Decadence (25 page)

Prada was here.

My distant lover had put on magical fins, swum across the pond, and braved this ridiculous winter storm. Unbearable tension rose inside of me, without warning, hit me with the force of a tsunami.

I waved at Prada, openly acknowledged him. Again, the ego of a man was as fragile as the heart of a woman. One moment that lacked something as simple as a kind gesture could prove to be so fatal, could commence the unraveling of a love affair. Just as appearing without notice could do the same. He was one face in a sea of many faces so no one would assume that he was my lover. But my face questioned him, my eyes questioned the tony industrialist who was only a few feet away from me, asked him what about his meeting in Llanfair-whatever-whatever, asked him why did he just play that game on the phone. Part of me, like Ayn Rand, hated surprises. I detested being tricked. When someone surprised you they assumed control; they had expectations. I disliked red roses, detested the stench and the memory they invoked, but I didn't let that show. I blew a kiss. He smiled and nodded and made his way through the gathering, but not toward us, but toward the doors. While the rain fell hard and flooded La Brea Avenue, as horns blew and chatter rose to an obnoxious level, he disappeared amongst the worshippers, moved deeper into the throng of Watchers and Doers of the movie industry. Sans invitation, he had entered my personal world. He had entered the place where I now worked. That jarred me more than the phone call from Bret. I assumed that my mother had seen him, had seen my startled reaction to Prada, so I whispered his name to my mother, nervously told her that he was an acquaintance from England. Said that I had gone to dinner with him a few times after meeting him when he was on a business trip in Trinidad.

But my mother hadn't heard a word. For less than a second her face had a serious WTF expression; WTF in bold letters, 100-point Verdana font. Then her smile returned, her Hollywood smile.

As cameras flashed she said, “Francois Henri is here?”

“He's my father.”

“He has a lot of nerve. He betrayed the sanctity of family. And now he shows up to our event unannounced. Turn to the right.”

“But he's still my stepfather. We have to be the bigger man.”

“Him over me? Surely you jest. He's not your father by blood, only by paper. I can smear Wite-Out over his name and write in someone else who is more faithful, more committed, and more worthy.”

Soon our time on the red carpet was done and other actors appeared. We stayed long enough to take a few shots with them before we moved on, passed the torch that signified fifteen minutes of fame to them and headed deeper into the lobby. We had to make our rounds, had to shake hands and acknowledge all who had come out to support us.

Another feeling washed over me. One that I understood. A part of my life that was yet to be written made the hairs on my arm rise. In that instant I wished that I had a child. I wished that I had had a precocious daughter to see this event, some new generation of us Trini girls to live in this proud occasion, a celebration that would arrive and leave so swiftly. Again, not a son. In all of my visions, in every fantasy that had come as of late, my child was a beautiful little girl. She would have Caribbean brown skin and look more like my mother than I. I wanted her here, now, at my side. Not to see what I had done, but for my child to see how wonderful her grandmother was. I would love for her to see her grandmother while she was this young, this powerful, this beautiful, this inspiring. Cloning myself was one of my mother's silent wishes. I knew her, so I knew that. Part of me wished that I had given birth to a child five years ago. Even if I had to do it on my own, I should have answered the fire that raged within, should've submitted to nature's calling. Besides, I'd never be alone, my mother my support system.

The followers and worshippers and hangers-on
of the biased and profitable culture of Hollywood are like no other. When the movie started, the thunderous applause and cheering began and at times it was louder than an obnoxious graduation at a Southern high school or HBCU. They all had their mouths around the erection of Hollywood and would swallow until its nuts were dry. You would think that every film screened was the best film ever written. It was false. It was fake. No movie was that good, not even this one, and I did love this product. For the producer, the writer, for every actor's name that rolled by, for every name or position that went by there was deafening applause. And when the movie ended, everyone was applauded again. With the exception of Regina Baptiste easing out as soon as the film ended, probably to keep from creating a disturbance, no one else left before the final name scrolled by and the lights came on. Driver the driver escorted her out and kept anyone who was tempted to follow her in check. I loathed fame. Then one by one our names were called, the director, the producers, the writer, and the primary members of the cast. There was more individual applause as we took to the stage, then group applause as we all took a bow and blew kisses and gave thanks. We sat on director chairs and engaged in a question-and-answer session. I heard my stepfather clapping. I saw Rosetta's smile. I saw the libertines sitting next to her, all looking too professional as they gave praise. Prada applauded the loudest. At least it seemed that way. Onstage, I sat next to my mother. She was one of the producers. Questions came and went, some trying to get inside the mind of the writer, strangers always trying to be nosey and become personal as they remained unknown, but I was thankful that most of the questions were directed at the principal actors. Sitting next to my mother, we practically stole the show. Her fame in this zip code, the way we flowed when the spotlight was on us, even though inside I felt uneasy, how we finished each other's sentences and answered questions pretty much in sync, it all came across as natural. Someone actually thought that we were sisters. Many didn't know that my mother had an adult child. Laughter and smiles as nepotism lived. Prada was on the row immediately behind the section reserved for people in the industry. He had come to see my moment. He had come to celebrate. So professional with excellent posture. But I saw the lust shining in his beautiful eyes, the carnal need to orgasm inside of my orifices.

What he viewed as my achievement, as my success, seeing me on a stage, on a pedestal, aroused him. Power aroused, was orgasmic. But I was suspicious of this game he was playing. He was in my territory and that made me uneasy. I preferred seeing him on neutral grounds. He had come to spy on my world, see my life, see who I was around, friends and family, then to steal me away, to make me nude and render pleasure, if only for a few minutes, or fuck through the night.

He had never seen me in this light, as a daughter, as a writer being lauded, only as a lover. He had never seen me as a complete woman.

From my seat on the stage, sitting with perfect posture, hands on knees, I looked down on the royal court. It amazed me how everyone appeared affluent. Most were struggling. Most were one deal away from poverty, one deal away from losing Benzes, BMWs, Lamborghinis, boats and yachts, if not one paycheck away from being evicted from low-rent apartments and courting public assistance. It was a room filled with hustlers. The appearance of wealth was a four flush, a false claim in order to fit into this group. But with the credit checks that Decadence ran, that and background checks that rivaled applying for a government job, most of the people here wouldn't qualify. The clients at Decadence had to be bona fides; they had to be as they claimed, as their appearances dictated. Hollywood was filled with pretenders.

“A question for Lola Mack. Your performance was outstanding.”

“Thanks. I have to give props to the director and the other actors for making me look good.”

“Pardon me for never having heard of you, but I see that you came from the theater. How was the theatrical experience? And more importantly, how did you prepare for your love scene with the twins?”

People in the room laughed. Women sat with broad smiles, envious, applauding.

Lola Mack said, “We had a great script and great actors who were very giving.”

“There was a lot of give and take. And in your big scene you gave it as well as you took it.”

The room exploded in laugher.

“And, Lola Mack, your action segments, the way you used the gun was great.”

“Well, I've always wanted to be an assassin or something. Maybe I've dated too many bad boys. It was so much fun training with the guns. Never know when I might have to shoot somebody.”

They laughed.

Prada watched me. He studied me. I shifted and bounced my leg.

I inhaled, exhaled, rubbed my neck, inhaled, exhaled, patted my knees, inhaled, exhaled. My mother touched my elbow, that soft and discreet touch asking me if I was okay. I nodded.
Adjusted my posture, took in more than twelve hundred eyes, more than six hundred Watchers.

As we filed from the stage, as people headed to the lobby, as some chatted us up, as Prada's eyes followed my every move, I thought of the way he had kissed my feet and sucked my toes. The way he fulfilled all requests. He was five-star, white tablecloth, all-inclusive. A sexual chef as well. I had experienced others since last we touched, tasted, smelled, and exchanged orgasmic moans. I wondered how many beautiful women that greedy lover had pleased since last he licked my clit.

I wondered how many orgasms he had had with me existing in the far reaches of his mind. As he had touched and pleased other women, I wondered if he had been haunted by my face, as his face had haunted me.

Rosetta and the libertines came to me. No friends and no one in the industry had left as of yet. That meant that the film was great. Otherwise they would have all left, maybe sent texts. In Hollywood no one wanted to be around a failure or associated with a bad product.

They were dressed nicely, all looked wholesome, like businessmen and businesswomen, some like the girl or the boy next door.

I said, “I hope that everyone enjoyed the film.”

Rosetta said, “I'm impressed beyond words. My God, this is spectacular. You're a luminary, a person of great importance.”

“Where is your remarkable and always-horny husband?”

“He went to swim to the rental car.”

They were going to head back to the W in West Hollywood. The word was that the rain had stopped. The people from Decadence had wanted to drink, then sneak off to their rented suites and have fun in the tradition of the club we all belonged to, but I told them that with my having to stay until the very end, and also since my mother was here, along with my stepfather, and that a man I was seeing, a non-swinger, had arrived from abroad without warning, I might not be able to play.

Rosetta handed me a room key. Told me the room number. Then she winked. Chandra hugged me, kissed both cheeks. Dressed in an embroidered salwar kameez set of red, black, and gold, a brilliant outfit that sang praise to her culture, smiling, she looked so very different.

I asked Chandra, “How are things?”

She laughed. “I have run away from home.”

“You have what?”

“I have left my husband. Your words inspired me.”

“Wow. Are you okay?”

“For now. He is angry. He is very angry. But I am far away from him. I demand better. I deserve better. We will see. But we will not talk about that now. I am here to celebrate you, Nia Simone.”

After I confirmed the directions to the W, as others came to shake my hand, they swam through the chattering crowd and headed toward the exit. Then I faced Prada. He handed me roses. Overpowered by the aroma, I kissed his right cheek, and then I kissed his left. We looked more like dignitaries greeting than two lovers many weeks removed. Two weeks ago I would've been thrilled to see him. Absence didn't always make the heart grow fonder. Most of the time absence was like rehab, diluted an addiction, especially when a new drug had been found to take its place. I tried to remain cheerful, to be appreciative of his effort, despite feeling my sphincter tighten as I inhaled the scent of the symbols of love and passion, despite feeling infuriated. My eyes didn't cooperate, but I forced my lips up into a professional smile. Then that professional smile softened. The heart defined whom we were attracted to. I was attracted to him, sexually, mentally, and maybe even spiritually. And the heart decided for how long that inner madness would last.
How long
was the variable in everyone's equation. The heart also defined what we were capable of doing. That same heart defined, maybe led us to certain lifestyles. The heart chose the lifestyle that we could endure. The heart controlled the mind. My heart had freed me from the delusion of monogamy; had changed me into a liberal woman, and I had evolved from that woman into a beautiful lady with the heart of a mermaid, a libertine. And at the moment, I had the spirit of a curious swinger. Yet Prada offered me something that I knew I would need long-term.

In French I said, “
Well, this is a big surprise
.”

“
You made a wish and abracadabra, poof, I am here with you
.”

“
I don't like being tricked or lied to. It's disturbing
.”

“
Apologies
.”

“
Never again, okay? I'd never show up in your life without invitation or warning
.”

“
Is not wishing that I were here an invitation?
”

I nodded.
“
Yes. But. Okay. Okay. Shah mat.
”

“
I have missed you. I stopped the world and canceled everything and flew for almost twenty-four hours in order to be here
.”

“
That's not good business. As an industrialist, many people in the world depend on you
.”

“
Would hate for the guy you run with to move in during my absence. Did he come as well?
”

“
No, Bret isn't here.
”

“
You look dazzling. And you were a picture of perfection during the interview
.”

We stood staring at each other for seconds before I said, “I hope the film didn't bore you.”

“It was amazing. Here in this theater, it captivated everyone as you have captivated me.”

“Since both are glaring, let me introduce you to my mother and my stepfather.”

“She is a very strong woman. Very opinionated, as are you.”

We stared at each other for a moment. Once again the Horus and Set inside of me battled.

I whispered in French, “
I have to be honest. I'm pissed off but you look so handsome, so sexy, and I can't wait to suck your dick
.
Would suck you right now if I could. Would make you come all over your suit
.”

“
My angry queen, I can't wait to make love to you again
.”

“
You want to fuck me. Your hard dick made you come five thousand miles to fuck me?
”

“
My heart leads me. Not my dick
.”

Again we stared and stood motionless as celebrities passed by. We were separated a moment when the director stopped and wanted to take a photo with me. He handed Prada his camera phone. Then James Thicke stopped and congratulated me. He wore a very nice suit, tailor fit, and a T-shirt that read PORN
IS
MORE
HONEST
THAN
RELIGION. He apologized for his wife's leaving so soon. He said that Regina loved the film and would be very interested in coming on board for the sequel, so her people would call the producers first thing in the morning. Then we shook hands, firm, very businesslike. When that was done, I took Prada's hand and moved. I had to keep moving. I was avoiding my mother. I was avoiding my stepfather. They were together, both wearing plastic smiles and undoubtedly speaking in French so that no one would understand what they were saying.

Prada had intruded and now there was only one way out. He had forced me into a corner. Any other woman, a normal woman would've been happy for a man to fly half the world to support her efforts.

I touched the side of his face. “
Prada. No one knows about us.
”

His smile lessened as his disappointment rose, became as apparent as my being pissed off. We both needed to adjust our expectations.

We both needed to accomplish the impossible.

“
Come with me. My stepfather wants to know whose hand I am holding. Mom is wondering who you are, especially since you brought flowers
.”

We were caught in a laudatory people jam. Lola Mack and her admirers had halted the traffic flow by being in one spot, talking and laughing. She smiled like she felt so sexy right now, her energy strong. I squeezed by Lola Mack. She stopped me and introduced her date, a man who resembled the Italian striker Mario Balotelli.

I whispered in her ear and asked her, “Your boyfriend?”

“Friends with benefits. Your boyfriend?”

“Jump off.”

“He's fine as hell. Damn, Nia. You have jump offs that look like that? You better jump on that jump off tonight. Jump, jump, jump.”

In the next breath, I was pulled to the side and introduced to another one of Lola Mack's associates, Attorney Carmen Jones. We shared a few words. Then I shook hands with her teenage daughter, Destiny Jones. Mrs. Jones made it known that she was of Caribbean descent, Jamaican, not one of the islands that I was fond of, not when it came to Jamaican women, but she was cordial and thanked me on behalf of the islands, especially Jamaica, where her mother had been born. Finally, we reached my mother and my stepfather.

My parents ended their conversation in French.