Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
The energy at NuVoices’ blowout to celebrate Sugar’s successful July issue reached a crescendo long before Sinclaire’s trademark whistle note rang out over the rapt audience.
The next day, Page Six would describe the party as the “event of the season.” The hyperbolic headline wasn’t too far from the truth—which was a miracle, given how slow the evening began.
Urban parties were nerve-rackingly unpredictable.
That crowd was notorious for not RSVPing and waiting to see who was going before deciding to pull up with their friends.
If there was no buzz, you could have an empty room with trays of congealing appetizers.
If folks started to hear that it was a hot party, rappers and actors and models would show up with huge crews, the line to get in would extend up the street, and the fire marshals would eventually be called.
Barbara pulled out all the stops for Sinclaire’s cover party, even engaging Kiara’s PR and event firm (at my behest) to handle the affair.
On the night of the event, we had everything in place: a buzzy DJ, a sexy stage design for Sinclaire’s performance, a step and repeat banner with Sugar’s logo and sponsor names, press lined up to interview famous attendees, huge bougainvillea arrangements that added bursts of purple and pink to the Caribbean-themed décor, signature rum cocktails, and Kiara ready to guard the door with a long list of invited names attached to a clipboard.
The problem was that the list held almost no confirmed RSVPs, so we had no idea if the party would hit the in-crowd’s two-way pagers or if Sinclaire would be singing to an echoey room of NuVoices employees and caterers.
Because she was on the cover, Sinclaire caused a commotion when she hit the red carpet, the flashbulbs going off as she’d entered the cavernous Lower East Side venue and settled into the prime banquette next to the DJ stand.
Since no one else arrived with her, for a while we thought her performance might be the only highlight of the evening.
“I don’t know, love,” Kiara had said after she and I did a quick walk-through of the near-empty high-ceilinged former bank that was now one of the most sought-after event locations in the city.
I’d given Sinclaire an optimistic thumbs-up as we moved through the space, regretting that I’d asked her to arrive so early; then Kiara and I trotted to a back room to put the last touches on our outfits—hers a floral-print Roberto Cavalli jumpsuit and mine a silky yellow dress with a plunging neckline so low she’d had to beg me to wear it.
Kiara’s trademark bare face was gorgeous, so she was keeping me company while I touched up my makeup.
“I haven’t heard much about the party on the grapevine. ”
“Tonight cannot be a flop, Ki,” I moaned.
I hadn’t told Kiara about NuVoices’ precarious status, but my panicky tone must have conveyed a profound level of concern because Kiara nodded and pulled out her two-way. “Okay, I’ve got you,” she said. “Let me call in some favors.”
Just then, we heard a racket on the street.
We rushed out to see multiple chauffeur-driven SUVs pulling up.
Apparently, Freddy had spent the day styling a music video that Tyger directed for MC RedHot.
The shoot wrapped early, and she’d convinced RedHot, Tyger, and all the dancers that it would be fun to hit the Sugar party for some cocktails.
Kiara and I stared at each other as the rapper’s next music video spilled out of three Escalades.
That’s how the “event of the season” got started, and soon, the line of town cars, SUVs, and limos snaked up Houston Street.
Kiara pulled me onto the red carpet and called out, “Nikki Rose, editor in chief of Sugar, is on the carpet. This is her party!”
The photographers flashed away at me while I attempted to wrangle my limbs into a suitable pose.
Kiara had convinced me to wear my hair curly, which I hadn’t done in months.
It fanned out over the sunny silk covering my shoulders.
I’d forgotten how good it felt to look in a mirror and see my natural hair texture, to feel it shrink as it dried and frizz in the humidity, to have stray curls escape a hair tie.
But as I pried ringlets off my lip gloss, I realized my inner bookworm would always feel a little awkward in front of the camera.
Of course, JJ would be the first person I ran into as I finally made it to the end of the red carpet.
I was grateful to see him climbing out of a chauffeured Escalade instead of the driver’s side of his 911.
After my conversation with Barbara, I’d tried to distance myself from him, but JJ continued to show up at my door almost nightly.
He’d charmed (likely bribed) the Matsumoro Tribeca doorman into letting him upstairs unannounced, so I would have no warning other than a soft knock at my door.
The sight of JJ leaning against my doorjamb with a sheepish smile dispelled my annoyance every time.
We’d decided against hanging out in public, so this would be the first night we were at the same event since that fateful valet stand kiss.
But when I saw JJ’s sleek white suit and cornrows, I almost lost my resolve.
Fortunately, I noticed how the crowd between us was looking from him to me to see how we’d react.
Running up to him would have added an exclamation point behind the question mark to my name.
Instead, I let myself get pulled inside the venue.
I grabbed my first rum punch of the evening from a passing waiter’s tray as I searched the crowd for a friendly face. Von appeared at my left shoulder with a beautiful but sour-faced woman whom he introduced as “Paula the dancer.” Paula rolled her eyes and skulked off.
“Oh my god, Von. What happened this time?” I asked, hooking my arm through his as we made our way toward my reserved banquette.
“Same old, same old. I drove us to the party in her new white Benz and sideswiped a red Jeep on the way. Now her car looks like it’s bleeding.
” He shrugged. “I did try to tell her I’ve only driven, like, three times since college.
I’m a New Yorker!” His second shrug told me that after tonight, Paula the dancer would join the unfortunate ranks of Von’s exes.
The swell of arriving guests, who had no doubt heard that MC RedHot was in the house, made it impossible to move five feet without someone coming up to me for an air-kiss or an introduction.
But the whispers behind my back made it clear that too many people knew about my “thing” with JJ.
I grabbed another rum punch from a passing tray, and then another.
Von was the perfect handler, giving me intel on everyone while shielding me from the worst gossipers and steering me toward friendlies.
Between avoiding rumormongers and JJ, who seemed to pop up around every corner, we were walking an endless Fibonacci sequence of a path.
By the time we finally spiraled to my banquette, I had finished my third drink, my hair had expanded into a cumulus cloud, and I really wanted a break from standing in my new stilettos.
No such luck. I’d arranged for premium bottle service so I could entertain in my own space, and I limped up to find none other than Luna and Serena enjoying my Belvedere.
How they’d slipped in past Kiara was beyond me, but there they were, in matching skintight minidresses, making cocktails with my mixers.
I was too buzzed and annoyed to edit myself.
“What the fuck!” I exclaimed loud enough for several people to turn my way. “You two can feel free to leave.”
“Oooh, you all right, boo?” Serena purred, leisurely sipping her drink and twirling her long straight hair. “Did your finger get stuck in an electric socket?”
Luna’s glittering eyes never left my face as she and Serena cackled together. “Waiting on someone?” she asked, then lightly slapped her forehead. “What am I thinking? You stay waiting on someone to save you.”
“Captain Save-a-Ho!” Serena chimed in. More cackling.
I hadn’t seen Von quietly gesturing to the security guards, so I was startled at suddenly being flanked by two mountainous men ready to rumble.
At the sight of security, Luna and Serena stood up, clearly not wanting a scene.
Serena flounced out first, smirking and still holding her drink.
Luna followed close behind but paused to utter in my ear, “Have you heard the good news about Betty Brown? Her album will make such a great Christmas gift.”
Her smug look told me something was up, but I had no time to ask what she was talking about because right as Luna melted into the crowd, Barbara appeared with a lanky chocolate-skinned man sporting a long black ponytail.
“Nikki, this is Serge. He’s the genius behind the fabulous women’s line Reine.
” Barbara and I had just had a meeting about our biggest fashion advertisers, and Reine was at the top of the list. Serge preened, smoothing his white shirt, unbuttoned to the waist, and flipping his ponytail over his shoulder.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Serge. Reine is one of my absolute favorite brands!
” The DJ had put on “Ms. Fat Booty,” and the whole party was rapping along with Mos Def.
Serge put a bejeweled hand to his ear to indicate that he couldn’t hear me.
I tried again but he shook his head. I vaguely remembered that he was from the C?te d’Ivoire, so I dusted off my college French.
“C’est tellement bruyant ici! J’adore vos créations, Serge.
Merci d’être venu à la fête,” I yelled over the music, hoping my accent would hold up at top volume.
Serge put a hand to his chest in shock. “Je suis impressionné, Mademoiselle Nikki. And I do like where you are going with Sugar.”