The Other Black Girl(24)
“But, what was Kingsley supposed to say? ‘No thanks, Sir Richard Attenborough, but I don’t have brown enough skin to play one of the greatest leaders of the free world?’ Kingsley was nothing before, I promise you, and taking that role was the smartest choice he could’ve ever made.”
Rather than eye the glob of melted cheese that had been stuck in Ward’s bushy mustache for the majority of our debate, I glanced down at my depleted drink, disappointed that I hadn’t ordered a double but happy about my extra olive. I plucked the wet fruit up with my fingers and shoved it into my mouth, pretending to work through a thought as I chewed.
Only when Ward seemed convinced he had won did I say, food still in my mouth, “Sure. But what if Billy Dee Williams—”
“Who?” Ward interrupted.
“Star Wars. Lando.”
The confusion left his face. I’d been right in thinking he’d seen it—maybe more than once. “Ah. Go on.”
“Let’s say Billy Dee Williams is going to be Mozart in that new film that’s coming out next year. Would you be okay with that? Would that sit well with you?”
The speed with which Ward’s face twisted back upon itself was so satisfying that I paused before grabbing the last glorious olive to take it in. I’d seen that face at Harvard many times before, from professors to thesis group colleagues to my thesis adviser himself. But that didn’t lessen the effect of such incredulity upon my ego.
It fueled me.
“Well?” I asked.
“Now, that’s different. Billy Dee Williams isn’t… well, it’s just not… that would be utterly—”
“Ridiculous,” I finished for him. “Yes. Yes, I thought so, too.”
Ward loosened his tie, an angry red blush blooming from his collar as he tried to decide whether I was being sarcastic or not. “Now. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go check on my wife.”
I glanced over his shoulder. His wife, Paula, hands down the most attractive editor at Wagner, was currently surrounded by four different men, two of whom I’d never seen before. The other two—editors who’d barely spoken to me since I’d started at Wagner—flanked her, touching her back far more than anyone should during a polite conversation. “Yes. Sure does look like she needs your help.”
My sarcasm was loud and clear this time. Ward hurried off, a reckless sense of urgency infecting his stride. I was turning, too, ready for more olives and more alcohol, when a warm hand burned through the silk of my cap sleeve.
“Hmm. Let me guess—you scared another spouse away.”
I didn’t have to look back to know it was Diana who had stopped me, but I did, anyway. She had a lopsided grin on her face and a hand on her hip.
“Guilty as charged,” I murmured. “And yeah, I know, I know, Be on your best behavior, It’s only a few hours, but dammit, Di, they’re all just so… draining. And so damn easy to scare. Every single one of them.” I gestured at the fifty or so people who were milling around the dim lighting of Antonio’s under the guise of celebrating my and Diana’s accomplishment: our first week with a number one New York Times bestseller.
Diana tousled the wavy bangs of what I called, only in private so as not to embarrass her, her “Donna Summer wig.” Scanning the room, too, she said, “You may be right about that, girl. But can we just take in this view for a minute? I mean, damn! If having all these white people here in this room doesn’t mean we’ve made it, I don’t know what does.”
I let Diana link her arm in mine and tried to see what she was seeing: the expensive centerpieces overflowing with white roses; the plates of expensive, plump scallops being distributed by waiters who resembled shaving cream models. A smooth jazz quartet in one corner that had started playing “I’m Every Woman” the moment we’d first walked in. An enormous fish tank filled with sapphire-colored water and jewel-colored creatures a few feet away.
I didn’t really care about the fish tank; I could take or leave the fancy seafood. If I’d had my way—and I never would—I would’ve picked a different venue for this. A different neighborhood, really. Anywhere but the Financial District, a frigid, bloodless neighborhood that held one of the country’s biggest slave markets, once upon a time.
Whether I thought the party décor was tacky or not, though, Diana was right. We were the women of the evening—the women of the year, people were starting to say, even though Burning Heart had barely been out for a week. We, two Black unknowns, had managed to turn what many predicted would be a minor blip into a book that had the entire country buzzing. The buzz had gotten so loud that we were booked solid with interviews for the next three months. A big weekly magazine had even mentioned they were “strongly considering” putting the two of us on their cover.
We had a bestseller on our hands, and nobody—not even some random husband who saw no problems with Ben Kingsley winning an Oscar for playing an Indian man—could take that away from me.
Still.
“Yes, everything here is incredible. But… I…” I shrugged, trying to find a way to push the words out. “I still haven’t forgotten how so many of these white folks doubted me about Burning Heart.”
I turned to Diana. The movement broke our arm-chain link, but what I was about to say needed to be said. “Why else do you think Richard let me edit your book instead of him? And gave us so little money to work with? And that measly two-week author tour publicity gave us… every single one of those moves were calculated, Di. They did all that in case it turned out to be a flop. That’s why I had to fight him every step of the way.”