All About Eva (3 page)

The bugle horn on my cell phone sounded, signaling that I had just received a text message. I grabbed the phone off the nightstand and saw that the iPhone was
jumping.
Eleven missed calls and seventeen text messages, the last of which was from my old friend Tameka, the soon-to-be ex-wife of New York Jets player, Jamal Harvey: Hey young lady, happy birthday! Whatever you do today, do it in a BIG way . . . xoxo Meka

It had been almost a month since Tameka and I had hung out and spent girl time together, but even if she had been in the mood for socializing, she still would have most likely declined an invitation to the previous night's blowout extravaganza because she was not a big fan of Zoë and the socialite set in general.

I smiled, thinking that it was so sweet and thoughtful of Tameka to remember my birthday, especially since she was in the midst of a divorce that was getting to be so nasty that she'd decided to remove herself from the social scene until after the dust had settled.

I didn't blame her. Jamal's womanizing ways were legendary, and there were way too many rumors that she would have had to clear up. Tameka was one of my besties, and I missed hanging out with her, but you have to respect a girl's right to save face.

I was just about to check my e-mail when the phone rang and Donovan's face popped up on the screen. I grinned and giggled because I couldn't help it. The contact photo that I had for him was the picture I had taken of him shirtless on the beach in Costa Rica; plus, I was so smitten with Donovan that I smiled whenever I saw him, thought about him, or even heard his name.

“Good morning, Boo-Boo Kitty,” I cooed into the phone as if he were three years old instead of thirty-four. “How's it going?”

“It's going. . . .” He sighed in a way that let me know that he was not having a good day at the office. “But listen, I called to say happy birthday, and to tell you to be dressed and ready to hit the town tonight at seven sharp.”

A burst of excitement shot through me, causing me to do a happy dance. Donovan wasn't like most men who
maybe
bought you a greeting card and then
maybe,
if you were lucky, took you out for dinner and a movie. My man knew how to do birthdays right!

“Why, do you have something big planned for me?” I asked hopefully, with fingers crossed.

“No, sorry to disappoint you, babe”—he sounded distracted and I could hear him shuffling papers in the background—“since it's a weekday, though, I was thinking we should do it low-key this year. I have to come right back to the office bright and early tomorrow morning, so I went ahead and made reservations at your favorite restaurant.”

“And what's my favorite restaurant, Donovan?”

“Le Cirque, of course.”

Cue the buzzer sound....
Ennnnntttttt! Wrong!

You see, that's why it's good to give your man a pop quiz every once in a while, just to see how well he really knows you.

As awesome as Le Cirque is, it was actually
his
favorite restaurant, not mine. I much preferred Daniel over Le Cirque any day of the week. Not that Donovan would notice, due to his overconfident but slightly endearing habit of assuming that everything he loved, I automatically loved also.

Donovan couldn't talk long, but before he hung up, he instructed me to go into the kitchen where I would find my birthday present.

I did another happy dance as I wrapped myself in a silk Chinese robe before heading to the kitchen. I had to cover myself first, because as much as I would love to walk around the house half-naked, Donovan employed a household staff of six, and the thing about hired help was that on any given day, you rarely had the place to yourself.

I opened the bedroom door and padded barefoot through the spacious apartment, wondering if I really smelled food cooking or if I was hallucinating. It was Tuesday, and Hazel, our personal chef, was off on Tuesdays.

“Happy birthday, Ms. Eva!” Hazel greeted me when I entered the kitchen. She had put together a veritable feast. There was enough spicy-sweet bacon, scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit to feed several people. A pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice stood on the table, and she'd even gone to the trouble of getting my favorite caramel pecan pastries from The Royale Pastry Shop down on Seventy-second Street.

“Hazel!” I said, reaching out to hug the older, diminutive woman who was from Honduras. She was so sweet and nurturing, she reminded me of my maternal grandmother back home in the Midwest. “What are you doing here? You're supposed to be off today.”

Hazel gave me a dismissive wave of the hand. “And miss your birthday? No way! Besides, Mr. Donovan pay me extra!”

We both laughed. Hazel had a wicked sense of humor, and often made me laugh, even though I couldn't understand half the things she said in her adorable Spanglish accent.

“Extra? Whooo! What are you gonna do with all those monies, girl?”

“Send back home like all the rest. . . .” she said, then looked me over and shook her head. “You too skinny! Go sit down while I make you plate.”

I didn't have the heart to tell Hazel that I wasn't all that hungry. I had plans to meet Zoë for lunch later that afternoon, but everything smelled so divine, and Hazel was such an excellent cook, that I obeyed her orders and sat down and ate.

When I finished my meal, Hazel immediately cleared the dirty dishes from in front of me, and it was then that I remembered just why I had come into the kitchen in the first place.

“Look next to the flowers,” Hazel said, reading my mind.

“And just how do you know that I'm supposed to look for something in here?”

“Mr. Donovan tells me everything,” she said with a wink.

I dashed over to the stone countertop where hidden ever so slightly behind a fresh bouquet of flowers was a square, black lacquer box that I knew from experience could only contain one thing—jewelry!

I flipped the box open and what was inside literally took my breath away. It was a white diamond necklace set in 22-karat gold, which I estimated to be around 6 carats. It was by far the most magnificent piece of jewelry that Donovan had given me to date. “Oh, baby!” I said as if he were actually there in the room with me. “You are so good to me!”

Hazel stopped cleaning long enough to look over my shoulder and examine the gift for herself. “Si.” She nodded her approval. “Mr. Donovan love you muy muy mucho.”

“And I love him, too,” I said. “Very, very, much!”

And I did.

Contrary to what Donovan's mother or any other detractors might have thought about me possibly having ulterior motives, I honestly and truly loved that man with every fiber of my being. Sure, he was worth an insane amount of money, but even if he wasn't, I would still love and cherish him just the same if he were slinging packages down at UPS.

The next step for us would be marriage. We were forever.

Heads turned as I breezed through the lobby of the Bryant Park Hotel, my four-inch snakeskin Louboutin heels clicking coquettishly across the espresso-colored floor with each step I took.

All eyes were on me because I was serving them grown woman self-assuredness. I had the vamp appeal of a sex kitten in my frilly, black Tuleh blouse and a short olive miniskirt that showed off my long, graceful legs.

I carried my Giorgio Armani python bag in one hand and my cell phone in the other, which kept buzzing incessantly with even more birthday wishes.

Destination: Koi Restaurant.

Zoë was waiting for me near the entrance, giving the most sparkle ever in a colorful Indian tunic, super-skinny jeans (size 4), and silver metallic sandals, also size 4. A panama hat was perched on top of her lovely flowing tresses that the adoring public had no idea was actually a 30-inch Indian Remy Body Wave in Jet Black. Or, to put it in nontechnical language: it was a weave.

I know because we both got our tracks sewn in at the same salon, and by the same person, none other than Helene Lamar, weave-ologist to the stars and anyone else who could afford her overinflated prices.

“That is so haute, I'm
dying!
” was the first thing Zoë said to me after exchanging double kisses.

“You like?” I asked, sweeping my 26-inch Hawaiian silky, caramel-colored hair to one side, so that Zoë could get a better view of the flawless multi-carat sparkler that was causing her to practically foam at the mouth.

“Like, are you kidding me? I covet!” That was the ultimate stamp of approval coming from Zoë. She rarely dished out compliments, due to the fact that she considered herself the only person in the world with any real taste.

To her credit, Zoë was a fashion maven in the truest sense of the word, and was the only person I knew who kept a mental inventory of all of her friends' wardrobes and accessories, and could quickly point out whenever someone was wearing something new. Zoë was really quite remarkable in that way, like a savant. Unfortunately, though, it was the only marketable skill that she had developed so far in her twenty-six years—well, that, and giving head to just about any guy in the club who asked.

Lunch was fun.

We were seated at our usual banquet near the back and had a sumptuous lunch of seafood miso soup and warm baby spinach salad, with a side dish of spilt tea. Gossip, that is.

“So did you guys keep the party going after you dropped me off, or what?” I asked.

“Well, yes, and no.... We stopped by Isaac's after-after party . . .”

“Oh, yeah? Was it a good look?”

“You know Isaac. He always gives a good party, and it was actually quite splashy until Sierra Jones showed up.”

“Oh, yeah, that reminds me!” I said. “Chantal told me that she saw Sierra at Bianca's the other night, fresh out of rehab, and
still
getting her Amy Winehouse on.”

“Tragic, but true,” Zoë said. “You should have seen her drunk ass doing handstands in the middle of the floor, while wearing a dress with no panties on.”

I laughed, struggling to keep from choking on my soup. “She got it from you!” I said. “Isn't that your signature move when you've had a little too much to drink?”

“It depends on the time and the place, but at least when I do it, you can rest assured that I've had my kitty-kat waxed. Eva, I'm telling you, Sierra looked like she was starting to dread down there!”

“Eww . . . okay, stop! Enough! I don't wanna ruin my appetite thinking about that shit.”

“Well, she is from Jersey.” Zoë shrugged. “What more can you expect?”

“But please, tell me, what was that Pilar was wearing? It looked like something straight out of my grandmamma's closet.”

“O . . . M . . . Effen . . . G!” Zoë was incredulous. “I couldn't believe that girl actually came out of the house in that old,
late-ass
purple dress, looking like
Barney.
She's lucky she jumped in the limo before I had the chance to tell the driver to take off and leave her ass.”

“Like really, polyester? Eccentric may be the new black, but Pilar is wearing me out with these insane fashion choices of hers.”

“That, and if I see Giselle in those run-over YSL knockoffs one more time . . . I'm gonna cut her.”

“
Girl!
Not if I get to her first!” I said.

“And what about Sandra?” Zoë asked. “Could her blouse have been cut any lower?”

“Right? It's like, girlfriend, we all know you have tig ole bitties, but damn! I don't need to see your big, shiny boobs every time we go out.”

“She obviously didn't get the memo that everyone isn't as obsessed with her breasts as she is,” Zoë said. “Maybe I should resend.”

I took out my iPhone and made a voice memo to myself: “Don't forget to put Sandra on the Christmas list for an assortment of turtleneck sweaters—cashmere, of course!”

We laughed. “But seriously,” I said. “I had a ball last night. What about you?”

“Good times! But it would have been even better if Kelly's personal hygiene issue wasn't so distracting.”

“Oh, I know. She had the limo all funked up, smelling like
two
cans of sardines!”

“I know, right? So, two seconds before we walked into Revival, I pulled her aside and told her that Massengill was her friend and that she didn't have to be afraid of it.”

“Ouch! So that's why she was all teary-eyed and kind of shut down toward the end of the night,” I said. “I tried to ask her what was wrong, but she just said she didn't want to talk about it.”

Zoë shrugged. “The truth hurts.”

“Well, you could have used a bit more tact, but she definitely needed to know,” I said. “Lord knows I can't stand to smell another woman's personal business.”

“See? I did us all a favor—oh! It's official.... My new nickname for her is
Smelly-ass Kelly.
” Zoë fanned her hand in front of her nose.

Zoë gave everyone nicknames. “TUF” was what she had bestowed on me shortly after we had met, short for “The Ultimate Flyygirl,” which I really didn't mind because it summed me up perfectly.

Still, Zoë being so venomous toward Kelly made me pause, because they were first cousins. If Zoë could talk so viciously about family, I couldn't help but wonder what kinds of things she said about me when I wasn't in the room.

“A dog that will bring a bone will carry one!” is what Grandma Nita always warned me about gossiping friends. Not that I wasn't guilty of it too, but Zoë took it to a whole 'nother level, which led me to the thought that Grandma Nita would be sorely disappointed if she were to ever meet Zoë Everett, who belched like a pig at the table and used her manicured forefingers to pick food from between her teeth.

My grandmother was a great admirer of Zoë's grandfather, Howard Everett, who had started his hair care company back in 1959 with little more than a few dollars and a dream. As his business and his fortune grew, the excess fruits of Howard's labor could be seen in almost every issue of
Ebony
magazine.

There was the April 1972 issue where his wife, Claudine, showed off her fox fur coat, the newly purchased mansion in Westchester, and the brand-new Rolls Royce that was driven by a white chauffeur. And there was the July 1982 issue that documented the birth of Zoë herself. Of course I wasn't old enough to remember that particular issue, but the Everetts and their rise to success were a source of pride for Grandma Nita and those of her generation.

If she only knew that behind closed doors Howard Everett had been a raging alcoholic who terrorized his wife and children. Zoë's grandmother, Claudine, had almost a dozen failed suicide attempts under her belt, and Zoë, the one who stood to inherit it all, was a gorgeous girl, but her good looks were made null and void by the fact that she wore a perpetual scowl on her face that made her look as though she was always smelling something foul, which very well could have been her own funky attitude.

Why be friends with such an awful person? The answer to that was, Zoë was spoiled rotten, but she wasn't all bad. Not once since I had known her had she ever directed her dark, evil side toward me, or said or did anything that could be construed as snarky or disrespectful. Other people? Oh, all the time! There are different levels of friendship, and admittedly, Zoë was not the sort to call up at three in the morning seeking advice or to share your innermost feelings with, but she was a ball of fun who knew how to party, and was exceedingly generous to those she considered her friends.

But just as most sociopaths have redeeming qualities, like a magnetic personality or great listening skill, Zoë's saving grace was that she could be thoughtful and kind whenever the mood struck her.

For dessert, there was spiced apple and cranberry crisp for me and molten chocolate cake for Zoë. Just as we were about to dig in, Zoë slid a gift-wrapped box across the table, and said, “I hope you like it. . . .”

I opened the box to find a stainless steel Movado bangle watch with a diamond bezel and mother-of-pearl dial. At a retail cost of around three-thousand dollars, it wasn't a terribly expensive watch, but as is always the case with Zoë, it was the thought that counted most.

“Thank you, mi amour. It's gorgeous!” I said, reaching over to give her a hug.

“You're welcome, doll. Anything for you,” Zoë said, and then lifted her wineglass in a toast. “To my sista from another mista, who I love more than cooked food. Happy birthday, Eva. Love ya to pieces, girl!”

“And I love ya back,” I said as we clinked our glasses together.

Right at that moment, I received a text message from Donovan, and I read it aloud: “Change of plans: We′re having dinner at the Rainbow Room tonight instead of Le Cirque. Formal attire is required, but of course you know that. Also, pack a suitcase or overnight bag, because you never know where we might end up. Love, Donovan.”

“Awww,” I cooed. “Donovan is the sweetest!”

Zoë rolled her eyes and puckered her lips at the mention of Donovan's name. Unfortunately, she was the type who couldn't keep a man, and she found it hard to be happy for those of us who could.

“Yes, we all know how sweet Donovan is,” Zoë said with a trace of envy in her voice. “So, what are you wearing to the party tonight?”

I gave Zoë the side eye. “What party?”

“Never mind, forget I said anything,” she said lamely, helping herself to a forkful of my dessert. “Umm, so good! I should've ordered this instead of that cake.”

Zoë was trying to play something off but failing miserably. She was a terrible liar. Mainly because she got a kick out of telling the truth, no matter how brutal or painful it was for someone else to hear.

“Come on, Zoë, spill it. What party are you talking about?”

And without any more prodding than that, Zoë pulled a fancy party invitation out of her red Hermes bag and slid it in front of me. The invite was to an exclusive surprise birthday bash at the illustrious Rainbow Room high atop Rockefeller Center.

The party was set for eight that night. The host? Donovan Dorsey. The guest of honor? None other than Ms. Eva Cantrell.