Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
“Are you screwing me over?” I raged into the phone. “That’s all I want to know, Manuel. Are … you … screwing … me?”
I paced my tiny office with a white-knuckle grip on the receiver as I let loose on the publicist at the other end.
Really, the question was rhetorical as he was definitely screwing me—or at least making his best effort to do so.
Manuel managed Sinclaire, an actress-turned-singer whose buzzy debut album was dropping in a month.
He was trying to weasel out of our cover shoot at the last minute because he had just gotten a cover offer from Onyx, a magazine with a much bigger audience.
Though I understood where he was coming from, there was no way I was about to let him off the hook, because I didn’t have the budget or time to find someone else.
And he was about to make me look like a fool on my first actual cover shoot.
“You already accepted our cover offer two weeks ago and the whole shoot is already planned—with all of Sinclaire’s crazy requests in place,” I yelled over his weak protestations.
“We’ve already ordered the lemon jelly beans, the peanut-butter-and-bacon sandwiches, and the friggin’ aquarium for her dressing room, so you had both better be at the studio on Friday!
” I slammed down the phone and looked up to see Barbara’s amused face in my doorway.
She was wearing a forest-green leather trench coat and holding a matching tote bag.
It was near the end of the day, so she must have heard the ruckus on her way out.
I was too upset to hide my stress and could only put my head in my hands.
“I’m sorry, Barbara. Until my new entertainment director starts, I’m it.
And these publicists are seriously testing my patience. ”
When I’d started to yell, a small crowd that probably assumed I was in real trouble had gathered outside my office to witness the carnage.
But Barbara only laughed. I’d forgotten the hell she must have gone through during the inception of Groove.
“This is just the beginning. Right now, Sugar is low on their list of priorities, so you better get used to being treated like a second-class citizen.” She plunked down in a chair in front of my desk.
“This is what you do: Call Manuel back and tell him that if Sinclaire doesn’t show up, you’ll put out a press release revealing that she’s on our July cover.
And you’ll pull a pic from Getty that you really cannot guarantee will be flattering that will be paired with a write-around story that you also cannot guarantee will be positive.
Hell, you may even interview that girl she was feuding with on her last movie set.
Onyx won’t want to follow us so Manuel will lose their cover anyway, and the press opportunity they have in hand will go from glowing to snarky.
” She paused to survey my face. I was stunned by the level of her gangsta, but learning.
“To soften the blow, let him know that Jean Paul Gaultier agreed to send looks for the cover and that you got Pat McGrath on the glam squad.”
“But I have neither lined up,” I squeaked.
“Well, get them,” Barbara replied with an eye roll. “You have to act important to become important, Nikki.”
I made the call to Manuel with Barbara still in my office. He had some choice words for me, but I had him backed into a corner. He angrily capitulated, then immediately switched his tone to chat about glam. We ended the conversation like two BFF’s about to braid each other’s hair.
Barbara waved my thanks away. Apparently, screaming matches with record label execs was just another Tuesday to her, and she was on to another topic. “So, what are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Not sure. Why?” I lied. Joseph and I had bought theater tickets months ago for a show that evening.
He and I had crafted an uneasy peace that allowed us to coexist in relative harmony, have sex, order Chinese food on Saturday nights, go to boring plays—while not discussing anything deeper than the very basics of our days.
I had a feeling that Barbara was about to propose something a little more fun.
“Oh nothing, just MC RedHot’s annual Red Party.
” She paused to let the words sink in. MC RedHot was known for throwing the hottest parties from New York to Ibiza, and everybody who was anybody went to his annual Red Party.
Platinum rappers, box office blockbuster actors, fashion designers, rebellious socialites—they all showed up wearing red from head to toe, expecting the Cristal to be flowing, the music to be pumping, and the weed brownies RedHot passed around himself to be extra strong.
I’d heard about it like everyone else but had never come close to being invited.
“I think you need more exposure in the entertainment industry. Plus, all those gossip forums like Lipstick Alley need to know who you are so they can stop slandering you for being an ambitious seductress and start vilifying you for having the audacity to run the next big media brand.” Barbara smiled. “You want to go with me?”
While I didn’t love the way she’d framed the invitation and wasn’t particularly excited at the prospect of partying with Barbara, I was dying to go. Trying to look cool, I told her, “Yeah, sure. I can go. Great, thanks.”
“Good.” She stood to leave. “Meet me in the office at ten PM. I’ve got a limo picking us up here. We’re rolling together and we need to cover a lot of territory, so don’t bring anyone.”
“Fine,” I said, thinking Joseph would not be happy to miss the Red Party. “Uh, what should I wear?”
Barbara was heading out the door and turned to look at me like I had two heads. “Nikki, I think you’ll want to wear red.” Then she disappeared down the hall to go wreak havoc on the Decode team.
Predictably, Joseph was not at all pleased that he wasn’t invited, so I was shocked when he offered to go shopping with me the next day.
Though he was one of the rare straight men who could tolerate shopping, I never thought he’d volunteer for an afternoon of searching for an all-red outfit that looked neither cheesy nor sleazy—the shopping equivalent of scaling Mount Everest in stilettos with only Diet Coke and saltines in your backpack.
Joseph scoped out a red ruffled miniskirt at our very first stop, the exclusive department store Jeffrey in the Meatpacking District.
Next stop was the boutique Kirna Zabête in SoHo, where I found a sheer wraparound red top that was cropped above my waist and a matching red bra to make the outfit street legal.
In a tiny shoe store on West Broadway, I spotted some cute red ankle boots in the window.
Ordinarily, I would never be caught dead in head-to-toe red, but with some statement jewelry and a decent clutch, I had to admit that this outfit could work.
I still had some time before I had to meet Barbara at the office, so Joseph and I walked over to Sofie’s Café, where we found the proprietress in her typical hip hop music video extra getup, complete with a Kangol pulled low over her blond hair.
Sofie hugged us both, brought over a couple craft beers, and peeked into my shopping bags.
“Let me guess, you’re going to the Red Party.”
I’d forgotten about all the places she’d been with her man, MC WhiteHot. “Yeah, you?”
“Hells no.” Sofie sighed deeply. “WhiteHot and RedHot are, like, mortal enemies. I went once but now I’m forbidden to go.
It’s da bomb, though. All kinds of crazy shit goes down.
Last year, I heard the Marquette twins—you know, the actress and the DJ—did a striptease together on top of the bar…
” Sofie trailed off, looking at me quizzically.
I was shaking my head slightly while making wild eye motions toward Joseph.
“Uh, but it ain’t all that,” she said, finally catching on.
“Nothing you haven’t already seen. No biggie, really. No special—”
“Okay, okay, we get the picture,” I interrupted. Joseph may be a lot of things, but stupid was not one of them.
“I’m going to leave you two alone now. The waitress is on her way over. Holla before you leave,” Sofie said with relief and loped off toward the bar.
Joseph and I ate our meal in what I thought was companionable silence.
I was lost in thought about who I could put on my August cover when, out of the blue, Joseph took my free hand and said, “Nicole, I wonder if you might be getting in too deep here. It might be time to make some decisions.” I looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“About Sugar. It might be time to make some decisions about Sugar.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, shaking my hand loose and putting down my forkful of Caesar salad. “I’ve barely been there a month. I haven’t even seen my first issue yet.”
“I know. But I wonder if you might be rethinking this whole thing yet.”
I knew this day had gone too easily. “No, I’m not. The exact opposite. I feel tired and drained and anxious. But I’m more excited about this than anything I’ve ever done in my life,” I told him calmly.
Joseph put his cheeseburger down, took a slow drink of his beer, and said with equal calm, “Then maybe you should rethink your decision to be with me.”
These words should have made my stomach drop. Instead, I was instantly exasperated. “Are you breaking up with me over Sugar?” I snapped. “Is my ambition that much of a turnoff?”
Joseph wasn’t taking my bait. “No, I want to be with you. But I’m not convinced that you want to be with me.”
“Why would you say that? We just made up.”
“Yeah, but you’re in the office all the time or going out without me now. I feel us moving in different directions.” Joseph’s voice wavered for a second but then he got his game face back together. “And I haven’t seen you enough lately for you to convince me otherwise.”
Blood rushed to my head. What was the distinction between my schedule and the sixteen-hour days Joseph would often spend working on various deals—other than a couple zeros on a paycheck? “Convince you?” I spat. “Why don’t you try to convince me that you can be supportive of what I’m trying to do?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been shopping with you all day for a party I’m not even invited to.
” He looked down to adjust the lapels of his jacket while slowly exhaling, then continued in a more measured voice.
“Nicole, you won’t talk to me about anything but Sugar.
And you haven’t asked me about my life in ages.
Has it even occurred to you that I may have things going on as well?
If you had shown any interest in how I’m doing, you’d know that I just lost a major client, which is not exactly a great move for a new managing director, certainly not a new Black managing director. ”
“Shit, I didn’t know, Joe,” I murmured, instantly contrite.
“Yeah, I’m well aware. We barely talk. I bet you know more about your work friends’ lives than I do about yours right now.”
An image flashed through my mind of Von showing me the mood board he’d built for his Red Party outfit while he told me all about his new girlfriend, who was part of RedHot’s street team and had gotten him an invite.
I didn’t say anything, guilt flooding my system like contrast dye.
I knew I should have gotten up right then to sit on his lap like I used to when we went to clubs; I should have taken his handsome face in my hands and kissed him, sucking gently on his lower lip, which always made his dick swell; I should have asked him to tell me everything.
Instead, I surreptitiously looked at my watch to see how much time I had to get ready for the party.
My distraction made me insensitive and edgy.
“I’m busting my ass right now, Joe. Can’t you be patient for a little longer?”
Joseph cocked his head and stared at me for ten seconds that felt like ten minutes under his searching gaze. “I’m not sure how going to the Red Party in a miniskirt is exactly busting your ass,” he finally replied.
I threw my napkin on the table and stood up. “Wow, okay. I knew this day was too good to be true.” My eyes were welling up, and I didn’t want him to see me cry. “How am I supposed to care about what’s happening in your world when you don’t value what’s important in mine?”
I grabbed my shopping bags and took off before the tears could spill over.
My subway ride to Brooklyn felt endless.
Everything that had been going on between me and Joseph hit all at once.
Sugar and my insane work schedule had been like emotional codeine: I knew there was something wrong, but I had felt very little pain—until now.
I was suddenly terrified at the prospect of being alone.
It was not the best night for a trial by fire at one of the hottest events of the year, but there was no way I was backing out.
I took a quick shower, slapped my own cheeks, and made myself get dressed.
After I put on the last of my makeup, I surveyed myself with some satisfaction.
This was my first big outing as Sugar’s editor in chief; I was representing the brand, and I was about to head into the stronghold of the rumor mill where so much speculation about me had originated.
I knew I had to bring it. I’d given myself a deep charcoal smoky eye and added a shimmery gold lip.
With my two-week-old blowout in a taut ponytail, the shoulder-grazing gold hoops I wore looked even cooler.
All in all, the red outfit was kind of hot.
Red-hot, I said to myself, smiling, taking one final look, and heading out the door.