’d spoken a language he didn’t understand. The well-dressed Asian man had given him a hundred dollars to drive three blocks! “Hang on!”

He flipped the meter and took off like a rocket. Two minutes later Ilene stepped out of the taxi and walked to the entrance of her building. The doorman who’d been lounging on a chair in the vestibule got up and opened the door, giving her a lecherous grin.

“Good evening, Miss Fairchild.”

“Good evening,” she mumbled, not meeting his gaze. She felt the heat of his gaze on her bare legs as she walked toward the elevator; she entered and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

Ilene managed to quell her curiosity long enough to uncover what Anthony Nakanogo had given her until she undressed, cleansed the makeup from her face, braided her hair in a single plait and showered.

Clad in a short pale yellow silk nightgown and matching bikini panties, she sat in the middle of her bed
and opened the case. She was unable to suppress a soft gasp of surprise. Her client had just made up her mind whether she would see him again. He’d given her a necklace of alternating black and white Tahitian and South Seas cultured pearls separated by spacers of coruscating diamonds in eighteen-carat white gold. She estimated the pearls to be at least fifteen millimeters.

His gift was exquisite understated elegance. She would wear the pearls when she saw him again. Ilene returned the necklace to its case and placed it in a drawer of the bedside table.

She turned off the table lamp, then pulled the sheet up over her body, smiling. She had the perfect outfit to showcase Nakanogo’s gift.

A
feeling of relief swept over Faye as she told Alana about her marketing campaign that had been rejected.

Alana swallowed a mouthful of iced tea, her eyes widening. “But didn’t you offer them your backup pitch? You know you never create a marketing strategy without putting together an alternative proposal.”

Faye stabbed at her salad greens with such force that the bowl almost tipped over. “I was so pissed that I never presented it.”

“If you’d presented it you probably wouldn’t have lost the account.”

“I don’t know why, but something tells me that I lost that account even before I opened my mouth. And the fact that John gave it to his so-called niece and another dumb-ass intern who couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag with the directions written inside confirms my suspicions.”

“You think your boss gave the account to two interns because of internal pressure?”

“It’s not what I believe, Lana. It’s what I know.”

“What are you going to do with your alternate pitch?”

“I’m keeping it for myself. I wanted to present a
timeline, beginning with the postwar model. I’d show a Tuskegee Airman in uniform standing beside the 1948 model, then move forward from the fifties to present day. Each frame would feature a black man, woman or family wearing the corresponding fashion for the decade. The last would show a young woman and man in urban wear lounging against the LXR–V. The soundtrack would reflect the music of black artists beginning with Ella Fitzgerald and Nat Cole to today’s hip-hop.”

Slumping against the back of her chair, Alana shook her head. “That is one fantastic campaign! Your boss is a fool, girlfriend.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Lana. I’m leaving.”

“When?” Alana was barely able to control her gasp of surprise.

“I’m not sure. But I know I don’t want to give them another year.”

“Do you have something else lined up?”

“No.”

“But…but how are you going to support yourself? I know you’re not getting alimony from your ex-husband.” She gave her a questioning look. “What’s going on, Faye?”

“I’m going to be available to Bartholomew Houghton every weekend this summer.”

More frightened than shocked, Alana placed a hand over her mouth. “No, no, no. You can’t.”

“And why can’t I?”

“Girl, you’re going to get in over your head.” Alana reached over and grasped her hand. “Something told me
the man wanted you the night we went to Enid’s dinner party, and I knew for certain when I saw him watching you this past weekend. It could be he’s come down with a serious case of jungle fever, or maybe he’s always had a thing for black women.”

Faye pulled her hand from Alana’s loose grip. “If that’s the case then why didn’t he pick you or Ilene Fairchild?”

“It could be he likes blondes,” Alana said glibly.

Faye rolled her eyes at her. “Cut the B.S., Lana. At the end of the summer I’ll have earned enough to pay a lawyer his fee to take my brother’s appeal, and hopefully by the end of the year I’ll be able to think about setting up my own company. I plan to use the equity in my co-op as a cushion until I sign up enough accounts to support my business without taking out an additional loan.”

Alana sobered and her expression grew serious. “How much do you need for your brother’s appeal?”

“At least one-fifty as an initial retainer. Rooney Turner is one of the best appeal attorneys in the country, right up there with Alan Dershowitz. After his staff sorts through the evidence the fee could double or triple.”

“Dam-n-n-n, Faye. All in all it could cost you half a mill. I followed the Claus von Bulow trial, where Dershowitz was able to get his wealthy client’s murder conviction overturned, but damn!”

“Turner is known as a bloodhound in legal circles because if there’s the slightest hint that all the evidence doesn’t add up, he goes in for the kill. He’s good, Alana.
He said that after he reverses CJ’s conviction he’s going to sue the state. I told him I’m not concerned about suing anyone, I just want my brother exonerated so he can get on with his life.

“Now, back to Bart Houghton,” Faye said, “It’s only business, Lana.”

“How long do you think it’ll remain business, Faye? From what I’ve heard, he’s rich as Croesus. And for a white man he’s not too bad on the eyes. I kinda like his George Clooney circa–E.R. haircut.”

Faye wanted to confess that she liked Bart’s eyes and mouth, which wasn’t too thin yet firm enough to be masculine. “What are you doing this weekend?” she asked, deftly changing the topic.

“I don’t have anything planned. What about you?”

“My mother’s coming in on Friday, and we’re going to have a mother–daughter weekend.”

Tucking a curl behind her ear, Alana stared out the plate-glass window. “If I don’t hear from Enid, I’m going upstate to visit my mother. She wanted me to come up this past weekend, but I told her that I had to catch up on some work.”

“How’s she doing?”

Alana lifted a shoulder. “I suppose she’s doing okay. I can never tell by her voice because she always sounds the same. Taylor and his wife stopped by last week to check on her and found that she hadn’t gone out or changed her clothes in a couple of days. Sophia gave her a bath and cleaned the house while my brother went to the supermar
ket to restock the pantry and refrigerator. Last year Taylor talked about putting on an addition to his house, and have Mama live with him.”

“What stopped him?”

Alana shook her head. “I don’t think Sophia wants her mother-in-law living that close to her. I can’t stand that selfish bitch, but I put up with her because she’s my brother’s wife and my niece’s mother.”

“But your mother is so quiet.” Unlike mine who has an opinion for everything, Faye added silently. “If I hadn’t committed to spending the weekend with my mother I’d go up with you.”

“What about the following weekend?”

“I can’t.” Faye told her about the trip to the Grand Cayman Islands.

“It sounds as if you’re going to have a lot of fun this summer.” There was a hint of wistfulness in Alana’s statement.

“Don’t forget, I’m going to be working,” Faye reminded Alana. “I intend to use up most of my vacation before I hand in my resignation.”

“How much vacation time have you accrued?” Alana asked.

“Forty-two days. Starting this week I’m taking off Fridays and Mondays. I’ve put in for three weeks in July and another three in August.”

“Won’t that alert HR that you’re up to something?”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn what they think.”

Picking up her tea, Alana took a sip. “The folks at
BP&O are going to have a shit hemorrhage when you hand in your resignation.”

A smile of pure satisfaction softened Faye’s mouth. “There’s an expression that says, ‘You never miss your water until your well runs dry, and you’ll never miss your baby until she says goodbye.’”

“Hel-lo,” Alana intoned, touching her glass to Faye’s.

Faye held up her glass of tea in a mock solute. “I’ll drink to that. Tell me about your interview with Coco Chanel’s personal assistant.”

Alana told her about her meeting with an elderly woman who’d met the famous French designer as a young girl and eventually became her maid, then personal assistant. What was to be a one-hour lunch stretched into two as Faye was enchanted by Alana’s story that covered the Great War, Depression, the Nazi occupation of France, Madame Chanel’s love affair with a Nazi officer, her exile to Switzerland and her eventual comeback in 1954 that restored her to the first ranks of haute couture.

Faye returned to her office, closed and locked the door; she did not open it again until it was time for her to leave for the day.