Pleasure Seekers (25 page)

E
nid sat with Astrid, going over a checklist of guests for an upcoming political fund-raiser. She’d sent out invitations to all the clients she knew whose party affiliation matched that of the judge running for reelection.

“Are all of my exotic jewels attending?” she asked Astrid.

The booker scanned the list. “Yes. Alana Gardner replied affirmative, and so did Ilene Fairchild. Bartholomew declined because of a prior engagement but wants Faye Ogden to give the judge his contribution.”

Enid smiled. “Good. Please set it up so they go in the same car. And I also want Tricia, Heather and Kristin to arrive together.” She paused as Astrid jotted down the instructions in her notebook. “Bettina will travel with Sonya—no, not Sonya. She’s a little too temperamental to be with Bettina for more than twenty minutes. Have Sonya go with Lareina.”

Lareina was a stunning young Russian woman with a sullen attitude that had men bending over backward to make her laugh. And when she did they were more than willing to shower her with expensive gifts that made her laugh even more because she viewed her middle-aged
clients as little boys who craved attention and instant gratification.

Astrid stopped writing and glanced up at Enid. “Is there anything else?”

Enid’s left hand went to the back of her neck. The tightness had returned. “I believe that’s it,” she said as she continued to massage her neck and shoulders.

Waiting until Astrid left her office, she walked into her sanctuary and sat down, lifting her feet to the footstool. The Zen fountain, prerecorded chanting and the lighted candles failed to ease her anxiety.

Although the bottom line for Pleasure Seekers had exceeded her expectations, a sixth sense told Enid that it wasn’t going to continue. She’d likened it to Wall Street when the index climbed steadily, then without warning bottomed out, resulting in massive losses for investors.

Ilene’s two-week sanction had become one because an African prince had requested the tall, beautiful black woman with the long hair. Prince Mahmoud had given Astrid a gift of an enormous African amethyst pendant framed with two carats of flawless pink diamonds after she’d arranged for Ilene to meet him in Washington, D.C., for a reception at his country’s embassy.

A call from Derrick Warren’s driver yielded nothing as to Alana’s decision not to see Derrick again, and it wasn’t Enid’s style to cross-examine her social companions. She refused to dwell on it because all of her exotic jewels were working.

A
lana sat on the side of the bathtub, unable to pull her gaze away from the wand between her fingers. What she’d suspected for more than a week had been confirmed.

She
was
pregnant! Whomever she’d slept with had picked her most fertile time of the month.

Twin emotions warred within her. She’d always wanted a baby, but not without being married. There was no way she wanted to mirror her mother’s life—having babies without the benefit of a husband. But her dilemma was different from Melanie’s because her mother knew the father of her children. She didn’t.

“Can I do this?” she whispered. Could she bear a child not knowing who’d fathered it? There was no doubt she could afford to raise it alone, but did she really want to become a single mother?

The questions attacked her relentlessly, breaking down the barrier she’d erected after she’d spoken to the HIV counselor who’d called to tell her all her tests had come back negative.

Placing the wand on a table cradling a live fern, she
closed her eyes.
I can do this. I really can do this by myself,
she told herself over and over until she believed she could.

Pushing to her feet, she discarded the results of the pregnancy test and washed her hands. She walked out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, her mind awash with what she wanted and needed to do. She stared at the clock on the bedside table; there was enough time for her to call her gynecologist’s office before it closed.

She made an appointment for Monday evening, and as she ended the call a beep came through the earpiece. After glancing at the display, she activated the call-waiting feature.

“What’s up, Taylor?” Her brother never called just to say hello or see how she was doing. She supposed she was lucky he called at all.

“Mom had an accident.”

“No!” she screamed.

“Don’t lose it, Alana. She slipped off the porch and bruised her coccyx.”

Alana took deep breaths to slow down her runaway heartbeat. “Did you take her to the doctor?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“She’s going to be sore for a while.”

“Where the hell was the home health aide, Taylor?” She was paying an agency for round-the-clock nursing care. “She’d gone into the house to turn off the stove. When she came back she found Mom at the bottom of the stairs. Sophia decided Mom should stay with us until she’s better.”

Alana wanted to ask her brother why he had to wait
for his mother to fall before his wife would permit her mother-in-law to stay with her. But she knew this was not the time to fight with him about their mother’s well-being.

“Call the agency and tell them not to send anyone until I talk to them.”

“What do you have in mind, baby sis?”

She closed her eyes. It’d been a long time since either of her brothers had referred to her as their baby sister. She opened her eyes, smiling. “I’m coming up at the end of next week.” She would let Taylor know he was going to become an uncle and the plans she’d made for their mother. “I’ll talk to you then. And thanks, Taylor, for letting me know about Mom.”

There was a beat of silence. “No problem.”

Alana ended the call and breathed out through her mouth. She would fix something substantial for breakfast before she went through her closet to find something to wear later that evening.

Astrid had called to say that she, Faye and Ilene would travel together to a fund-raiser in Scarsdale, an affluent community in New York’s Westchester County.

R
eaching for a tissue, Faye blotted at the moisturizer on her forehead; she repeated the action, the pile of tissues mounting, until her face shimmered. The rich crème, concocted by Madame Fontaine herself and selling at three hundred dollars an ounce, yielded extraordinary results.

Leaning forward on the bench seat to the vanity, she concentrated intently as she made up her face with a sheer foundation that blended perfectly with her skin tone. She applied liner, contrasting shadows and a coat of mascara to her upper and lower lashes. A light dusting of face powder and a coat of magenta-tinged lipstick completed her makeup regimen.

She was scheduled to attend the fund-raiser without Bart because he’d left New York two days before for a business trip and a conference of the American Institute of Architects. He was expected to spend a week in Los Angeles before returning to New York at the end of the following week.

Giuseppe had remained at the penthouse while Mrs. Llewellyn elected to stay on Long Island with her grandson, and Faye decided she would spend the coming
week at her own apartment. She’d only come back to the penthouse because Astrid had informed her that a driver would pick her up at the Olympic Towers high-rise.

She thought she would be bored having so much time on her hands, but she’d managed to keep busy cleaning her own apartment and putting together a rough draft for her marketing company.

She’d also written several letters to her brother. Within days of his incarceration, Craig Geoffrey Ogden Jr. had notified officials at the Auburn Correctional Facility that he wouldn’t accept telephone calls or visitors. The exception was legal counsel.

This news had devastated the elder Ogdens, who eventually realized their son’s shame surpassed his need for family contact. There wasn’t a week when Shirley did not get a letter from him. He never asked for anything, only their prayers. Faye was certain her latest letter would lift him from his melancholy, because someone from Rooney Turner’s office had informed her that several lawyers at the firm had contacted the Queens County’s D.A.’s office on CJ’s behalf.

A clock chimed the hour. She was scheduled to meet a driver within fifteen minutes in front of the building. When Astrid called to let her know she would be going to Scarsdale with Alana and Ilene she’d decided to spend the night with her friend.

Ilene moved over on the leather seat when Faye got into the limousine. “You look fabulous!”

Faye gave the supermodel a warm smile. “Thank you. So do you.”

Ilene brushed back several strands of hair from her cheek.
“Merci.”

Leaning around Ilene, Faye smiled at Alana. “Hey, girlfriend.”

“Hey, yourself. Ilene’s right. You look hot.” Alana smiled, her curly hair framing her face in sensual disarray.

It’d taken Faye hours before she decided on a two-piece ensemble with a black silk, off-the-shoulder, long-sleeve blouse with a matching wrap skirt that rode low on her hips; she’d offset the austere color with a cushion-cut candy-pink tourmaline pendant surrounded by diamonds and tourmaline briolette. The magnificent stones were suspended from a chain made of diamond daises.

Ilene reached over and cradled the pendant on her palm. “This looks like a Janet Deleuse creation.”

“It is,” Faye confirmed. She wouldn’t have known the designer’s name if it hadn’t been stamped on the leather case. It wasn’t one of the pieces she’d found in the drawer in the walk-in closet but on the pillow next to hers when she awoke the morning Bart left before dawn to catch a flight to L.A. The attached note read:
Think of me until we’re together again.

She wanted to tell Bart that she could only think of him, that he’d changed her and her world. They’d only made love twice, and she relived the encounters over and over in her dreams and during her waking hours.

“Ladies, please avail yourselves of the bar and refrig
erator,” the driver announced before he pushed a button and closed the security panel.

Ilene opened the bar, Alana the refrigerator and Faye turned to a radio station blaring a Nelly hit. Ilene uncorked a split of champagne while Faye and Alana opted for water. They were careful not to spill caviar and smoked oysters in tiny tins on their evening wear as the driver maneuvered in a northerly direction.

T
he fund-raiser was held on the estate of the sister of a state appellate judge up for reelection. The three-acre property was ablaze with lights when the chauffeur assisted Faye, Alana and Ilene from the limousine. The affair was buffet style in a large ballroom with French doors that let the outdoors in. A band of eight played continuously as men in black-tie mingled freely with women in haute couture and priceless gems.

They were greeted by their hostess, and then introduced to the guest of honor. Judge Leighton thanked Faye profusely when she handed him the envelope Bart had given her as a donation for his reelection campaign war chest.

Enid would’ve been proud of her exotic jewels as they circulated comfortably with the two hundred in attendance, including six other social companions. The women acknowledged one another with imperceptible nods as they charmed the men and garnered hostile stares from the women.

Alana tapped Faye’s shoulder. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get out of here.”

“What time is it?” Faye whispered.

“It’s close to midnight.”

“Get Ilene and I’ll meet you by the car.”

Alana leaned in close to Ilene who had enthralled a small group of men, and whispered in her ear. Ilene gave each man a dramatic air kiss then strutted away with her signature walk that left them with their mouths open.

“I ate too much,” Alana said when they were seated in the back of the limousine.

“I drank much too much champagne,” Ilene admitted.

“I did both,” Faye confessed.

Alana slipped off her shoes. “Ilene, Faye’s spending the night at my place. You’re welcome to join us.”

Seemingly surprised by the offer, Ilene said quickly, “Thanks for asking.” She grimaced. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take a rain check. I don’t have a change of clothes.”

“Not to worry,” Alana said. “I’ll find something in my closet for you.” She folded her hands on her hips when Ilene glared at her. “There’s no need to look at me like that, Miss Thang. I have a T-shirt and shorts in your size I never got to give my secretary because she went to Trinidad for Carnival, met a man and never came back.” Slumping down in the leather seat, she closed her eyes. “I’m going to take a nap. Wake me when we get home.”

Alana, Ilene, sans shoes, and Faye, carrying her shoes and overnight bag, entered the elevator, giggling like ado
lescent girls as the car rose swiftly. They’d all fallen asleep during the return ride to Manhattan.

Their giggles lowered considerably as they made their way down the carpeted hallway. Reaching into her bugle-beaded evening purse, Alana removed a key and unlocked the door to her apartment. Light from a Tiffany-style ceiling fixture cast a soft glow throughout the expansive entry that opened out to a sunken living room.

“This is nice,” Ilene crooned as she walked into the living room. “Talk about a room with a view. When I look out the windows in my apartment, all I see are rooftops, while you have Central Park.”

Alana placed her shoes in the entryway closet before she joined Ilene in the living room. She lit several candles on the coffee table and another half dozen lining a matching mahogany pedestal table doubling as a credenza.

“I love this apartment,” Faye said. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’m going to take a quick shower and change into something more comfortable.”

Alana turned and smiled at Ilene. “Let me get you something to sleep in. I hope you don’t mind a T-shirt.”

“Either it’s the T-shirt or y’all have to see me ass naked,” Ilene quipped.

“T-shirt alert!” Faye and Alana chorused.

“Faye, why don’t you use the bathroom in my room while Ilene uses the one out here,” Alana suggested. “Ilene, I’ll get you a towel, facecloth and a toothbrush.”

Ilene flashed a dimpled smile. “Do you have something I can use to clean the makeup off my face?”

“I do,” Faye offered. She opened her bag and took out a cosmetics case filled with tubes, tiny jars and plastic bottles filled with creams and lotions. She handed Ilene a sample bottle of makeup remover. “You can keep it.”

Holding the bottle closer to a flickering candle, she read the label. “Who gave you this?”

Faye looked perplexed. “I got it at Madame Fontaine.”

“You go to Madame Fontaine?”

“Yes, she does.” Alana had answered for Faye. “Compliments of Bartholomew Houghton.” She pretended she didn’t see Faye roll her eyes at her. “The only reason I got through the front door was because Faye put me down as her guest.”

“Is it everything people say it is?” Ilene asked. She’d tried, unsuccessfully, to get past the receptionist at the exclusive spa since she’d returned from Europe but to no avail. Not even her name was enough to permit her access.

“It’s a bit overpriced but worth every penny,” Faye admitted.

“Madame’s twenty-five-thousand-a-year membership fee would pay the maintenance on my co-op for a year and leave me enough for holiday tips for my building’s doormen and maintenance staff.”

“I hear you,” Alana concurred. “But what’s twenty-five thousand a year to a billionaire?”

Ilene sucked her teeth loudly. “My advice, Faye, is to get all that you can out of him now, because I lived with a man for eleven years who was a multimillionaire, but in the end I got nada. He gave me whatever I wanted when
he was alive, but when he died his heirs tossed me out of his château like I was last week’s bathwater.”

“How old were you when you went to live with him?” Faye asked.

“I’d just turned seventeen.”

Alana’s mouth curved into an unconscious smile. She had Ilene Fairchild, a legendary supermodel, standing in the middle of her living room, and she’d always been able to recognize opportunity when it presented itself.

“I’m writing a novel, and I’ve encountered the mother of all mothers writer’s block. Would you mind if I use you as a character in my book? Of course, I’d change your name.”

Ilene’s dimples deepened like thumbprints in her satiny dark cheeks. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything you’re willing to disclose.”

“I’ll dish after I take a shower and change into something more comfortable.”

“Mind if I listen in?” Faye asked Ilene.

“Girl, please. There’s nothing I’m going to say that hasn’t been said or written about me in the tabloids from New York to Paris to Madrid.” Unconsciously her brow furrowed. “I take that back. I do have a few secrets. But, girlfriends, you’re in luck tonight, because Ilene Fairchild is about to spill her guts.”