NINETEEN

Sweet Cakes’s album release party was held in the spacious but cozy roof garden atop the Four Seasons. It was a must-attend for hip celebrities. Brandon spared no expense entertaining his high-profile guests, including the top executives in the entertainment business. He hired the renowned event planner extraordinaire, Colin Cowie, to transform the rooftop into the Garden of Eden, with apple trees and waiters dressed only in fig leaves as they served Champagne Paul Goerg, and a host of other delicacies, starting with caviar on apple crisps. At the moment Sweet Cakes was the glittering jewel in Sunset Records’ shining crown, and Brandon was pulling out every stop to milk her for all she was worth.

Legend had it that Brandon started Sunset Records in Mississippi fifteen years earlier with less than two thousand dollars cash and one marginally talented wannabe rapper. Sheer determination and a really good ear for hit records enabled him to parlay his meager, struggling basement operation into a thriving $100-million business. Over time he carefully groomed himself by meticulously emulating those executives and moguls he admired. He copied their way of dress, the cars they drove, their mannerisms, and the way they spoke. He’d all but lost his Mississippi twang, and hadn’t been back to his hometown since he left for New York after his first big hit—not even to see his eighty-year-old mother, even though he made sure that she was well taken care of.

Finally he would set himself apart from the cadre of other black music-industry titans by making his long-awaited move into film. It was the deal that Brandon had been praying for every day as he struggled to build his empire. Just as he’d fled the Delta and never looked back, he now wanted to rid himself of the grit and grime of hip-hop. When he was younger, dealing with the madness was one thing, but now that he was in his mid-forties it was not good for his health or his sanity. Decades ago, when he envisioned making millions, he did not foresee working with drug dealers, gangsters, and thugs forever, and recently things had gotten even worse. These days a rap artist without a couple of felonies or bullet wounds to his credit wasn’t even marketable. He craved a more dignified life producing films, traveling between the States and a hillside villa in the South of France that he planned to buy, and simply enjoying the finer things in life. He’d say good-bye to all of the lame chicken heads with bad grammar and worse weaves, and the stupid, ignorant gangbangers, and spend his time with a real lady, like Gillian, someone with class. He loved the regal way she carried herself, and how she never seemed affected or impressed by wealth. In other words, his Bentley didn’t cause her tongue to hang from her mouth and saliva to drool from its corners. Unlike most women he met, she wasn’t a gold digger. She was perfect for him; she looked good on his arm, she was well educated—Brown University, no less—and he could apply his star-building skills to make her the next award-winning superstar actress. They’d be the perfect power couple.

Meanwhile, back in her hotel suite Imelda slipped half an Am-bien into Stephan’s tonic water and slipped herself into a Swarovski crystal–covered cocktail dress and matching sling-backs, before scurrying to the hotel’s loading dock. She’d bribed one of the managers to allow her driver to pick her up in the back of the hotel, so that she could then be chauffeured around to the front, where she’d make her grand entrance stepping out of the limo in front of the star-studded gathering. Her brilliant plan could be ruined if anyone happened to see her hovering around the loading dock before taking a limo to the other side of the hotel. What a desperate loser she’d look like!

While her mother was concocting her scheme, Gillian was strongly considering not going to the party at all. She could tell from the look of glee in Imelda’s eyes when she said that Brandon had invited her that there was sure to be drama involved. After the phone call Imelda rushed through dinner, anxious to get back to the hotel to dress for the party. At first Gillian couldn’t figure out why her mother would be so excited about going to a record-industry hip-hop party, but it didn’t take long for her to come to the conclusion that it was related to Imelda’s favorite accessory: green cash money. Knowing Imelda, she realized that there would be entertainment executives there, both black and white, who were flush with cash. But what about her fiancé? And whatever had happened to her husband?

Gillian’s cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hey, babe, it’s me.”

“Hi, Brandon.”

“Just wanted to make sure you got my message earlier.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Also, I’m sending Charles for you. He’ll be downstairs in an hour.”

Gillian didn’t reply; she was still considering whether she wanted to go or not.

“Also, William’s coming, and he wants to spend some time getting to know you better, now that we’ve gotten the film fully funded.” He let the last few words sink in.

When they did, Gillian jumped up from the couch. “Did you say that you got the film funded?” Miss Calm, Cool, and Unaffected was now affected. It was one thing to have a film in development, where most died a slow death, but quite another to have it funded for production.

“Absolutely, and you’re gonna be the star. So get here within the hour and we’ll open a bottle of champagne.”

She plopped back down onto the couch, dumbstruck. “I can’t believe it.”

“Don’t forget to really work the red carpet. You are about to be a big star. I’ll instruct our publicist to make sure that you get plenty of coverage from Access Hollywood, Extra, and the print media.”

“No problem with that.”

“Cool. Oh, by the way, your mom sounds great.”

“She’s a piece of work.”

“I can’t wait to meet her. Gotta run.”

Gillian hung up the phone in a daze. She had become so accustomed to disappointment that even after meeting the famed producer and hearing Brandon talk about the film nonstop, she never really expected that it would happen. The good news vanquished all thoughts of her mother.

Thankful that Paulette wasn’t there to give her the third degree, Gillian slipped into a tangerine-colored Roberto Cavalli cocktail dress, bronze mules, a stunning Ethos Art Collection necklace, and long chandelier earrings that brushed her perfectly sculptured shoulders seductively, preparing for her own grand entrance. She practically skipped down to the lobby, where Charles stood ready to open the door for her to climb into the black Bentley. Maybach, Bentley, it didn’t matter—he could have sent a horse and carriage and she would have been just as happy. Finally, she was on the verge of starting her film career.

The red carpet in front of the Four Seasons was a swarm of press, handlers, partygoers, and onlookers waiting to catch a glimpse of the next celebrity to make an appearance. So far they’d feasted their eyes on Jay-Z, Beyoncé, Denzel, Kanye West, 50 Cent, and Terrence Howard, and were salivating for the next boldface name. When the black Bentley pulled up, every head turned to see who would step out of it. Dutifully Charles hopped out, dressed in his formal uniform, replete with black cap, and opened the door as though Gillian were the Queen Mum. Ever elegant and in control, Gillian set one smooth, long leg on the pavement, followed by the other, until all five feet and ten inches of her stood up in total splendor. Aside from being gorgeous, her look was so un-L.A., so non-fake-boob-wearing and light-skin obsessed, that she was literally a breath of fresh air, causing a pause from those gathered.

Brandon’s publicist, CoAnne Wilshire, rushed to her side bearing a clipboard and a fake smile. After a brief introduction she ushered Gillian to the red carpet, where camera flashes immediately burst in the night like fireflies. Gillian could hear a chorus of:

“Who is that?”

“She’s gorgeous, but who is she?”

“She looks familiar; was she in the last Rainforest film?”

Everyone played the Gillian guessing game, which was just what Brandon wanted to accomplish. As cameras continued to flash, Gillian handled the red carpet like a seasoned pro, gliding along without stopping to pose for every available cameraman, as many an aspiring actress would be tasteless enough to do. The trick was always to appear unaffected. Toward the end, CoAnne guided her to Shaun Robinson from Access Hollywood for an on-camera interview.

“Gillian, you look amazing. I guess L.A. agrees with you.” Shaun flashed a bright Hollywood smile and put the microphone to Gillian’s face.

“I’ve always loved L.A.,” she lied fluidly.

“I caught you on Broadway a couple of years ago and you were great. What are you working on now?” This was also a well-executed lie; Shaun had simply read the notes provide by CoAnne, realizing it was best to appear to know the beautiful creature in front of her, even though she’d never laid eyes on her before in her life. She had been in the business long enough to know a comer when she saw one.

“Thank you…” But before Gillian could answer the question posed, she caught a blur of crystal and platinum moving toward her at a swift clip. She turned to see what the moving galaxy was, and there stood Imelda, already hovering over Shaun’s microphone and wearing a smile as bright as her garb.

“My daughter is in L.A. to star in a new film by William Rutherford and Brandon Russell. Oh, by the way, I’m Gillian’s mother, Imelda von Glich.” She gave Shaun an unexpected kiss on each cheek, as though they were long-lost friends, while Gillian silently fumed.

“Mother, why don’t we get inside,” Gillian said, managing a tight smile. When she felt her mother hesitate, she latched on to Imelda’s elbow and firmly guided her away, stopping only for a moment to say to Shaun, “Let’s catch up soon.”

After they were off the red carpet, Gillian demanded in a harsh whisper, “Mom, what the hell are you doing?” Imelda would wait to appear until it was time for Gillian’s close-up. She was truly insufferable.

Imelda stuck her nose in the air arrogantly. “I was only trying to help.”

The rest of the night proceeded downhill fast. After they joined Brandon, who was holding court in the VIP area, Imelda flirted with him shamelessly before latching on to Samuel Becks, the chairman of UTI Entertainment, a multimedia conglomerate. He was an old, gray, but distinguished-looking and filthy-rich man. He was also a legend and titan of the entertainment business, and was there along with many other prominent and wealthy men to show support for Brandon, who was the current golden black boy in the industry. Men and money were everywhere, and Imelda was like a hungry pig in a field full of black truffles; she smelled money all around her, and wasn’t quite sure where to dig first.

By the time Gillian caught up to her, the woman was three sheets to the wind and flying high. After much prodding, Gillian managed to coerce her into the ladies’ room. Once inside she grabbed Imelda by her forearm and turned her around. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Indignant, Imelda pulled her arm away and smoothed her dress down over her hips. “I am just fine.”

“Mom, you are drunk!” Gillian nearly screamed. “And you’re hanging all over one man, while some guy you say you’re planning to marry is upstairs, and another guy who was supposed to be your husband—the last I heard—is in Europe!” she fumed. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Imelda was a master at ignoring reality, but to hear her life so harshly articulated by her daughter stunned her. Tears began to burn her eyes, and her lips quivered as she fought back emotions that she never bothered to face. “My husband has no money, and neither do I. I have nothing!” she sobbed.

This made no sense to Gillian at all. “But I thought he was a baron or something.”

Imelda sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes, pouting. “Yeah, but a very broke one. It would be my luck. All the man has is a title, a big, cold castle, and a bunch of land. You can’t exactly go shopping on the Champs-Elysées with that, now, can you?” she snipped.

“So, you’re divorcing him for that?” Gillian couldn’t believe her ears. It was one thing to be a gold digger, but to be so callous was another.

“What better reason?” Her tears had dried up, and Imelda became as serious as a heart attack.

“But I thought you loved him,” Gillian naively said.

Imelda fixed her with steady, cold eyes and said, “What’s love got to do with it?”