Thank You for Listening(3)
Well, good luck with that, Hannah.
Because this is how it actually goes.
A stunningly average woman the wrong side of thirty on her way to Vegas, wearing an eye patch, sitting in a broken seat, listening to porn.
Chapter Two
“The Best Friend”
SEWANEE ASSESSED HERSELF IN THE GILDED MIRROR OF THE VENETIAN’S elevator. Unwashed hair, saggy jeans, rumpled T-shirt, zip-up hoodie with some unidentifiable breakfast-y stain near the zipper. No wonder the woman who gave her the key at the VIP lounge had looked confused.
When the elevator doors opened on the thirty-fifth floor, she followed signs to the right. Stopping at the correct door, she slipped her backpack off (carefully–her right shoulder still screamed sometimes) and set it on top of her roller bag. She opened the door with the key card.
A marble hallway beckoned her. She glided down it, passing a powder room larger than her guesthouse bathroom. On the opposite side, a butler’s pantry/bar that could have serviced the entire hotel. Eventually she was standing in the middle of a sunken ultra-modern marble living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip.
“You made it!”
She pivoted left, looked down another long hallway, and saw the bathrobed and barefoot two-time Golden Globe–nominated, one-time Oscar-nominated (they didn’t talk about that discrepancy), L’Oréal spokesmodel, and UNICEF ambassador, Adaku Obi sprinting toward her.
Before Sewanee could respond, Adaku was upon her, wrapping her in a fierce, all-encompassing hug. Adaku’s hugs always began with swaying, moved into meditative stillness, and ended with deep yoga breathing. The girl knew how to stay in the moment. Even if it was only for a moment.
Adaku pulled back and smiled big. “Isn’t this insane?! It’s ginormous! Stupid!” Adaku had always spoken in exclamatory bursts, but the tempo had increased, Sewanee had noticed, in direct proportion to her success. “And guess what?! You’ll never guess so I’ll tell you. There’re two bedrooms!” She gave Sewanee a teasing push.
Sewanee pushed her back. “Only two?”
Adaku guffawed and pushed her again. “That I’ve found so far! Now you have to stay with me!”
Sewanee scanned the sprawl. Shook her head. “Mark already paid for my suite at the Rio.”
Adaku gave her a look. “Aren’t all the rooms at the Rio ‘suites’?” She finger-quoted the last word.
Sewanee reached for her hand, smiling. “I can’t leave Mark with a bill for a hotel I didn’t use.”
“How much is it?”
Sewanee squeezed Adaku’s hand, shook it for good measure. “No, no, no. You know I hate that.” Off Adaku’s pursed lips, she added, “Don’t do the face.”
“What face?”
“You know exactly what face.”
“I don’t know what–”
“A!” Sewanee dropped Adaku’s hand and walked to the window. Dammit. It was a spectacular view.
Adaku was starring in a film based on last year’s number one New York Times’s bestselling book. She was doing a main-stage interview with the author, a VIP meet-and-greet, an autograph hour, and some international press junket thing. No sideshow Romance pavilion for her. At BiblioCon, she herself was the main event.
In the window’s reflection, Sewanee watched Adaku come up behind her and spread her arms out, a queen addressing her people far below. “We’re living the dream, Swan! I’ve got bottle service at the club, a limo on standby, a freaking butler at my twenty-four-hour beck and call!”
Sewanee paused. Adaku, born and bred in the white Chicago suburbs, third daughter of two lovely but demanding Nigerian doctors, was finally allowing herself to enjoy her hard-won accomplishments. It had been a long time coming. People thought success happened faster than it did. A best-supporting-actress nomination did not come with a swag bag of private jets, penthouses, and Porsches. Adaku had just bought her first house, a two-bedroom bungalow in Echo Park, thanks to the L’Oréal money. This was the first time the red carpet had been rolled out to this extent. Adaku Obi was starring in a film and the studio wanted to make her happy.
So it was earned. And, yes, it was fun. But Sewanee wanted to urge caution. To slow her down a bit. Tell her that life was subject to change without notice. But she squashed the impulse and used a move out of Adaku’s own playbook: when she couldn’t say what she wanted to, she changed the subject. “I’m sorry, why aren’t we drinking champagne right now?”
Adaku barked her signature laugh and squeezed Sewanee’s shoulders. “Because it’s chillin’ in the fancy Sub-Zero fridge!” As she scampered off, she yelled over her shoulder, “They gave me Cristal!”
Sewanee turned back to the window and gave herself a good, firm, mental shake. She was happy, genuinely, for her friend. This had nothing to do with Adaku. Adaku wasn’t the problem.
She heard the pop of the cork, the glug of the pour, and the posh little patter of Adaku’s bare ballerina feet on the marble behind her.
She turned away from the window and Adaku handed her the glass of bubbly, looking Sewanee directly in the eye. “To our dream coming true.”
Sewanee toasted her and took a large swig of the best champagne she’d ever had.
“Okay! What do we want to do? I have that dinner I told you about but I’m free until then. Let’s get this party started!” Sewanee knew, because she knew everything about her best friend, that while anyone who found themselves in Adaku’s whirling dervish of a presence would swear otherwise, she had never done cocaine.