All About Eva Page 3

  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.

  Social.Net

  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.

  S
till, 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.

  Champagne Wishes

  Later that evening, Kyle and I were in my bedroom where he was helping me get dressed for my “surprise” birthday extravaganza. Music from my iPod filled the room, and I felt mellow and lifted from a precelebration glass of Bollinger Rosé champagne.

  I had already packed a suitcase and an overnight bag like Donovan had instructed me to, and was anxious to see how the rest of the night would unfold.

  “I can’t believe that heifer!” Kyle said, while helping secure the straps on the Valentino pumps that I was wearing for the evening. “I’m telling you. I’ve met some messy bitches in my life, but that Zoë Everett is the messiest of them all! I mean, it’s a surprise party, bitch! Hello!”

  “Calm down, love, it was just a little slip of the tongue, and it is certainly not worth you stroking out over it.”

  “Uh-uh, ‘just a little slip,’ my ass.” Kyle wagged a finger in my face. “Zoë actually went so far as to show you the damn invitation—I mean, who does that? I got my invitation weeks ago, but I still managed to keep my big mouth shut!”

  “And Lawd knows that couldn’t have been easy!” I joked.

  “Never mind all that. I’m telling you, Eva, that girl is pure evil.”

  “Well, it’s not like the party is ruined. I just have to pretend that I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “And doesn’t that defeat the purpose of what Donovan was trying to do for you? Damn! Look, you can make excuses for that girl if you want to, but you know she ain’t right.”

  “Yeah, Zoë is an acquired taste and has more issues than Jet magazine, but there is a side to her that most others don’t get to see.”

  Kyle stood in front of me with hands on hip, looking like he wanted to shake the shit out of me. “For instance?”

  “Look at this.” I extended my arm and showed him the Movado Zoë had given me earlier at lunch.

  Kyle examined the watch, trying his best to appear unimpressed.

  “Humph, with all her money, is that the best she can do?” he asked, letting my arm drop. “I’m just saying . . . it’s not like it’s an Audemars, or Patek Philippe, or something really grand along those lines.”

  Kyle was being a hater, but I gave him a pass. It was my birthday, and continuing to defend my friendship with Zoë with him would only lead to an even bigger argument. Spreadlove.com!

  “I don’t think we’re ever going to see eye to eye when it comes to Zoë, so let’s just respectfully agree to disagree,” I said. “Besides, if we started dropping friends on the basis of flaws, then you and I would have parted ways a long time ago, darling.”

  “Don’t be preposterous! No one walking this earth is as perfect as I am. Flaws? Please! Name one!”

  “Remember that time you stole the guy I was dating right out from under me?”

  “Chile, please, that boy clearly preferred beef over fish, so you should consider that an act of love,” Kyle explained. “Plus, he didn’t turn out to be worth a damn anyway, so—”

  “So, you see, you’re not
perfect,” I retorted, checking my reflection in the mirror from all angles. I was dressed for the party in the best Roberto Cavalli had to offer, and looked chic and elegant if I must say so myself. “Neither is Zoë, but she is a helluva lot of fun to hang out with.”

  “Miss Eva, you’re getting to be a full-grown woman now, and it’s time you learned that ‘fun’ should not be the basis for a friendship. How about someone who’s trustworthy and has your back no matter what goes down?”

  “That’s what I have you for,” I said, playfully squeezing Kyle’s face until his lips puckered like a blowfish. “Now give me shuga!”

  Kyle obliged by giving me a peck on the lips, then spun me around and zipped my dress up in the back.

  Along with everything else he meant to me, Kyle was also my self-appointed stylist and social escort whenever I needed one. For the most part, he had always been on hand to assist me in getting dressed for big events. We had grown up in the same neighborhood, and it was a tradition that started back in Chicago with my very first junior high school homecoming dance. Back then, there was no money to buy a new dress, so Kyle and I came up with the bright idea to make one. The pattern we picked out at Joann’s was for a poufy floor-length gown that we decided to make with white lace and shiny pink taffeta.

  Neither of us knew how to really sew, but it took the two of us just a few days to piece the dress together, with mostly safety pins, fabric glue, and a whole lot of prayers. The dress turned out cute, though, and back in Chicago on my grandmother’s mantel, were the pictures to prove it.

  “There, now!” Kyle said, stepping back to take a full look at his handiwork. We both looked in the mirror, admiring my reflection, and I did a twirl to make sure everything was just so. Thanks to Kyle, who had a way with the curling iron, my hair was full and curly, and my makeup was beat to perfection.

  “Gorgeous as always.” Kyle fluffed my hair a bit more to increase the volume. He really was a dear, sweet friend, and even though Kyle had a live-in boyfriend, and a busy life of his own, he always took time out of his packed schedule to drop in and make me feel as if I was the most important thing in his world.