Rich Girl Problems (14 page)

Two Days Later . . .

 

I
n the year they'd been a couple, no moment between them had ever been this quiet.

Their times together were always chock-full of endless conversations. Laughter. Talks of their respective daughters. Reminiscing about the sweetness of yesterday and anticipating the promise of tomorrow. Their lovemaking had been filled with the sounds of yanking hair, ass clapping, shaft slapping, and pounding, until their bodies cried out in shivering screams of “I love you,” and panting whispers of “Jesus. . . .”

Now they sat in silence beneath the morning sun, in the center of a grassy Manhattan fork in the road known as Bryant Park, at a small bistro table, with the camera hovering over them. Chaunci looked to her left and Emory looked to his right, both watching the dance of New York City traffic.

“I can't do this,” Emory said, and then turned to face Chaunci, who slowly turned her head toward him. She looked down and then locked into his stare. “It's too much,” he said.

“What's too much?”

“This.” He stretched his arms out to each side and then brought them together with a clap of the hands. “We're always on display. Always. We're sitting in the middle of a public park, for Christ's sake, and for what? Because this is where your producer told you to be? Will we ever get a private moment to discuss how fucked up our relationship has become? Or is this it? Our problems are made-for-TV drama. I'm so sick of this shit!”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to quit!”

“I can't do that!”

“Well, then I can't do this!” He pounded his fist into the table. “You can't ever do anything I ask you to. Who disappears for four days straight without a word to her man? Had I done that, you'd be finished with me. But you, you have yet to explain where you were! And on top of that, the last time I saw you, you left me standing in the middle of the street!”

“You were making a scene. Like you are now. And you need to lower your voice and talk to me like I'm sitting in your face and not a block from you.”

“Where were you, Chaunci?”

“I told you! I was in France. My God, will you let it go?! How long are you going to focus on me being gone? I'm back now; can we deal with that?!”

“You are selfish as hell.”

“I resent that.”

“Join the club.”

“Emory, listen. I'm sorry that I left without saying anything to you, but I had to. I felt overwhelmed and crowded. And I just . . . I just needed to get away.”

“So, I'm crowding and overwhelming? That's what you're saying to me?”

“That's not what I'm saying—”

“Then what are you saying? Because the way I'm feeling right now, there'll be no wedding.”

“What?” Chaunci said. “So you're calling the wedding off? Are you serious?”

“As serious as you were when you left me for four days without so much as a damned text message.”

Chaunci pushed an index finger into her left temple. “Didn't I just apologize for that?! Would you get the hell over it? Damn! Do you understand that I've lost my company! That Grant Preston has stolen it from me!” Tears welled in her eyes. “I worked my ass off to go from a struggling writer, to one magazine, to ten different magazines, to being a publishing machine. Morgan Enterprises was my dream! And he just comes along and takes it from me, and is now sitting in my office running my company. And you're supposed to be my future husband and instead of you asking me how I feel, you'd rather argue about bullshit!”

“So now my feelings are bullshit?”

“I never said that.”

“That's exactly what you said. And as far as your company, of course I know about it, but not because you told me—I read it in the paper. All you've done lately is shut me out! You don't talk to me. You don't confide in me anymore. Your goddamn lawyer knows more about you than I do. Hell, are you fuckin' him?”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

“I'm not being ridiculous. Here I was calling hospitals, calling your assistant, a thousand times a day, and nothing. And where were you? In France. Working on not being overwhelmed!”

“How many times do I have to apologize? Damn it! Okay, I left town. I didn't call you. I'm sorry. But. Please. Let. It. Go.”

“It's not about you leaving town; it's about you being inconsiderate of me! If you're going through something you should've talked to me!”

“Every time I tried to talk to you, you would say shit like, ‘That's business. Put your big girl panties on and deal with it.' I don't want to hear that shit!”

“No, you don't want to hear the truth. You think my business doesn't have its ups and downs?”

“A hundred-thousand-dollar cleaning business funded by a bank does not compare to a multimillion-dollar publishing empire financed by shareholders. I am not giving presentations while holding a dustpan and a broom in my boardroom.”

Emory hesitated and Chaunci knew by the look in his eyes that she'd shot an invisible round of bullets into him.

She sighed. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But, Emory, listen . . . I'm scared.” She let the tears glistening in her eyes fall. “I'm scared as hell. And I'm taking it out on the wrong people. I feel like I don't know what to do. I know that what I did to you wasn't right, but I can't undo it. I can only ask you to please forgive me because I love you and I need you.”

Silence. Emory looked to be in deep thought as his eyes bounced around the park and his fingers danced an accordion on the table. He looked at Chaunci and stared through her.

“Would you say something?”

“I don't know what to say.”

“Say you forgive me. Say you love me. Say you'll be here for me. I need you more now than I ever have.”

He stared back into the space. “You have to stop pushing me away.” He brought his eyes to meet hers. “You know that I'm here for you.” He wiped her tears. “But as much as you need me, I need you to talk to me. You don't have to keep everything so bottled up.”

“I love you.” She stood up and walked over to him.

He stood up and pulled her into his embrace. “I love you, too.”

A
fter being here for close to two hours waiting for a cast that had yet to arrive or even call, I was exasperated. I looked around the empty dining room before turning to my camera crew, who were all set up and ready to record the cast's swanky, private lunch at Per Se, the most fabulous French establishment in all of New York City, and said, “These whores. Wear. Me. Out!” I took a deep breath and slowly released it through my nose. “But I refuse to let these bimbos make me sweat. I will keep cool. Remain calm and—” I spun on my heels and turned toward the door, observing Vera and Jaise chatting feverishly as they sashayed in.

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!”

Vera and Jaise both stopped in their tracks. Looked at each other and then over to me. “Bridget, let me just add you to my list of who I'll be getting straight today,” Vera said, then placed her clutch on the oblong, white-linen-covered table. “Don't you ever in your damn life speak to me like that again. And I mean
ever
again. When I walk into the room you are to greet me with a ‘good morning,' a ‘good afternoon,' or a head nod.”

“My, my.” I grinned impishly. “Who pissed in your stiletto?” I clutched invisible pearls.

“Well, damn.” Journee sauntered in, her pale peach, chiffon minidress flowing with the sway of her stride. “Looks like I arrived on time.”

Jaise rolled her eyes and mumbled to Vera, “Grab your purse; the ghetto tramp just walked in.”

“Journee, dear,” I greeted her. “I don't believe you've met Vera. You do know Jaise, don't you?”

Journee cut her eyes at Jaise while turning to Vera and smiling. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“You as well,” Vera said. “I've heard a lot about you.”

“Well, whatever you heard”—Journee shot a look at Jaise—“it's not true. I'm much worse.”

Vera snickered and Jaise looked her over from head to toe. “Umm, excuse me,” Jaise said. “We don't entertain wild beast.”

I turned and gave Carl the signal to zoom in.

Journee placed her purse on the table. “See, Jaise, I was going to be gracious and give you a pass.”

Sure you were.

“But you insist on fucking with me.”

Because that's what she does. She fucks with everybody and then sings “Kumbaya.”

Journee carried on. “Now don't make me step out of my Jimmy Choos—”

“You know what,” Vera interjected, “I don't think you need to do that. Because if you do, I'll have to get involved and I am not in the mood. I didn't wear the right shoes. This is a limited edition Chanel dress. We just met. And you seem to be the kind of chick I would like.”

“I respect you and Jaise being friends,” Journee said, “but if you get into it, I'll just have to open two cans of whoop ass instead of one. Now you seem like I might like you too, but your girlfriend is a whole other story.”

“Look,” Vera said, “I know Jaise can get out of pocket.”

“Excuse you.” Jaise batted her mink lashes.

“And bourgeois,” Vera carried on.

“You call it bourgeois. I call it manners and speaking correctly, not butchering the English language with truckloads of ‘ain'ts,' ‘motherfuckers,' and ‘bitches.' ”

Vera took her right thumb and index finger and made the signal for Jaise to zip it. “Didn't we discuss you being quiet sometimes and listening to what other people had to say?” She mumbled, “I got this.” Vera turned back to Journee and pointed at Jaise. “Now that bitch is mouthy, but that's my damn girl, and unless we're going to get this party started by kicking each other's asses, then I think we should all take a step back, have a seat, and start over.”

“Excuse you, Oprah,” I said to Vera, as they silently agreed and took their seats. “But this is reality TV and if Gayle needs to get her ass kicked, don't you dare stop it. Now, let's just move on because I feel my blood boiling and I will not let you three get under my skin. Besides, I need to show you all something before Milan walks in.” I pulled an article out of my briefcase and handed each of them a copy. “Read that.”

They each read the two-page article intensely.

“Oh no, this bitch-ass whore didn't!” Jaise said, slapping the article on the table. “Milan has lost her damn mind. This interviewer should've kicked her ass! I ain't never seen no shit like this! Oh, this cannot go to print!” She snapped her fingers. “Someone get the editor in chief on the phone.”

“Wow, Jaise. For someone who doesn't believe in butchering the English language, you certainly just slaughtered it.” I laughed. “And besides, they're running this baby next month. Just be thankful we got an advance copy of it.”

Jaise carried on. “How can this bitch say
I
don't know how to keep a man and class
me
as an angry black woman?! I am far from angry! And for her information my husband is home with me. How's that for angry! How dare Milan say that I'm angry! Have you seen her viral YouTube video where she cussed King Cheatin' Ass out for whoring around?!” She looked at Journee. “You hit that damn nail on the head!”

“I sure did. And don't even get me started on how I woke up to a series of text messages from him this morning.”

Vera's mouth flew open. “Are you serious?”

Jaise turned to Vera. “I meant to tell you that hozilla said that . . . I mean our new good girlfriend, Journee, told me that she and Kendu did a little bust-bust back in the day and that she whipped it on him so bad he continues to call and text her years later.”

“That's not exactly what I said,” Journee chimed in.

“It's the same point.” Jaise shook her head. “And me angry? How dare that bitch say that about me when every hashtag on Twitter is ‘Whitetape yo' ass!' And this tramp wants to insult me?”

“She cussed out every black woman in the world,” Vera said. “Not just you, Jaise. She talked about me and Journee too! This is a mess!”

“And I told Milan to keep my damn name out of her mouth,” Journee added.

“Somebody's looking for me?” Milan stepped into the room.

Thank you, Jesus, for perfect timing.

“Hey, girls!” Milan air-kissed them all before taking a seat at the table and picking up the menu.

“Milan.”

“Yes, Jaise.”

“I'm trying to think of a way to say this.”

Milan placed the menu on the table. “Say what?”

“That it's come to our attention that you've been—”

“Why the hell were you talking shit about us in your
Sister2Sister
interview?!” Vera pounded on the table, shaking the silverware.

Milan looked completely caught off guard. “Because it was my interview,” she retorted as she looked over at the waitress who walked toward the table.

“Good evening, I'm Tara. And I'll be your server. May I start you off with a bottle of Romanée–Conti?”

“Yes, Tara,” Milan said. “That would be great.”

Vera slid her earrings off and placed them on the table. “I don't think I heard you correctly, Milan. Now what did you say?”

“I said it was my interview. Now you either accept what I said or you don't. But those are my views. Period.”

“
Guuuuurrrrrl,
I will elbow slap the shit out of you!”

“Oh my, look at what a weekend in jail teaches you,” Jaise remarked.

Journee smirked. “Chile, Vera, that's too much work. I got a thirty-two that will end this real quick.”

Milan blinked and wagged an index finger. “You three bitches are trippin'. All of this because I told the truth? This just further proves that you three are a squad of angry bitches who add to the population of fucked up people, and if you think I'm going to sit here and let you all gang up on me, you are sadly mistaken. Now either we speak civilly and eat or I'll leave.” She pushed her chair back.

“There's no reason for you to leave, Milan,” Jaise said. “You need to suck it up and apologize. Then we can all have some wine.” She pointed to the server, who set the wine on the table and filled their glasses.

“Milan,” Vera called, “don't let Jaise steer you wrong. I advise you to tuck your clutch back beneath your arm. Because if you keep sitting there, you will have a problem called knocked the fuck out.”

“Vera!” Jaise said sternly. “Listen, Milan, all we're simply saying is that you cannot say whatever you feel like saying about people. You really need to find yourself a filter because your mouth is disgusting. And you're a young lady and that is really not attractive.” She sipped her wine.

“Is this what you invited me here for, Bridget?” Milan asked. “So they could gang up on me? Really? You already know I don't do messy hos!”

“Journee”—Vera looked to her left—“do you have any Vaseline?”

“No. But as long as there's a wine bottle on the table and a loaded thirty-two in my bag, we got this.”

“Ladies, please,” Jaise stressed. “All they're saying, Milan, is that instead of being concerned about what the three of us are doing and calling us angry, you should hone in on your husband. Who keeps calling Journee and inviting her for sex? She's not about that ho-ass life anymore, but apparently your husband is!”

Milan quickly glanced at the camera and then back to the other women. “Y'all bitches stay trying me. You all created that lie because you're mad about the interview I did. Stick to the facts.”

“The facts?” Vera said. “The facts are here in black and white. You talk too damn much. The facts are also in that damn YouTube video of you spinning out of control because your husband is out fucking some trick!”

“And for the record, Milan,” Journee said, “no one needs to lie on your husband. Trust me, we've both seen that tiny black mole that sits on the left side of his head and you know what head I'm talking about!”

“Fuck you!” Milan stood up and Journee and Vera both hopped out of their seats.

Vera looked at Journee. “I thought I was the only one who didn't do well when slick-talkin' bitches start standing up.”

“Hell no!” Journee said, giving Vera a high five.

“My, my, look at these hood heifers here . . . bonding.” Jaise twisted her lips.

Milan rolled her eyes. “See, this is why Chaunci said she wasn't coming here today, and this is why my husband told me that I needed to stay home. Because you birds are nothing but drama, and since I don't do drama, violence, or negative energy, I'm going to excuse myself.”

“Guilty hos love to run.” Journee popped her lips.

Milan stormed out the door and down the hall as Jaise sipped more wine. “Now that was not right, what y'all just did.”

“Jaise.” Vera sat down and picked up the menu. “Order you something to eat and shut the fuck up.”