Playing Hard To Get Page 28

  “You don’t need to worry about my dream,” Tamia said. “Maybe you should worry about Phae’s dreams—”

  “Whoa—”

  “Yeah, I know about that. Maybe you should worry about her dreams and half of the other women you’ve been fucking in this city. I never said you had to pay for anything, but you know what you promised me and you know what you owe me. If you wanted to back out of the mortgage, that’s fine, but give me time. Don’t treat me like one of those tricks you trick off.”

  Charleston wasn’t so sure he knew or understood the Tamia sitting on the other side of the desk. He knew she was strong. He knew she was smart, but this woman was coming back at him in a way that made him think maybe that was why he needed to be with one of those white girls she was calling “tricks.” Maybe they could respect and accept a man like him. In charge. He didn’t need Tamia and her shit. He could call any one of them right then and tell them to step out on the men they’d married and come be with him. And that’s when he thought about it—they were all married.

  “I didn’t come in here to fight with you,” Charleston said.

  “You could’ve fooled me.”

  “I came here to”—he paused and reached into his pocket, pulling out a little box. He sat it on the desk—“give you another chance. It’s your ring.”

  “What?” Tamia asked, looking at the box. And even though she hated Charleston, even though she’d sworn off diamonds and the exploitation of any jewels from nations under duress, the little girl in her wanted so badly to grab the box, pull the ring out, and dance around the room.

  “I know Tasha told you,” Charleston said. “It’s the ring you wanted. You can have it. It’s yours. If you come back to me. Be my wife.” His voice was reasonable. Flat. Clear. Like a contract attorney showing his client where the line was to sign. He was so sure of himself.

  “Marry you?” Tamia looked past the ring, the wedding, the idea of marriage and saw the man sitting before her. “Marry you? You? Not even if Isis and Yemaya and Coretta Scott King and my own mama got up out of the grave and came and sat in this office and told me to do exactly that would I do such a thing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, excuse you,” Tamia said with her voice reasonable, flat, and clear now, “for thinking you could come up in here, into my office, and think you could buy me like I’m some stupid, silly whore, who thinks the only way she can be free is to cling to what little of a man is left in you. I can get what I need without you. And I don’t need Trump Towers or a Bentley. I might have wanted those things at one time, but I don’t need them. That was a joke. And now the joke is on you.”

  A different man, maybe one with less money or a smaller penis, one with a smaller ego and fewer women at his disposal, might have heard and been hurt by Tamia’s words. And, yeah, some of it did get through to Charleston and scratch at his surface, but he was a showman. And he specialized in not letting what others said stop his show. Luckily for Tamia, she wasn’t saying what she was saying for him. It was for her.

  “Fine,” Charleston said coolly. He picked up the ring like it was a tennis ball and shoved it back into his pocket. “Suit yourself.”

  With Tamia’s cold eyes on him, he stood, walked over to the door, and turned back to her.

  “When he fails and you’re broke and down in the gutter, you remember what you did right now,” he said. “You remember the life I offered you…. What I am talking about…He won’t fail you, because he won’t be with you. He’s just another nigger wearing a loincloth. A nigger in a suit…a nigger in a loincloth…either way, he’s gonna fuck up. But you don’t need to worry about that. You’ll just be another sad, lonely black woman. Scarred by the world and dead-ass broke.” He laughed and shook his head.

  “Get out,” Tamia said. “Get out of my office.”

  

  Tamia was so angry after her talk with Charleston, she didn’t notice any of the looks from any of the bystanders peering at her as she got out of her taxi and walked into the doors of her posh and soon-to-be-available pad at Trump Towers. Her knapsack on her back and her flip-flops clacking against the cold marble floor, she trudged through the lobby, head lowered, and ready for sleep. What was coming in the morning? She didn’t care anymore. She didn’t care what was to become of any of this. It was all pointless. All a justice-free dance of chance and lies. Malik. Charleston. One and the same. More men to let her down. More men to walk away from.

  “Madame,” Bancroft called, rushing toward her from his office, “I’m so sorry I hadn’t caught you when you arrived.”

  “It’s fine,” Tamia said. “Allejandro got the door for me.” She pointed to Allejandro, the night doorman, who was assisting another resident with her Jack Russell.

  “No, dear heart,” Bancroft said. “It was to say thank you.”

  “Thank you for what?”

  “For the felted sticks you left on my desk.”

  “The…??” Tamia tried. “Oh, you mean the incense?”

  “Yes, they’re quite fragrant. I’d like some more,” he explained, leaving out the part about his lover and him burning all of the sticks in one night to hide the smell of marijuana billowing from their apartment. And, yes, he knew dang well they were called incense.

  “I’ll be sure to bring some down to you.” Tamia smiled and started walking toward the elevator.

  “Your guests,” Bancroft said, “you won’t be joining them in the ballroom?”

  “I’m not having any guests,” Tamia said, pressing the button for the elevator.

  “Certainly you are,” Bancroft said, poking his chest out and pointing dramatically toward the Tower’s private ballroom. “Madame Natasha and Madame Troy Helene await your presence at high tea.”

  Tamia’s knapsack fell to her wrist.

  “High what?” She tried to remain angry but had to smile. “No, those crazy chicks didn’t.”

  Oh, but, yes, they did. And well.

  Tamia walked into the ballroom to find a table set for three, surrounded by what looked like hundreds of yellow tea roses, and a string quartet and a stack of gift boxes.

  “What is this?” she said, looking around for her friends. And then from behind her entered Tasha and Troy, dressed in their Dynasty, Diahann Carroll–worthy two-piece suits and floppy hats.

  They led their friend and her flowing sari to a seat and kissed her on both cheeks.

  Tamia was crying then. Her hand was holding her head up on the table and she just let everything go.

  “Oh, Ms. Lovebird,” Troy said, “don’t cry. We came here to cheer you up!”

  “That’s right,” Tasha chimed in. “You can’t cry. This is a tea. No one cries at a tea. Not a high tea. Right, Troy? You’re from bougieville. You know the answer.”

  “She’s right,” Troy concurred, reaching over and wiping Tamia’s tears.

  “You know, I’m supposed to say you guys shouldn’t have done this, but really, you should’ve,” Tamia cried, laughing a little while blowing her nose in the hankie Troy handed her. “I was so down—just a minute ago. Just before I walked in this door and saw all of this.” She looked around again at the floors and strange-looking musicians she didn’t know. “But this just, it just…it made me smile and I’m so happy to have friends like you.”

  “Awwww,” Troy said. “Well, technically…we didn’t do it. I’m broke. Tasha paid for everything.”

  The 3Ts laughed and joked like this, familiar and fortunate friends as a waitstaff carried out an assortment of teas and delectable desserts that birthed a sweet-smelling cloud of vanilla and cinnamon over the table. After sipping on English tea, they tasted, pie after cake after cookie until little more than crumbs remained on the table.

  “I guess it was a good idea not to order dinner,” Troy said.

  “Who needs dinner when you can have dessert?” Tasha joked. “That’s the new diet!”

  Having told her friends about her meeting with Malik and how badly Charleston treated
her at the office, Tamia sat full and also relieved. Her girls reminded her that she’d done her part. She’d remained honest to herself and everyone around her. Now it was time for the men to pick up the pieces. She could rise in the morning with a clear head and heart and move on with her life—wherever it took her.

  “I’m sorry for snapping at you guys like that the other day,” Tasha said, telling the other Ts that she was missing her family. “Lionel’s coming around, I think. He agreed to let me see the girls on the weekends.”

  “That’s a beautiful blessing,” Troy said tenderly. “I want you to know that we both love you and we only want what’s best for you and your family.”

  Tamia nodded in agreement.

  “Troy’s right. I didn’t mean to hurt you with the things I said the other week,” she said. “I love you and I wasn’t judging you. I just had to say what I had to say.”

  “Exactly,” Troy added. “You can always come to us.”

  “And you can always come to me,” Tasha snapped at Troy playfully. “Child walking all around the city as broke as a Brooklyn roach like she doesn’t have wigs with money to burn. The next time you need a check or for me to check the asses of one of those chicks at the church, you call me!”

  “Oh, no,” Troy said.

  “I might be a mama, but I haven’t gone soft yet.”

  “That’s not what Lynn said…Lynn or Bobby,” Tamia joked, tossing a sugar cube at Tasha.

  “See, there you go messing up our tea,” Tasha said. “I’m trying to keep it classy and you’re over here throwing stuff.”

  “Wait, wait!” Troy jumped in. “We forgot something!” She jumped up and ran to the gift boxes stacked on the floor.

  “What’s that?” Tamia asked.

  “Just some gifts for our guest of honor,” Tasha said, taking one of the boxes from Troy. “This one is from me.”

  “You two!” Tamia purred, opening her gift with the speed of a six-year-old. “What is this?” she asked, looking at a white box.

  “Open it,” Troy said.

  Inside there was a wig of fine brown hair that looked in length and style just like Tamia’s old hair.

  “What?” Tamia shouted so loud the harpist skipped a note. “A wig!”

  “Now, you were complaining about old Nelson Mandela making you cut your hair off, and I figured that could help you get by until you grow some hair back on that beady head of yours. You know you have a dent in the back, right?” Tasha teased.

  “No, I don’t,” Tamia said, stretching the wig out.

  “We figured you could wear it to court,” Troy said, handing Tamia another box. “You know, to play into the old you. Now, open this one.”

  She handed Tamia the gift and grinned gleefully.

  “Now, I’m on a budget, so it’s kind of, like, from my closet—but it’s new. The tags were still on it and—”

  “Lord, will you let her open the box before you tell her what’s inside?” Tasha asked.

  It was a sleek black suit that looked like something Tamia would’ve picked out for herself. Attached to the collar was a little Post-It where Troy had written: MY BEST SUIT FOR MY BESTIE.

  “You’re both too much,” Tamia cried. “Too much.”

  “We know. We know,” Tasha and Troy said together, taking turns providing each other applause.

  After wiping her tears one last time, she looked up at the other gift boxes, still stacked and unopened and then back at her friends.

  “What’s in those boxes?” she asked. “Other things for me? Did you guys get me a new boyfriend?”

  “Um…no,” Tasha said frankly. “Those are for us. You didn’t think you were the only one getting gifts, did you?”

  

  3T Tea Time: Three Pinkies Up

  Don’t let the little girls have all the fun! Now that you can actually afford to upgrade from the plastic tea set you shared with your stuffed animals when you were five, call your girlfriends over for a high tea that’s sure to soothe the soul and reconnect your circle.

  Set a date and send out formal invitations to your special affair.

  Dos:

  Choose a theme: You can have a Victorian, Japanese, or Russian theme. The tea traditions of each culture will determine your decorations, menu, and assortment of teas.

  Make a list and check it twice: In addition to your best friends, invite a new friend and consider having a special guest of honor—a local artist, someone new in town, or maybe a sisterfriend who just did something amazing.

  Get fancy: Big hats and bold dresses will make the tea official and the photos amazing. For a Japanese theme, require kimonos and have someone there to do makeup. You all will laugh all afternoon.

  Have conversation starters: Break the ice and get the talkers talking by having games, a featured book, or list of current affairs available for discussion and fun.

  High or low: Be sure to let the ladies know if you are organizing a low (afternoon) or high (afternoon or supper time) tea. This will let them know what kinds of food to expect. Low tea commonly calls for light fare and dainty desserts. High tea can combine hearty dishes and delectable desserts.

  Don’ts:

  Be afraid to laugh at yourself: Something will go wrong and something you thought would be so wonderful will be so…not wonderful. Laugh it off and learn for next time.

  Overplan: Not every guest will want to play games. Be open to suggestions and changes in plans. If you have a special guest, ask if there’s something she would like.

  Do it alone: Ask for help and make a list of assignments for your friends. Tea might sound easy, but it’s big business and letting someone else do the small stuff will allow you to focus on the bigger battles.

  Spike the tea: Tea is meant for tasting. While some mixes call for alcohol, by and large the plants are to do their magic on a holistic level. If your guests must have the bubbly, plan a post-dessert champagne toast.

  10

  All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players….

  —Jacques in William Shakespeare’s As You Like It

  What most people forget about Jacques’s famous line in this aged tale is that he concludes that players in the unchanging setting of the world constantly enter and exit and change. Players don’t know when or why, but even as they play their own roles, they can be certain to learn that this is the truth.

  So, on an old stage, in an old city, at a new age in her life, one player was learning that she wasn’t the best player after all. For she’d been upstaged, outsmarted, outperformed, and outacted by the one costar she could never leave behind—herself.

  Tasha sat in the center of her beautiful world, with her beautiful things, looking more beautiful than she ever had in her life, yet there was an ugliness creeping in.

  While she was surrounded with every new thing she’d wanted back from her old life, she kept thinking of the old things she was missing from her last life. It was Sunday night and the girls were probably just getting out of the tub. Toni was running around naked, giggling herself silly as her father chased her and Tiara was trying to find a way to get the powder bottle open again so she could dump the sweet-smelling talc all over the floor. Lionel was getting tired and probably noticed that Tiara had gotten the bottle open and snatched it just in time. The boring suburban house was growing quiet with the boring suburban night as the boring suburban family got ready for bed. In a while, they’d all be asleep. And the night, for Tasha in her new, amazing, and alive life in the big and bold city was just about to begin. There was so much to do and see where she was. So many places to go. Beautiful people to see. No naked babies or powder sticking to her feet. No crying and midnight feeding. No tired husband, vibrators, and runs to the airport. Her options were endless, but her mind was frozen in time.

  “I need a glass of wine,” she said aloud, but she was speaking only to herself in the empty space of her apartment. There was silence. No response. Not even an echo of confirmation. She got up fro
m her plush couch and walked to the refrigerator to retrieve what was left of her last bottle of white wine.

  “Shit,” she shouted, looking at the space in the refrigerator where the bottle once was. She turned and looked at the trash can to see the empty bottle resting on the lid. She exhaled and banged the door shut.

  Maybe she could call the 3Ts together for a drink. Maybe she could meet up with her new girls for tapas. Maybe she could…She went and sat on the wide windowsill that separated her apartment from the street. A group of laughing women walked past. A homeless man pushing a cart. A man on his cell phone, walking his dog.

  “What did I do?” Tasha said to all of them, though none of them could hear her. “What did I do to my life? How could I leave my family?”

  In the silence of the city night, this last question marked the beginning of this player’s grandest performance to date. In all of Tasha’s life, only three times had she thought to consider how her actions affected someone else: when she was ten years old and set her nanny’s car on fire, when she’d tripped a woman at a Barney’s sale, and when she’d secretly started fertility treatments without Lionel’s consent. Each time, Tasha had been so busy fighting for what she was getting, she cared nothing about what others actually got. The nanny was fired for leaving Tasha alone in the garage, the woman at Barney’s lost a tooth, and Lionel was forced to realize that he had no control over his wife.

  “I’ll go back to therapy,” Tasha said when Lionel picked up the phone. She was still looking out the window when she pulled the phone from her pocket and pressed the speed dial option “Home.”

  “What do you use to get this baby powder off of the floor?” Lionel asked. His voice was ragged with indecision and she knew he hadn’t heard what she’d said. She could hear Toni hollering and Tiara crying in the background. She smiled as a tear rolled down her cheek.