Chapter 20
TWENTY
“Your flowers, madam,” Von said with a flourish as he deposited the orchid plant on my desk next to a fat bouquet of purple hydrangeas.
To make room, I had to move another extravagant arrangement of tropical flowers outside to Von’s desk.
Given that I was getting deliveries every third day from Jerome Jermaine and my office was starting to resemble a botanical garden, it was becoming more and more difficult to pretend nothing was going on.
I learned the cardinal rule of dating within the circle that he (and now I) inhabited from Kiara, my urban entertainment Yoda: Do not tell anyone who you’re sleeping with because public relationships are a very bad idea.
Not that JJ and I were in a relationship, of course; we’d only been seeing each other for a few weeks.
But our chemistry had only gotten more intense since the evening I moved into Matsumoro Tribeca.
My fragrant office and buzzing pager telegraphed accelerating romantic interest, as did JJ’s insistence that he had the right of first refusal for all my weekend evening plans.
So I was a little insulted when one night JJ casually mentioned that he thought it best if we keep our “thing” (as he put it) to ourselves for the time being. The next morning, I called Kiara, who’d echoed his perspective.
“Don’t give the haters any more ammunition, love.
Serena and those bitches would be too happy to use the information to their advantage,” Kiara said, a hard tone creeping into her usual honeyed voice.
“Like it or not, you’re the hot new thing on the scene, and every baller worth their salt will want to see if he can get some bragging rights.
It’s an incestuous little world, and their bragging rights would deal a deathblow to your professional reputation. ”
I knew what she was alluding to. Since the music industry’s calloused thumb smudged the line between professional and personal for anyone in or near its vortex, Alonzo’s fabrications about me must have been truly outrageous.
So often when I met someone, I swear I’d catch a flicker of recognition in a raised eyebrow, a cocked head, the hint of a smirk, the slow repetition of my name in the form of a question.
I’d become skilled at concealing my embarrassment behind an unperturbed smile and a crisp follow-up about something related to Sugar.
A comment about how I hoped to feature them or their famous artists in the magazine usually worked like a charm to turn dismissive bemusement into receptive curiosity.
Although Kiara had insisted that circumspection about dating partners was a good overall rule, I knew that I was working against my reputation.
Clearly, giving Serena and Luna, and therefore Alonzo, ammo as they plotted my downfall would not be the best idea.
So, JJ and I spent a lot of time hanging out in our respective apartments; when we did go out, we made sure to arrive and leave separately.
And I didn’t tell anyone other than my best friends.
I didn’t even tell Von, who kept bringing in my flowers and not-so-subtly waiting for some explanation.
But that day, along with the orchid plant, Von had something else tucked under his arm.
With an even greater flourish, he whipped out Sugar’s August issue, with Betty Brown on the cover.
“The first box of these just came in, hot off the press,” he squealed while I grabbed it and hugged it to my chest. “The team jumped me the minute the box hit my desk. I barely got one for you.”
DJ Cassius and Latika’s pregnancy reveal had driven the June issue’s newsstand sales past all prior NuVoices’ records.
Sinclaire’s July issue was about to hit stores, and it had promising advance buzz.
The July cover shoot had taken place in a sunny West Side studio overlooking the Hudson.
Gaultier pulled through with some colorful summery dresses, and we photographed Sinclaire against equally bright backdrops with a fan that whipped her tawny-brown weave around her face as she laughed for the camera with the practiced ease of a multihyphenate star who knows her angles.
I added cover lines about summer fun, and the result was a vibrant cover guaranteed to make the July issue stand out.
But Betty’s August issue took Sugar’s cover game to a whole new level.
I’d called Tyger, a young photographer who’d recently shot a cool sneaker feature for Vogue Brasil with Foxy Brown.
Freddy and I pitched him the idea of shooting Betty in high-end designer gear mixed with urban streetwear.
Tyger loved the concept and suggested doing it on location in Brooklyn.
Freddy styled Betty in door-knocker bamboo earrings with a tweed Chanel suit, hooked an Alexander McQueen bag on her shoulder over a Karl Kani jacket, popped a furry Kangol bucket hat on her head to accessorize a silky Versace dress, and even laced up some Timberland boots to go with La Perla lingerie and a Burberry raincoat.
Tyger had her pose in the lush wilds of Prospect Park and against the backdrop of gritty Flatbush Avenue.
It was a gorgeous study of contrasts that positioned Sugar on the cutting edge of fashion and culture.
I kept the cover design mostly monochromatic, adding cover lines in silver and white so only the neon-pink Sugar logo popped.
The magazine looked chic and current, and, with the marketing buzz that would surround Betty’s impending music video and album release, I knew it would make her a style muse.
I flipped to my editor’s letter and read the heartfelt message, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to open myself up so much.
“Maybe I should have written a regular letter,” I murmured.
“Are you serious?” Von practically yelled in return. “Sure, the cover is dope, but everyone was talking about your letter when I grabbed your flowers.”
Imani knocked on the door, talking loud before I could fully wave her in.
“Nikki, this issue is fire! I knew it when we sent it to the printer, but people are going crazy out there.” She stopped to catch her breath, then high-fived me.
“And all the women in the office are talking about Nikki’s Notes.
Everyone identifies with at least one part of what you wrote. ”
“For real? I was getting nervous that I’d gone too far.” I figured that I may as well be open with Von and Imani.
“For real,” Imani said with Von uh-huhing in the background. “I don’t know of any EIC who has ever done anything like that. You’re breaking ground and our readers will love it.”
“And they’re going to love you, boo!” Von exclaimed.
Sondra burst through the door without knocking.
“We are so in business! If Tika’s reveal and Sinclaire’s fabulosity didn’t make the industry sit up and take notice, this sick Betty cover sure will.
” She was pacing my office excitedly. “And your letter … it’s like you were in my head.
I mean, I’m dealing with a breakup and a new job too. ”
Sondra sat down on my sofa next to Imani, who put an arm around her shoulders, pointed to herself with her free hand, and said, “New job too, obviously. And I moved to NYC a year ago with my son, as a single mom. I’m having serious trouble opening my heart again.
” Imani looked up at me. “Your editor’s letter gave me courage, Nikki.
Not because you said that you have all the answers, but because you admitted that you don’t. ”
I sat next to them for a group hug. With my arms around Sondra and Imani, I grasped for the first time the sisterhood that Sugar could truly become. Our shared optimism felt as deep and fragile as our trust in the future.
Von had enough and draped himself across all our laps to break up the suddenly subdued mood. “Um, can we get back to celebrating this ridonkulous issue and our fahbulous new EIC!”
He pulled me outside to the floor, where I was swallowed in a sea of hugs and high fives.
That night, JJ took me out to celebrate. I’d wanted to go home and change first, but he insisted on picking me up right after work, baggy denim, cropped T-shirt, high-tops, ponytail, and all.
“You look so cute,” he exclaimed as I climbed into his Porsche 911.
He rarely drove himself around the city, so this was the first time I’d seen his cobalt-blue sports car.
I was unsure what to do with the large rectangular box I’d had to move aside to sink into the buttery tan leather when JJ said, “That’s for you, gorgeous. ”
Ripping it open, I discovered a Louis Vuitton crossbody bag.
“No way, it’s perfect! I love it!” I wrapped my arms around JJ and wove my fingers through the curls at the back of his neck.
He smelled woodsy and sweet, like s’mores melting over a campfire in the forest. I noticed he was wearing jeans and sneakers too.
“Where we going, Daddy?” I asked, knowing that was his favorite nickname—even though I had to suppress memories of Alonzo every time I used it.
“MC RedHot just opened a sports bar, and he’s having a small opening party tonight.” Passersby turned to stare as JJ gunned the engine and swung the Porsche into traffic. “I thought we’d roll through there and then decide what’s next for the evening.”
“A whole MC RedHot party? Um, I don’t know about all that, JJ. Fab new bag notwithstanding, I’m dressed like I’m going to a picnic in Central Park.”
“That’s the vibe, gorgeous,” JJ assured me.
“Wait, are we going there together?”
“There may be drama at the door. RedHot’s events always get stupid and you’re not on the list, so I should walk you in.” As he sped around a corner on two wheels, I started to understand why he had a driver.
“Whatever you say, Mario.” I was trying to be chill, but I had a white-knuckle grip on the door handle.
“Mario?” His expression was quizzical.
“Mario Andretti!”