Chapter 16
I head down the long hallway on the second floor of Monique’s home. Most of the doors I walk past are closed, which, I admit, disappoints me. I’m up here to collect my catering fee, but getting a sneak peek at a few more rooms of this fabulous house would have been a nice bonus.
At the far end of the hallway, I see a trace of light sneaking past a barely ajar door. I figure it’s my best bet for finding Monique, so I stride in that direction. Before knocking on the door, I look through the small space and see Monique seated in front of a dressing table removing her makeup. I watch as she thoroughly wipes her face before placing the cleansing pad on the table and giving herself a long look in the mirror. Maybe it’s just the lighting coming from little bulbs surrounding the reflecting glass, but from where I’m standing, she appears to have some bruising under one of her eyes.
I know I should announce myself but, honestly, I’m as captivated with Monique’s cosmetic-free image as she seems to be. Without all her war paint on, she’s barely recognizable and has a certain vulnerability about her. The longer Monique continues to stare at her reflection, the more her poise and general exuberance seem to fade. Her mouth slowly turns downward, and I look on from the hallway as a lone tear falls from her eye.
Feeling like I’ll be entering into “creepy voyeur territory” if I peek through the open door any longer, I announce myself with an “ahem” and a knock on the door. Startled, she catches sight of me in the mirror and quickly wipes away the droplet of moisture on her cheek.
“Hello,” she says. “Come in . . . come in. Close the door, please.” She adjusts her posture and slaps on a smile. “Just reapplying my makeup. All the dancing made me a little misty.” She catches me looking at the bruise under her eye. “I guess I’m busted,” she admits, beginning to dab concealer under the affected eye. “I had a little work done on my eyes. My surgeon assured me the bruising would be gone by now, but I must be a slow healer. Oh well . . . I guess no one really believes I look this fabulous without a little help anyway.”
“You do look fabulous,” I offer, feeling like I interrupted something by stepping into the bedroom even though she was the only one in here. “Your dress is simply amazing.”
“Thank you,” she says. “Seems a waste to only wear it this one time, but once I’ve worn something at a high-profile event like this, I can’t really don it again. Although, I guess if I did, it might get me a little press in one of those glossy trash mags . . . in the ‘She Wore It Twice’ section.” She’s finished applying the concealer and reaches for a little jar of foundation and a makeup brush. “When you’re the face of your products, you’ve got to keep that face in tip-top condition. Right?” As she begins brushing on the cream, I wonder why she has not yet asked me why I came upstairs and approached her in her bedroom. “You know, Halia.” She says this to my reflection in her mirror. “People think I have it all, but sometimes I look at a woman like you, and I’m envious.”
A loud laugh blurts from my mouth. “Envious? Of me?!”
“Yes. You’re lucky to be a normal woman.” She stammers a bit, afraid she may have offended me. “Well, not normal . . . not that you’re not normal . . . or abnormal in any way.” She takes a breath. “You know what I mean . . . sometimes having a life with some anonymity would be such a treat.” She sighs. “Like I was saying about not being able to wear the same dress twice . . . and being up here during my own party reapplying makeup because I’m afraid someone may snap a photo of me when I’m not at my best. Being on all the time can wear a sister out.”
Monique and I barely know each other, so I find it peculiar that she is sharing such personal information with me, but maybe I shouldn’t be surprised—apparently, I just have one of those faces that make people bare their souls. It happens all the time. People just start talking to me. Maybe I simply have a kind face or come off as very nonthreatening or something. Sometimes it’s a positive quality. Like now, I find it interesting to hear about how there is another side to the marvelous Ms. Monique Dupree. Other times, like when restaurant patrons want to tell me their life story when I have a few hundred other things that need tending to, it can be a bit of an encumbrance. Don’t get me wrong—I enjoy engaging with my customers, but I’ve had to master the art of exiting a conversation gracefully when patrons want to gab for extended periods during the lunch rush.
“Look at me going on and on.” Monique sets down the makeup brush. “Things okay downstairs? Can I help you with something?”
“Things are fine. It’s been a wonderful party, but I have an early day tomorrow, too, so I should get going.”
“And I owe you a check,” she says. “Can you hand me that folder?” She points to a leather portfolio on the dresser next to the door.
After I retrieve the folder and hand it to her, she starts rifling through it, flipping through a number of business-size checks. “Here you go.”
I take a quick look at it and fold it in half. “Thank you. It really was a delightful party.”
“Please! I should be thanking you for agreeing to help cater the affair. Your food was delicious.”
I smile. “Well, I’ll collect my trays and whatnot, and Wavonne and I will be on our way.”
“No need to take them now. Lena can wash them for you, and you can pick them up another time.”
I’m about to decline the offer when Nathan abruptly opens the bedroom door and pokes his head into the room. “Everyone is waiting,” he says impatiently to Monique. His words or his tone, or maybe just his presence, shifts the energy in the room—there’s a sudden tenseness in the air.
“Okay,” she replies. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Um,” he says, looking at me. “Your niece, is it? In the jumpsuit?”
“Wavonne? She’s my cousin.”
“Well, your cousin is downstairs telling our guests how unfair it is that our dog wears better jewelry than she does.”
A quiet groan comes from my mouth. “Oh my. I guess it’s time for me to get her home. Maybe it is best if I pick up the catering supplies later.”
I thank Monique one last time and begin to exit the room. Nathan moves to the side of the doorway, offering just enough space to let me pass, which I do hurriedly, trying to escape his negative energy as quickly as I can.
I’m halfway down the stairs when I’m treated to a vision that immediately reminds me of an old Sex and the City episode—the one where the girls visit the Playboy Mansion. They had been there for a while with various antics ensuing when Carrie and Miranda stumble upon a grotto with a bunch of naked women cavorting in a hot tub. Miranda takes in the scene and says something about “tit soup,” and Carrie, a defeated look on her face, says, “It’s time to go home.”
Wavonne has gotten up from the lounger and the dog is at her feet, looking up at her with puzzled eyes. Dogs have always taken a liking to Wavonne—I think they figure that, with her curvaceous girth, there’s bound to be some treats around. She’s swaying from side to side with her shoes in one hand while using her other hand to twirl some sort of fabric or garment over her head. She looks like she might stumble over at any moment while guests pass by on their way to the living room. It’s only when I notice how much more Wavonne’s “parts” are jiggling than they were on the dance floor, that I realize it’s her Spanx that she’s whirling around in the air.
“Halia!” She spots me on the steps, which by no means prompts her to end the little show she’s putting on. “I feel so free. I think I was about to cough up a kidney in these things.”
I scurry down the rest of the steps, praying that she went in the bathroom when she removed her shapewear from underneath her jumpsuit and didn’t disrobe right there in the foyer. When I reach her, I take hold of her shoulder with one hand and gently place my other hand under her elbow to keep her steady as I lead her back to the lounger and make her sit down.
“Stay here! I’m going to have the valet get the van and then fetch our coats.”
“We’re leaving?”
“Yes. Do not leave that seat until I get back. You’re making a complete spectacle of yourself.” As I give her the same eyes Momma used to give me when I was a kid and she wanted me to know she meant business, the dog hops up on the cushion with her. I look at her, lazily petting the dog with one hand, while her Spanx hang limp in the other . . . and I think of Sex and the City . . . and Carrie and Miranda . . . and tit soup. “It’s time to go home.”