Читать книгу Diamond Playgirls - Miasha - Страница 5

by Miasha

January 3, 2008

“Here you are, miss.”

“This is the place? Is this 119th Street? Oooh, this is the place. It’s beautiful,” Dior Emerson said as she peered out of the cab window. “It’s just like the pictures.”

“The pictures?” The cabdriver turned in his seat and looked at her.

“Yes,” Dior said excitedly, wiggling her shoulders as she spoke. “I just got a new job here in the city, so I had to find a place fast, so I contacted a broker and they sent me pictures and I picked this house. I’ve always heard of brownstones, but I’d never seen one before. I can’t believe—”

“Yeah, well, this is the place,” the driver said, obviously no longer interested in Dior’s story. “That’ll be twenty-two fifty.”

“Oh! Okay.” Dior pulled some bills from her Gucci bag and handed the cabbie three ten-dollar bills. “Keep the change,” she said grandly.

The driver looked at the money, then back at Dior and stuffed the bills into his pocket.

“So, you just got a new job, huh?” he said, suddenly interested as he flipped a switch to unlock the car doors. “What are you going to be doing?”

“A copywriter for an advertising agency,” Dior said excitedly. “Senior copywriter, to be exact. And guess what? They found me through a headhunter. That’s really a big deal because that means they were looking for someone like me. And it pays so much more than my old job in Montreal.”

She joined the driver outside as he took her bags from the trunk. “This is like my dream job, in my dream city. I always wanted to visit New York, and especially Harlem, and now I’m living here! I’m telling you, I was destined to live in New York. I mean, you can’t walk down the streets in Toronto and just bump into celebrities like you do in New York. Or go into restaurants and run into Robert De Niro or Woody Allen or Spike Lee or Beyoncé.”

“Well, you’re probably not going to run into them in Harlem too much, maybe Spike Lee. Most of the others hang out downtown.” The driver looked at her hopefully.

“And shopping! I can’t wait to go shopping in the Big Apple,” Dior gushed. “I want to get all of the latest fashions.”

“The best shopping is downtown, too, miss. You want me to take you downtown now?”

Dior shook her head as she looked at her luggage. “No, I should go ahead into my apartment and start getting unpacked.”

The driver shrugged, then got in his car, leaving the luggage on the sidewalk.

Goodness, Dior thought. He could have at least carried it to the building. She sighed and grabbed the handle of one bag and threw the strap of another over her shoulder and lugged them over to the brownstone. January in New York, it seemed, was as cold as in Montreal. Even though her thigh-length mink was warm, she wanted to get inside as soon as possible.

“You must be Dior Emerson.”

Dior looked up and saw a middle-aged woman with a blue wool coat, a blue felt hat pulled low over her graying dreads, and a cigarette dangling out of her mouth.

“I sure am. And you must be my new landlady! Mrs. Graham, right?” Dior stuck out her hand to shake the woman’s hand.

“I am, but you can call me Margie. I’ve been looking out the window for the last hour waiting for you to arrive. This house I’m renting out, I call it Margie’s Diamond Palace.” She pointed to the building they were standing in front of. “And that one”—she pointed to the brownstone two buildings down—“I live in.”

“They’re both very nice,” Dior said politely.

“Yeah.” Margie looked at her very strangely. “Very nice. What kind of accent is that?”

“French.”

“I thought you were from Canada.”

“I am, but we speak French in Montreal. All of my family also speaks English, though. I’ve been speaking it since childhood.”

“Is that right? Not that it’s any of my business. None of my business at all. Well, come on, I’ll give you a quick walk through the palace and then give you your keys. I wanna get to bingo before it gets too crowded.”

The woman dropped her cigarette on the sidewalk and stamped it out with her foot. “Let me help you with your bags. Youse a little bitty thing, aren’t you? What are you, a size three?” She picked up the smallest of the bags and walked down three steps to a private entrance.

“Size zero,” Dior said as she picked up two of the bags and followed her new landlady.

“I don’t even understand a size zero. Doesn’t compute. How can someone be a size zero? Makes it sounds like they don’t even exist, if you ask me.” The woman pulled out a large ring of keys and fiddled around until she found the proper one and inserted it into the steel-gated door. “Still, it looks good on you. You so petite. I hope you don’t have one of them eating disorders they be talking about on Oprah. Not that it’s none of my business if you do. None of my business at all.”

“How you ladies doing?”

Dior looked up to see a tall scruffy-looking brown-skinned man wearing an army jacket smiling down at them. Even from twenty feet away Dior could see the plaque on his yellow and brown teeth. “This your new tenant, Miss Margie?”

“Yes, she is, and don’t you be harassing her, Jerome.”

“I was just trying to be nice,” the man said in a hurt voice as he shuffled his feet.

“Carry your ass down the street and be nice to someone else,” Margie barked as she pushed open the door and shooed Dior inside.

“Not one of your favorite people, I gather?” Dior said as they entered the building.

Margie grunted. “Most of the people on this block are nice. But that damn Jerome is a pain in the ass. Whatever—you don’t be nice to him, because if you do he’ll be in your face all the time and trying to get into your panties, too. Damn shame. That man’s pushing thirty years old and still living off his mother. Trifling is what I call him.”

“Oh my God, this place is just beautiful,” Dior gasped as they entered the apartment. “It looks even better than the pictures the broker sent me!”

“It should look good. I spent a bunch of money on the renovations. They just finished sanding down the floor, so make sure the moving men don’t scratch them up when they move your furniture in.”

“The floors are gorgeous. I’ve never lived in a place with hardwood floors before. And look how high the ceilings are. It makes it look like a ballroom. Oh my God, does that fireplace work?” She rushed over and ran her hand over the wooden mantelpiece. “I can just see myself drinking champagne in front of a roaring fire! Oh, I’m going to love it here!”

Margie chuckled. “Look at you getting all excited. Yeah, the fireplace works. Come on, let me show you the rest of the place.”

“And oh my God, look at the shutters! The windows actually have shutters!” Dior ran over to the window and started flipping the shutters open and shut. “It’s just like in the movies.”

“Uh-huh, just like in the movies. Listen, are you mixed with something? You look like you might have some Chinese in you with them small slanted eyes and that long black hair. Your mother was Asian? Not that it’s none of my business. Not my business at all. But I’m just curious.”

Dior smiled. “No, I’m all black. Both of my parents were light-skinned, too, though.”

“Okay, just asking. It looks good on you, anyway. Now, you wanna see the rest of the apartment? Like I said, I don’t wanna be late for bingo.”

The walk through only lasted another fifteen minutes, but Dior enjoyed every moment. The kitchen was spacious and had all new cabinets. The bathroom, on the other hand, was quaint and old-fashioned, with a large tub that looked as if three people could fit comfortably. And because she had what Margie called the garden apartment, she also had use of the small backyard.

“Now, here’s your keys. This one is for the front door, and this is for the apartment,” Margie said when they were through. “You don’t have a key to the upstairs front door because you’re not going to be using it. I rented out the three upper floors, and the new tenants are going to be moving in soon, but you’re the only one with a private entrance. That’s why you’re paying twelve fifty a month instead of eleven hundred like everyone else. And believe me, that’s still cheap. But that’s enough for now, ’cause I gotta go. And remember, I just live two doors down if you need me.”

Dior waited until her new landlady left, then pulled out her cell phone.

“Auntie Claudia, I’m here! I’m at my new place! And it is sooo beautiful! It’s just like the pictures! The hardwood floors are amazing and the fireplace, Auntie, it’s marble!” Dior exclaimed, rubbing her delicate hands across the mantel. “Oh, and the ceilings, they reach up to the heavens, Auntie, I swear to you!”

Dior walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. She thrust herself inside and leaned her back against the wall. She closed her eyes and smiled. “Auntie, the closets are to die for! They’re huge! And there are quite a few. I can use one just for my pocketbooks!”

“Hard to believe with as many pocketbooks as you have,” Aunt Claudia joked. “I would think you’d need two or three closets.”

“Well,” Dior giggled, “we all have our vices.”

“Honey, I just want to let you know how proud I am of you, landing this new job and moving to a new city on your own. You’re really proving yourself to be quite a young lady.”

Dior smiled. That meant a lot to her. Aunt Claudia had been the guardian of her and her two younger brothers since their parents died in an automobile accident ten years before when she was only sixteen.

“Thanks, Auntie,” Dior said sincerely.

“The only thing is, Dior, I want to remind you that you have to be more responsible about your finances. You spend way too much money on clothes and pocketbooks. I don’t want you getting in over your head, okay?”

Dior sighed. “I won’t, Aunt Claudia. I promise. But listen, I’m going to get off the phone because I want to do some sightseeing while it’s still light out. I love you!”

“I love you, too, baby. Be good now!”

Dior hung up and went into the living room and laid her suitcase down to open it and realized that it was locked. She dug through her duffel looking for the key and then her pocketbook. She couldn’t find it. She began to rack her brain trying to figure out where she had put the key to her suitcase. All of her clothes and shoes were in that bag. All she had in the duffel were pajamas, underclothes, and toiletries. She started to panic thinking about what she would have to wear for the next few days if she didn’t find the key to her luggage.

She snapped her phone open again.

“Auntie Claudia,” Dior said frantically. “I cannot find my key to my suitcase and all of my clothes are in there.”

“Well, did you look in your pocketbook?”

“Yes. It’s not in there. And it’s not in my duffel bag, either.”

“Well, what about your jeans and your coat? Check all of your pockets.”

“I have. I can’t find it anywhere! Auntie, it’s lost. I don’t believe this. I’m going to have to go out and buy some new outfits.”

“Dior,” her aunt all but shouted. “Didn’t we just talk about your spending habits? Girl, just take a bobby pin or something and pick the lock.”

“You’re right,” Dior said quickly. “I’ll do just that. Love you!”

Now, Auntie knows me well enough to know that any excuse I have to buy new clothes is a good one in my book, and come on, no one can deny that this is a very good one, Dior thought as she checked her pocketbook to make sure that she had everything she needed—her credit card, her cash, her cell phone, her keys, and her lip gloss.

The walk to 125th Street only took a few minutes; the shopping took almost two hours. Despite the wintry cold weather, the streets were packed with shoppers and drivers. Dior was enthralled with not only the stores, but the dozens of street vendors who lined the streets hawking their wares. There was eye-catching activity everywhere. On one corner there were two guys break-dancing. On another, a man was playing the saxophone. Dior hadn’t seen a city like it, especially in the dead of winter. Even the advertisements seemed to have life. Big and bold, they appeared as a backdrop, adding their own exciting element to the scene. The streets were packed with herds of people, various kinds of people, from old to young, white to black, short to tall, and everything in between. If you don’t fit in here, you don’t fit in anywhere, Dior thought. And she felt right at home.

She picked up a couple of pairs of jeans and tops from a boutique, but couldn’t find anything she thought suitable for work. She did find a wonderful Louis Vuitton garment bag, and had the salesclerk put her new clothes in it rather than shopping bags. Then, remembering what the taxi driver had said about downtown shopping, she quickly waved down a cab and asked him to take her to the famous Fifth Avenue.

Dior bounced around in the backseat as the taxi driver zipped in and out of traffic like a bat out of hell. Clutching the passenger seat’s headrest, she stared out the window, taking in the sights.

Stores lined the sidewalks for miles and there was indeed something for everyone. You had your small wholesale shops, your high-end boutiques, your big chain stores, and a host of independent retailers selling merchandise right on the streets.

Everything seemed to be fast-forwarding—the people, the sounds, and especially the traffic. There were hundreds of cars sharing the street, 90 percent of which were other taxis. Cars were double parked and other cars were weaving around them swiftly. Horns and screeching brakes acted as a sound track to the motion picture of Dior’s new hometown—New York City.

Suddenly, traffic was brought to a standstill, causing the taxi driver to slam on the brakes.

“Oh, good grief,” the taxi driver sighed.

After being jerked forward and then back, Dior sat up in her seat to get a glimpse out of the front window.

“What’s going on?” she asked, staring at the crowds of people standing on the corner up ahead.

“It must be someone famous,” the driver responded, pointing to the double-parked Maybach about four cars in front of him.

Dior’s eyes widened as she anticipated seeing which celebrity would hop out of the much respected, luxury vehicle.

The taxi driver tried to maneuver the cab into another lane, but it was no use. People were holding up traffic waiting to see who was causing such a parade.

“I wonder what’s going on,” Dior mumbled as she watched photographers and news cameras emerge from the crowd.

Then Dior’s question was answered when she saw an older man holding up a Scarface poster that read HEY, AL, SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND.

“Oh my God,” Dior blurted out. “I think it’s Al Pacino! He must be going into that restaurant!”

“Ohhh, today is the day that he is opening his new restaurant, that’s right,” the driver said. “I read it in the newspaper this morning.”

“How much do I owe you?” Dior asked in a hurry. “I have to see Al Pacino! He is my favorite actor! And I’m not just saying that because he’s out there, either! I’m serious. Since I was little, I’ve loved Al Pacino. I never thought I would meet him, and now that I have the chance to, I can’t let it pass! I would kill myself first!” Dior exclaimed.

“Oh my. Well, just give me eight dollars. Don’t worry about—”

“Here, keep the change.” Dior cut the driver off, shoving a ten-dollar bill in his palm. She quickly got out of the cab.

“Thank you,” she called out, speed-walking toward the crowd, lugging the garment bag with her new clothes over her shoulder.

“Excuse me, wardrobe. Excuse me, wardrobe,” she said repeatedly until she found herself at the front of the red rope.

As if it were planned, the minute Dior got into position, a middle-aged white man wearing a tuxedo opened the back door of the Maybach. First an unknown female got out and then Al Pacino followed. Unable to help herself, Dior screamed. Her idol was just a couple of feet away from her in arm’s reach. It was unreal. She didn’t have a camera, but she figured she could get a few pictures with her phone. While he stopped to sign autographs, she took her phone out of her purse and started snapping. As he started to walk her way, she realized she didn’t have anything for him to sign. Other people in the crowd had posters of him or memorabilia. She had nothing—nothing she could get to easily and quickly. Her nerves were out of control as he signed an autograph right next to her. She could have reached out and rubbed his face he was so close. As he finished up and started to walk past her to the next person with something he could sign, Dior quickly lifted up her shirt and asked him to sign her chest. He chuckled, but he didn’t say no.

“I love you so much!” Dior shouted out as Al Pacino signed his name right above her bra.

“I love you, too,” he said, moving on to the next fan.

Dior was in heaven. She had just gotten to New York and already had one of her lifelong fantasies fulfilled. She was sure that she would love every ounce of her new life and was more eager than ever to get it started. The flashes from the various cameras, the screaming fans, the news reporters, and the presence of Al Pacino made her feel like she was in Hollywood at the premiere of a blockbuster. But she was just on a regular corner in New York City. This was what she had to look forward to, getting that kind of action on a regular day on a regular street.

She threw her garment bag over her shoulder and walked back through the crowd.

Three hours swiftly passed by and Dior felt like a million bucks, perusing Manhattan’s most luxurious strip carrying countless shopping bags and sipping a Starbucks latte. She had spent just about up to her limit when she decided to run across the street to Gucci just to see what new things they had. She promised herself that she wouldn’t buy impulsively, but then she spotted the most beautiful handbag she’d seen since in Vegas two years earlier. The oversized signature brown and gold leather hobo seemed to be calling out to her. She tried to ignore it, but to no avail. It screamed classic, and if there was one thing in the world Dior could never pass up, it was a classic purse. Pocketbooks were her weakness, but a classic pocketbook would be the death of her.

After trying the bag on and talking to the sales rep about its material, its style, and its price-to-use ratio, Dior convinced herself that the bag was worth its eleven-hundred-dollar retail value. She counted out seven hundred dollars in cash and then put the balance on her Visa.

Dior flagged down a cab and gave the driver her address. As he pulled away from the curb, she peeked down her shirt just to see that the autograph was still in place. She got a warm feeling just looking at it. Sitting back in the seat, Dior smiled. New York, New York, she thought. Imagine what the summer’s going to be like. I need to go bra shopping. She had wanted to shop for a few household items, but that was out of the question as Dior had spent all of her money on attire and accessories. She had about one hundred dollars left on her Visa, but she would need that for food to last her until her first weeks of pay ahead. She was a little doubtful that she had made the right decision by buying the Gucci bag over the important things on her list, but what the hell, you only live once, she thought. She got comfortable in the backseat of the cab and zoned out for the rest of the ride home.

Twenty minutes later the taxi driver pulled up to Dior’s house and double-parked. Dior dug in her wallet to collect the $16.22 that she owed for cab fare. To her surprise, she only had two dollars and forty cents to her name. She looked up at the cab driver, who was eyeing her suspiciously in the rearview mirror. Then she looked down at her bags that were laid out beside her on the backseat. She looked back at the driver and in a single moment she gripped her bags, opened the door, and jumped out of the cab.

“Hey, what are you doing?” the driver asked as he jumped out after her.

“Here,” Dior said, handing him the two dollars. “I have to go inside and get the rest of the money.”

The driver reached out and took the money with one hand and then gripped Dior’s bags with the other.

“Well, leave your bags out here, then,” he said.

Dior was alarmed. She knew she didn’t have the rest of the money in her house and even if she did, she was not leaving her bags with a complete stranger. She tugged on the bags to try to get the driver to release them and instead he tugged back. The next thing Dior knew, she was having a tug-of-war with the taxi driver.

“Let go of my bags! What is wrong with you?” Dior shouted.

“What is wrong with me?” the driver shouted back. “What is wrong with you? You’re the one trying to stiff me for the fare!”

Cars riding down the street were slowing up as the people inside them were trying to see what was going on. Neighbors started to come to their doors. Everybody was wondering what the fuss was about. Dior was embarrassed and wanted so badly to diffuse the scene, but she’d be damned if she was letting go of her thousands of dollars in merchandise over a petty fourteen dollars.

“Yo, what’s the problem, B?” the smarmy guy from the day before said as he approached them.

The driver looked at the guy and maintained his grip on Dior’s bags.

“This lady owes me sixteen dollars and she’s trying to give me two and run. I’m not having that,” the taxi driver said.

“I said I would get the rest of the money out of my house!” Dior rebutted.

“Well, if that’s true, then why won’t you leave your bags out here until you get back?”

Dior was so mad she could have exploded. “Do you know how much I paid for this stuff?”

The taxi driver responded sarcastically, “Let me guess, too much that you can’t pay for your cab?”

“Oh my God, how dare you insult me like that!” she snapped at him.

The guy looked at Dior and at the driver. He chuckled at the two of them, then pulled three crumpled five-dollar bills from his pocket. He handed the money to the driver, who finally let go of Dior’s bags but not before he sneered at her. The driver got in his cab and angrily took off.

“Thank you. I will give you the money back,” Dior told the guy as she walked toward her door.

The guy walked beside her. “We haven’t been formally introduced, but my name’s Jerome. I live right up the street, so we’re neighbors.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jerome,” Dior said as she put her key in the door.

“Do you know that I have a fetish for small, light-skinned women with Chinese eyes and straight black hair and foreign accents?” he asked while flashing his yellow toothy grin. “It’s a coincidence that you fit that description, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. I’m flattered. Listen, how about you come by in two weeks and get the money I owe you?” Dior suggested, trying to brush Jerome off.

“I’ll do you one better,” Jerome began. “How about you give me your number and we call it even?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I can pay you the money back. It’s just that I don’t have any cash on me at the moment.”

“Oh, so I can’t have your number?”

Dior shook her head no, told Jerome good-bye, and attempted to close her door.

Jerome put his hand up on the door, keeping it open.

“Well, you’re going to have to give me the money now. I’ll stand right here and wait,” he said.

Dior was irritated beyond words. She had already gone through a mess with the cabdriver and now Jerome was pestering her with nonsense. She couldn’t believe how he had gone from a charming gentleman to an ignorant jerk in seconds. She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she was in his debt, so she played nice.

“I can’t give you a number that I don’t have,” she explained. “I just moved in, remember?”

“Oh, well, let’s try this,” Jerome said. “I’ll leave you alone if you promise to give me your number when you get a phone or the money when you get the cash, whichever one comes first.”

“Deal,” Dior agreed. Anything to get you off my doorstep, she thought.

The minute Jerome walked away and Dior retreated to her air mattress in relief, her doorbell rang. Annoyed, she got up and walked to the door to see who it was and what they wanted. It was Margie, standing with one hand on her hip and the other bringing a cigarette to her mouth. Dior opened the door and forced a smile. Before she could say hello, Margie started talking.

“Hey. Listen, I just thought I’d tell you a few things that will help you out in the future. Number one, if you can buy Gucci, but can’t afford a cab ride, walk or take the bus. Number two, I warned you about Jerome yesterday. Give him more than a minute of your time and he’ll be at your door every day. And number three, Margie doesn’t play when it comes to collecting rent, so you better not think about trying to get over on me like you did that cabbie. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dior said wearily before Margie cued her to close the door.

Exhausted and confused about how she had overspent, Dior went back in her bedroom and plopped down on the floor. Her shopping bags were scattered about before her, but she didn’t even have the desire to go through them and try on all her new stuff like she normally would. Not even her new pocketbook made her feel better about what had just happened.

The sun burst through the windowpane, disturbing Dior’s sleep. Squinting, she stretched her arms above her head and let out a yawn. She felt around on the floor for her cell phone and picked it up. Despite the bright sunrays, she was able to make out the time. It was 7:15. She couldn’t believe that she had woken so early on her first weekday off in months. She lifted the quilt off her and stood up from the air mattress.

She went into the kitchen and grabbed the half-drunk twenty-ounce bottle of orange juice that she had bought the day before in the airport. She finished it off and placed the empty bottle on the counter. Maybe I should have bought a trash can instead of that Gucci bag, she thought.

She grabbed her laptop computer and set it up on the kitchen counter. Since she was up so early she decided to spend some time on the Internet. While she only had that hundred dollars on her Visa, she still had her American Express card. She hated using it, because the balance had to be paid in full every month, but she did need something to sit on, after all. Besides, by the time the bill came in she’d have received her first paycheck, so everything would be all right. She found a quaint leather sectional that would go perfect in her living room. She also ordered a glass coffee table and two leather chairs to complete the modern look she was going for. For her bedroom, she came across a low-to-the-ground bed and the dresser and nightstands to match. It was all black/brown wood and sleek. She couldn’t wait for it to be delivered.

After making her purchases and checking her e-mail, she Googled nightspots in New York to see which Harlem club she should check out that weekend. A spot called MoBay Uptown seemed interesting, she decided. It was right on 125th Street and had jazz on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Usually she liked going to dance clubs, but she’d always heard that the jazz spots in Harlem were something else, and this was her chance to find out firsthand. Besides, it probably wasn’t as expensive as the downtown clubs, and she was going to be cash poor for a while.

She scrolled down the page to check out more links about the club and in the process a link for a MySpace profile appeared. Dior clicked on it to see what the MySpacer thought of the nightspot.

According to Mr. Good Black Man 2008, it was a hip spot for African-American professionals and a perfect place for meeting attractive singles. She chuckled at the thought of going in and seeing wall-to-wall cute men in suits. That would be heavenly, she thought. She started to close the profile page but decided to read more about the person giving this bit of networking advice. She was disappointed to see there was no picture, and no description except that he was “a single black entrepreneur who lived in Harlem.”

Hmmm, she thought, he lives in Harlem, I live in Harlem. Might be worth checking him out.

She clicked on the link that said Send Message, but a blurb came up saying You must be logged in to do that. She’d always toyed with the idea of becoming a MySpace member, and since it was free, and she wasn’t doing anything else, she figured this would be as good a time as any. Twenty minutes later she had put up her own profile page. It was only bare-bones, but she could hook it up later, she decided. Right now she was on a mission. She clicked back on to Mr. Good Black Man 2008’s profile page again.

Hi. I’m new to Harlem and new to MySpace. I came across your page when I was looking for advice about MoBay’s. Do you really think it’s worth checking out?

Kind of lame, but it would do as an icebreaker. She hit the Send button, then retrieved another bottle of juice from the refrigerator. She had gone back to the computer to turn it off when she saw that she already had a MySpace message. She smiled when she saw it was from Mr. Good Black Man 2008. That was fast. She noticed his online now cursor was blinking.

Hey, Newcomer, welcome to the neighborhood. Yes, MoBay’s is a great place. You should really try it on a Thursday night. The saxophonist is off the hook.

She took a sip from her juice, then typed:

I didn’t expect to hear back so soon. Thanks. How do you like living in Harlem? I just moved here from Montreal.

A few minutes later she received another message:

I’ve traveled almost all over the world, and I can tell you that there’s no place like Harlem. You’ll love it here.

They went back and forth with polite niceties for a while before Dior finally typed:

I notice that most people have their pictures on their profile page. Why don’t you?

Ten minutes later:

I used to have my picture up here but I kept getting messages from women telling me how cute I was, and how they wanted to meet me. I’m not into superficial people who only care about what someone looks like, so I decided to take it down.

Wow, Dior thought. He must really be good looking if women were on him like that. Wish I knew what he looked like, though.

Mr. Good Black Man 2008 must have been reading her mind, because just a few minutes later came another message:

You sound like a nice person, so just between you and me, I’m tall, chocolate-colored, and have been told I look like Blair Underwood.

The scene from the movie Set It Off where a shirtless Blair Underwood came out of his house to say good-bye to Jada Pinkett popped into Dior’s head. She started salivating.

So what do you look like? was the next message Mr. Good Black Man 2008 wrote.

Dior smiled to herself as she wrote I would tell you, but I like your original philosophy.

Touché, was his reply. So what do you do for a living? Or would that be too personal?

Actually, I start my new job on Monday, she wrote him.

She told him her job title and a brief description of her upcoming duties. He wrote back that her job seemed interesting and that he might have to hire her agency one day to advertise his business. Dior lit up like a Christmas tree and in her next message she asked him what kind of business he owned. He told her that his primary business was an investment firm, but that he also owned lots of real estate around Manhattan. Dior didn’t know how to act. Dollar signs were floating all through her head and she started seeing doubles of her Gucci bag.

They went back and forth for another hour before Dior said she had to go, but asked if they could stay in touch.

We certainly can, came back the reply. I’d love to be your Harlem tour guide. Just message me when you’re ready to see the sights.

Dior was tempted to message him back to say she was ready at that moment but decided against it. She turned off the computer, stretched, and went back to bed.

Dior was excited about starting her new job. She stepped out her door with pride. Being senior copywriter, she had to dress the part and she did, in a black Nicole Miller skirt suit and some black and white Chanel pumps. Her thigh-length mink shielded her from the January cold and with her black crocodile briefcase in tote, she looked like she meant business. She walked over to 116th Street and Malcolm X Boulevard to take her first rush-hour subway ride, feeling like a true New Yorker. Luckily, she was able to find a seat and immediately realized most of the people who had seats also had reading material. Duly noted, she thought, she’d bring a book or magazine along to pass the time on her next ride. She nonchalantly glanced over at the newspaper the woman next to her was reading. Her eyes widened as she saw pictures of Al Pacino in front of his new restaurant signing autographs.

“Do you mind if I look at your paper?” Dior asked eagerly.

The woman looked at her like she was crazy, but said, “You can have it. I get off at the next stop.”

Dior quickly scanned through the photos on Page Six of the New York Post. No, she wasn’t in any of the pictures. Damn the luck.

When she arrived at her office in the heart of Times Square, Dior was in awe. This is what I’m talking about, she thought. She went in the revolving doors and was greeted by a security guard. She told the guard where she needed to go and he pointed her in the right direction. She took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor and immediately after getting off she walked to the glass door that read KACEY AND PATNICK and introduced herself to the receptionist.

A few minutes later a short redheaded girl came into the lobby to meet her.

“Hi, I’m Larissa, Barbara’s assistant,” the girl said. “Follow me.”

“Dior Emerson, hello,” Barbara said with a warm smile. She shook Dior’s hand and waved her to a seat. “So, we finally meet.”

“Yes, and it’s my pleasure,” Dior said.

“Well, here’s the thing.” Barbara took a sip of her coffee. “Normally your first day would be pretty laid-back, but something’s come up. If you don’t mind, we’d like to put your orientation off for a while. We’re trying to land a new major account, and we want all of our best people on it. And although you’re new, we’re all familiar with your work and we’re confident we want you to be in on this.”

Dior eagerly leaned forward in her chair.

“Al Pacino opened a restaurant here in the city a couple of days ago. We heard word that he’s about to fire the advertising company he hired because he was dissatisfied with the coverage he got for the grand opening. He wants a major campaign in place immediately, and we’ve already reached out to him and told him we have one ready for him to look at. Of course we don’t. The meeting with him is scheduled for this time next week, so by then we have to have a presentation that will blow him away and land us the account. So we want you to get to work immediately trying to come up with some ideas. We don’t have much time, so we’ll screen the ideas that the copywriters come up with, pick one, and have them ready to present it to Mr. Pacino personally when he comes into the office.”

Dior’s head was spinning. What is the likelihood of this? she thought. What do I look like presenting business to this man after I lifted up my shirt and asked him to sign my chest in public? He’s going to laugh at me, then tell my boss how I acted a fool. Then he’s going to tell her no thanks and go over to the competition for a campaign proposal that was actually done by a professional. Then my boss is going to fire me on the spot because she can’t have such poor representation of her agency roaming the streets of New York. How do I get out of this?

“Like I said, normally we wouldn’t immediately throw you into the fire so quickly, but this is major, and we’re familiar with your work and we think you can handle it. And between you and me, in the next couple of years we’ll be looking for a new partner. Landing a major account like this in your first week at work will look very impressive.” Barbara folded her hands on her desk. “No pressure, of course.”

As she walked out of her new boss’s office, Dior quickly thought of things she could say to Al Pacino to excuse her raunchy behavior; then she figured the best thing to do would be simply to deny it. It wasn’t her. He must be mistaken. There were so many people there that day he couldn’t possibly remember just one face. That was it. That would be her defense. It wasn’t me, she thought.

“Uhhh!” Dior moaned as she pulled off her knee boots. She had just gotten in from work and her feet were killing her. She couldn’t figure out why, though. She had worn those boots a hundred times in Montreal and this was the third time she had worn them in New York. And the two times before that, she did lots of walking in them—her first day at the airport and her second day walking up and down Fifth Avenue. She wondered if her feet were growing from all the walking she had been doing lately. That was all New Yorkers did, walk.

She sat down on her pile-it and leaned her back against the wall. Suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her behind. It came and went so fast that she dismissed it and just repositioned herself. She started to pick through the mail, coming across her electric bill. As she opened it, the pain in her behind returned. It felt like something had stuck her, and she thought maybe she had gotten a splinter from the floor. She stood up and scanned the bill, directing her eyes straight to the balance and due date. She couldn’t figure out if the amount of the bill said $341 or if the pain in her butt was causing her to hallucinate. She figured she would take care of one problem at a time, and her ass came before the bill.

She put the mail up on the mantel and came out of her mink. Then she began to rub her butt as it was so sore. She started to feel around on her back pockets to see if there was something in them poking her. She felt nothing. Wanting to find out what was sticking her, she sat back down and sure enough the pain returned, this time causing her to jump to her feet as if she had gotten the Holy Ghost. She immediately unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them off. She went into the bathroom and tried looking at her butt in the mirror, but it was too high, and even sitting on the sink she couldn’t turn herself around enough to see her backside. She started to feel around on her bare butt, trying to locate a splinter or a cut or something. But there was nothing but a pimple. And that had been there for days and hadn’t given her any problems before, so she was sure it wasn’t the culprit.

Confused, Dior went back into the living room and picked up her jeans off the floor. She examined them. Then she decided to turn them upside own and shake them, thinking that if it was a splinter or a pin sticking her it had to be in her back pocket. After a few shakes, a tiny gold key fell out of her jeans and onto her hardwood floor.

“Ohhh!” Dior squealed. “This is where you were hiding!”

She picked up the key and kissed it. “I was looking all over for you!”

She crawled over to her Louis Vuitton luggage that had been sitting in her living room since she moved in and turned it on its back. She put the key in the lock and opened it. She then unzipped the suitcase. A rush came over her. You would have thought she was taking the lid off a pot of gold. Her eyes lit up and she was overwhelmed with joy, looking at all her clothes and purses. She felt like she had gone shopping all over again as most of the things were new items that she had bought just before she left Canada.

“Hum,” she huffed, closing the suitcase. Finding the key had almost made her forget the drama of the workday, but not quite. She decided to get online for a little while.

So how was your first day at work? was the one-line message Dior read from Mr. Good Black Man 2008 when she logged on to MySpace. Once again she saw that his online now icon was blinking.

It sucked, she typed back.

Sorry to hear that. What happened?

Dior sighed. Long story.

I guess we’ve all had those kind of days. Hope things get better.

You spend a lot of time on the computer, Dior typed. Must be nice to have all this free time.

I do most of my work on the computer. Believe me, I have very little free time. But what little time I do have I’ve already discovered I like spending with you.

Dior smiled. How can someone as sweet as you still be single?

His response was that he had a fiancée whom he was supposed to marry a year and a half ago, but she ended up cheating on him and so he called off their wedding. After that heartbreak, he wrote, he chose to be single for a while.

I’m so sorry to hear that, Dior typed.

That’s life, came the reply.

Dior and Mr. Good Black Man 2008 went back and forth sending each other messages for the whole of the night. In between ordering food, going to the bathroom, taking phone calls, and even running to the store, they wrote each other. They got to know a lot about one another and realized they had much in common, the funniest and most significant being they both were Al Pacino fans. She impressed him by telling him that she was working on a campaign for their idol’s new restaurant.

The two of them sent LOLs constantly as they both laughed aloud in their homes. They found out that they were both into zodiac signs and their signs were good together. They were in the same age bracket and they both liked jazz even though they were fairly young.

It was after midnight when Dior finally turned off her computer, clicked off her living room light, and retreated to her air mattress. She pulled back the quilt and the sheet and lay down, resting her head on her makeshift pillow. Good black men aren’t hard to find, she thought. Shit, they come with profiles and everything now. I like this.

She closed her eyes and immediately began imagining Mr. Good Black Man 2008 in bed with her, and found herself getting aroused. Damn, she thought, right before drifting herself to sleep. This online thing is nice, but I could use a noncyber man right about now.

“I’m Gordon Jacobs.”

Dior looked up from her desk and the presentation she was trying to prepare to see a short light-skinned man with freckles and spectacles standing in front of her, with one hand on his hip and the other holding a manila folder. It was Friday, and her presentation to Barbara and the other company bigwigs was scheduled for Monday, so she was mildly irritated by the interruption.

“Hi, I’m Dior. Dior Emerson.”

“Uh-huh, believe me, I know who you are,” the man said in an effeminate voice. “How’s it going? You going to nail that Al Pacino campaign?”

“How’d you know about that?”

“Girl, please,” he said, waving his hand. “I work for Human Resources. We hear everything down there. So, you going to nail that account or what?”

Dior smiled. “I’m going to do my best.”

“Well, just so that damn Candace doesn’t get it. I can’t stand that witch.”

“Candace Waller?”

“Uh-huh. She thinks she’s hot shit, and word around the office is she sees you as the main competition for the account, so you must be the one that’s really hot shit because she sure the hell ain’t.”

Dior paused, not sure what to say. Why would this person she’d never met before be telling her all of this?

“Well, anyway, I gotta go. You can thank me for the tip another time. And believe me you will,” Gordon said as he sashayed off.

That evening Dior excitedly let the air out of her air mattress. She folded it up and put it in her hall closet. She swept and mopped all her floors and wiped down the woodwork, mantel and window seals. She was good and ready by the time the deliverymen came with her furniture.

She opened the door and before her stood a chocolate god. He was at least six feet tall, 220 pounds of nothing but muscle. His skin was so smooth it looked like silk. His bald head glistened against the sunrays. He had the whitest teeth and sexiest smile. He was not to be taken lightly. Mr. Good Black Man 2008 might be nice, but the man standing in front of her was real. Everything about him yelled fuck me. Dior was turned on instantly. Her womanhood started to thump in her pants and her breasts felt like they were waking up from a long nap. She couldn’t control the feelings she was getting just looking at the guy, so there was no telling what she would do once he started moving her furniture in.

“Hello, Mrs. Emerson?” He broke the silence.

“Ms.,” Dior clarified. “I’m not married.”

“Oh, okay,” he said with a smile. “But you are the person we’re supposed to be delivering this furniture to, right?”

“Oh yes, of course,” Dior said, gazing into his deep dark eyes.

“Okay, well, I’ll just have you sign this paper and my guys will start bringing your stuff in,” he said, holding a clipboard out in front of Dior.

Dior signed her name as fast as she could so that she could get another look at him before he went back inside his truck. He took the clipboard back and ripped off the back portion of the paper. He handed it to Dior and walked away.

Dior was in a trance watching his every move. She particularly concentrated on his butt cheeks and his back. She felt herself getting so moist that she was concerned she might have an orgasm. She tried to shun the sexual feelings she was experiencing, but they were too overpowering. She stepped outside without a coat on, hoping the cold air would straighten her out, and all that did was make her nipples harder. She couldn’t believe what she was feeling for a perfect stranger. But she liked it.

She had turned to go back into her apartment when she noticed a voluptuous young woman heading up the stairs to the brownstone’s front door.

“Hi,” Dior called out. “You must be my new neighbor. You just moved in a couple of days ago, right? I saw the moving men bring in your furniture.”

The woman stopped and slowly walked back down the stairs. “Hi,” she said in a sweet southern accent. “Yes, I have the first-floor apartment. My name’s Tamara.”

“I’m Dior.”

The two women eyed each other warily. “Well, I gotta go. I’ve got of lot of work to do,” Tamara said finally. “It was nice meeting you.” She headed back up the stairs.

“All right, Ms. Emerson, do you know where you want everything to go?” Dior’s fantasy asked. She looked at him and wondered if he had noticed the curve of those shapely hips trotting up the steps, but his attention seemed devoted entirely on Dior. Good, she thought, as they went back into the apartment.

“This is the bed frame,” one guy said.

“That goes in here,” Dior said, leading them into her bedroom.

The guys laid the boxes out on the floor and went back to the truck for more. Dior just stood around watching as the guys took several trips to the truck and back to her apartment. Every so often, the chocolate god would bring something from the truck inside, but for the most part he was directing the two other guys. Once all the boxes for the bedroom were inside, the two guys got to work putting the bed, nightstands, and dresser together. Meanwhile, Dior’s dream man looked around in the living room.

“This is a nice place. How long have you been living here?” he asked, his deep voice sending shock waves through Dior’s body.

“Thanks. Just a week,” she answered. “Can I get you or your guys anything to drink?”

“No. We’re fine, thanks.”

“Speak for yourself!” one of the other guys yelled from the bedroom.

Dior and the guy who appeared to be the boss chuckled and then Dior asked the worker, “What would you like? I have water and iced tea and a couple sodas.”

“A soda is fine,” he shouted out. “Thank you.”

Dior took a soda out of her refrigerator and walked it into the bedroom to the guy. The bed and nightstands were already together and they were working on the dresser. Dior was surprised to see how fast they had worked and she went back into the living room to tell their boss how impressed she was.

“They’re getting it done so fast,” she said. “I wish I had cash on hand to tip them.”

The boss guy flagged her playfully and said, “Oh, that’s all right. These guys get paid to do this.”

“Yeah, and what do you get paid to do?” the same guy who asked for the soda shouted out. “Stand around and talk to the customers?”

“Exactly. It’s my job to satisfy the customer and your job to satisfy me,” he retaliated. Then he turned to Dior and explained, “That’s my little brother. He’s always talkin’ trash.”

Dior chuckled again and then asked flirtatiously, “What size shoe do you wear?”

“Thirteen,” he said, licking his lips.

Dior blushed as they stared at each other. She figured that she wasn’t doing a good job keeping her feelings for him a secret. He clearly knew that she found him attractive and it was obvious he knew how to handle it. He flirted right back.

“All right, the bedroom is done,” one of the guys said as he entered the living room.

The other guy followed, drinking from the soda can.

“We’re going to get the living room stuff now, okay?” he said to Dior.

“Okay,” she said, rushing into her room to see the end result.

“It looks nice,” she thought aloud, looking around her room. She was happy at her choice in furniture and with the deliverymen’s work ethic.

She went over to the bed and sat down on the pillow-top mattress. She bounced up and down on it, testing the firmness.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” the boss asked as he appeared in the bedroom.

“Yes, it does,” she said with dreamy eyes. Then she toned down her desperation and got up off the bed. She walked into the living room and the boss followed.

“Listen,” the boss began, “what are you doing tomorrow night?”

Dior paused and turned around to face him. “Nothing,” she responded, grinning.

“Well, I’m free, and I would love to show you around. You are new here, right?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I am,” Dior said. “You know I would love that. Now, I guess, is a great time for you to tell me your name.”

The boss extended his hand and in gentleman form, he said, “I’m Chris.”

Dior placed her hand in his and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chris. And from now on, just call me Dior.”

“Dior, huh?” he said. “Is that short for high maintenance?” He chuckled.

“It all depends,” Dior said, chuckling along with him.

Dior and Chris exchanged numbers just as the other two guys reentered her home. They had smirks on their faces as they knew what was going on. They quickly unwrapped all the furniture and put it in its place. Then the boss handed them a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket.

“This is a tip from Ms. Emerson,” he said, winking back at Dior.

The two guys took the money and thanked Dior. She smiled at Chris and told them no problem. They gathered their belongings, Dior signed off on the delivery, and the three men left.

“I’ll call you,” Chris said with his lips only.

Dior nodded as she stood at her door watching the three of them get back in their truck. Just as she turned to walk back into her apartment, she heard one of the guys say, “You really satisfy the customers, don’t you?”

She stood outside, watching the furniture delivery truck drive down the street, then turned to walk back into her apartment when suddenly someone grabbed her by the arm.

“Hi, lovely lady. Remember me?”

If I didn’t remember your face I’d remember those yellow teeth, and that horrid breath, Dior thought. Out loud she said, “Sure, I remember you. Jerome, right?”

“Right. Your knight in shining armor. You gonna give me your number?”

“I thought we agreed that I’d pay you back in two weeks,” Dior said desperately. How the hell could she let her spending habits put her in a situation like this? Of all people, she sure didn’t want to be in Jerome’s debt.

“Yeah, but I decided I’d rather have your number so we can get to know each other better. I know you got a phone by now. If you don’t, just give me your cell number.”

“Look, I’d much prefer to—”

“Jerome, youse one trifling bastard!” Margie called out her window. “Leave that girl alone. Dior, don’t give him nothing. I done paid him that money for you already and he knows it.”

Dior looked from Margie to Jerome. “You did?”

“Yeah. He came around here the other day crying about that was part of the money his mother gave him to go pay the electric bill, and I like his mother and didn’t want her in the dark. Just add the twenty dollars to your rent, baby.”

Dior snatched her arm away from Jerome and glared at him. “It was only fifteen dollars.”

Jerome’s eyes darted from side to side. “Well, you know. Interest.”

“Yeah, I got your interest right here,” Margie shouted as she waved a baseball bat in the window with one hand while flicking the ash from her cigarette out the window with the other. “Now get your trifling ass down the street.”

“Man, forget you,” Jerome said as he backed away. “I was just trying to be nice because you’re new in the neighborhood and I thought you might need a friend.”

“Hmph. With friends like you I certainly wouldn’t need any enemies,” Dior said angrily. “Miss Margie,” she said, turning to the woman in the window, “I’m sorry. I’ll give you the twenty back in the rent check like you said.”

“Okay, dear. And don’t worry about Jerome. He’s stupid but he’s harmless. Just don’t give him any more of your time and he’ll soon be leaving you alone. And just put him in his place one good time and you won’t have any problems. That girl in unit three chewed him out so bad you can bet he won’t ever say another word to her again. You just need to get a little more spunk in you. Not that’s it none of my business. Not my business at all.”

That fool has some nerve, Dior thought when she walked back into the house. Angry as she was, though, she couldn’t stay mad long as she looked at her new furniture. Her new apartment was looking more and more like home. She sat down on her new bed and smiled. It sure would be good to break this in right. This was possibly her time and Chris was possibly her match.

When she powered up her laptop later to check her bank account balance online, she noticed that she had a couple of messages from Mr. Good Black Man 2008, and that his online now icon was blinking. She turned off the computer without reading the messages and went to bed.

Chris arrived at Dior’s door at seven o’clock on the nose. Looking quite debonair in a tasteful pair of Rock & Republic jeans, a black sweater, and a pair of black and white Gucci sneakers, plus bearing a box of chocolates, he definitely got the date started off on the right foot. Dior greeted Chris with a kiss on the cheek as she took the chocolates off his hands. She invited him in just so that he wouldn’t have to stand in the cold while she touched up her makeup and put on her coat. He sat on her new sofa and waited patiently for her, commenting, from time to time, on how nice she had decorated since he had been there the day before.

Chris opened the door for Dior and escorted her inside his 2008 Cadillac Escalade. He then walked around the back of the car and got in the driver’s seat. He was being a perfect gentleman. Dior was pleased. The two drove through the busy Saturday night Manhattan traffic, making stops, at Nobu’s for dinner, the Belasco Theatre to preview a play, and Serendipity’s for dessert, finally ending their night on the town at Pacha Nightclub for a drink and a dance.

Choosing to go to various spots was Chris’s way of showing Dior several parts of the city and entertaining her at the same time, and Dior was more than satisfied as that was the most fun she’d had in a long time. At one point she almost suggested that they go to MoBay’s since she still hadn’t made it to the jazz club, but quickly decided against it. Stupid as it sounded she felt like that would be cheating on Mr. Good Black Man 2008 since that was the club he recommended.

Throughout the evening Chris and Dior laughed and conversed and learned a lot about one another. As the time wound down, neither of them wanted the date to end, especially not Dior, who, instead of kissing Chris good-bye once they arrived at her apartment, invited him inside.

Dior was tipsy and still up for a good time, so she figured it wouldn’t hurt to have him come in for an hour or two. Unbelievably attractive, well groomed, well mannered, well rounded, and apparently well off, Chris was everything she could want in a man.

Dior took off her coat, with Chris’s assistance, and hung it in her closet. She took Chris’s leather blazer and hung it up, too. The two sat on the sofa and stared into each other’s eyes for a moment.

“You are so beautiful,” Chris said, eyes glassy from the numerous Grey Goose martinis he’d had at the club.

“It’s funny, I hear that a lot from guys, but hearing it from you, I got all tingly inside just now,” Dior responded with a blush, playfully hitting Chris on his knee.

Just then, Chris leaned in and kissed Dior on her lips. She returned the kiss and the next thing Dior knew, her hand was rubbing Chris’s thigh and his hands were rubbing hers. They were kissing and feeling each other’s body parts and before long, they had made their way into Dior’s bedroom and were breaking in her new bed.

Dior was in fairyland as she hadn’t had any in a long time and Chris lived up to his massive sex appeal. He was as great in bed as he was to look at, maybe greater. When they were done, Dior was wide open. She helped him put on his boots and everything. She even flushed the condom down the toilet for him.

After about a half hour, Chris and Dior parted ways. It was close to five in the morning when she walked him outside. He bent down and kissed her once more, then walked to his car, which was parked up the block. Dior went back inside her apartment and closed her door. She leaned up against it, folding her arms over her chest, and exhaling with a huge smile on her face as if she were in love.

She glanced around at her furnished apartment and thought back on the amazing sex she had just had with the equally amazing man and she patted herself on the back. This was a good week, she thought to herself. The furniture and Chris were both a perfect fit.

Dior was both exhilarated and scared witless as she sat in the conference room. She and two other senior copywriters had made their presentations in front of the company brass the day before, and it was her campaign that the company had decided to go with. Now her insides were doing jumping jacks as she waited to make the presentation in front of her movie idol.

Just deny it was me, she reminded herself over and over again. And maybe he won’t even remember me. I’m sure I’m not the only girl whose chest he’s signed.

Larissa brought a pitcher of ice water and several cups into the room. She also made sure the coffee-and teapots were filled.

“Dior, this is quite impressive. I knew you had it in you,” Barbara said, skimming over the last of the six pages. “And you came up with this in a little over a week, that’s great. And I love this catchphrase, when you only have money left for food, do you pay the driver? That’s funny. I think he’ll go for it. You ready?”

Dior’s mouth was too dry to speak, so she simply nodded. Just then the intercom buzzed.

“Mrs. Roman, we’ve just been notified your guests are on their way up the elevator.”

Barbara stood up quickly. “Dior, you wait here. I’ll meet them at the elevator and bring them in here. Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little queasy.”

“I’m fine,” Dior managed to croak.

Just deny it, just deny it, Dior said to herself over and over again. She stood up as the conference room door swung open.

“Ms. Barker, this is Dior Emerson, one of the bright young stars at Kacey and Patnick. She’s the one who came up with the campaign and will be making the presentation today. Dior, this is Kit Barker. Mr. Pacino’s publicist.”

Dior’s eyes widened. “His publicist? I’m sorry. I was under the impression Mr. Pacino would be here himself.”

Kit Barker chuckled. “No, dear. Mr. Pacino would need stunt doubles to go to every business meeting of his. I’ll be the one you have to convince. Then I’ll present it to Mr. Pacino, and of course he’ll have the final say.”

God, you’re the bomb, Dior said in her head as a feeling of relief came over her. She could do her job now without the fear of being found out and having her reputation scrutinized. She proceeded to give her presentation as if it were a walk in the park. Afterward she walked out of the conference room head held high, and with a huge grin on her face.

“I take it that it went well, then?” Candace Waller asked as she passed her in the hall. “Congrats. I hope they go for it.”

“Thanks,” Dior said airily. Candace had been shooting dagger looks her way since the day before when the company had chosen Dior’s presentation over hers, but even the woman’s attitude couldn’t bring her down at the moment.

“I heard you nailed it, girl!” Gordon said when he stopped by her desk later that afternoon. “Um-hm, you know you’re going to be the new company golden girl if you did.”

Dior beamed up at the man. “Gordon, I really think I did.”

“Uh-huh. And you know Miss Candace is hating on you right now.” The man laughed. “Serves her ass right. She thinks just because she’s a copywriter she can treat everyone else like shit. You know if her presentation had been picked they would have automatically promoted her to senior copywriter, right? I sure would have held up her pay raise, though. We do have some power in Human Resources, you know.”

Now that the presentation was over, Dior had extra time on her hands, so she decided to surf the Net for a while checking out the latest Gucci and Versace fashions, though promising herself she wouldn’t buy anything. After a half hour or so she logged on to MySpace and found seven messages from Mr. Good Black Man 2008 logged in over the last forty-eight hours. Most were simply wondering where she was, and how she was doing, and how the Pacino presentation went. She was getting ready to log off when she saw his online now icon suddenly start blinking.

Hey, I’m sorry I haven’t been in contact for a while. I’ve just been so busy at work, she quickly typed.

Good to hear from you. I was worried.

No need to. I’m fine.

How’s work?

Work is great! I think I have landed the Pacino account!

Get out! Congratulations! I’m so proud of you.

Wasn’t that sweet? Dior thought. He doesn’t even know me but he’s proud of my successes. He’s a real gem.

I almost blew it, though, she typed.

What makes you say that?

Dior grinned as she typed a message telling him about her first day in New York City and her chance meeting with Al Pacino.

LOL. You are crazy! I knew I liked you for some reason. When will you find out for sure if they’re going to go with your campaign?

Probably in another week or so.

Well, let me know if you get it because I’d love to take you to celebrate.

Dior hesitated. The temptation was too much to bear. She started typing.

How about we just go ahead and celebrate now? I’m free tonight.

But before she could hit the Send button her cell phone began vibrating.

“Hello. This is Dior.”

“Hello, beautiful lady,” Chris’s cheery voice said.

Reality check, Dior thought as she erased the message without sending it to Mr. Good Black Man 2008. A real man in my bed is better than a cyber one I’ve never met.

“I’m fine,” Dior said as she logged off the Internet. “In fact, I’m psyched! I think I might have landed a major account. Congratulate me!”

Chris chuckled. “Okay, congratulations.”

“In fact, you should take me out tonight to celebrate.” Dior leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. She could feel herself getting moist as she remembered the passion they had shared just three nights before.

“Funny you should say that. I was just calling to see if you were free. I can’t get you out of my mind.”

“Now, that’s what I like to hear. See you at seven?”

“It’s a date.”

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Dior’s doorbell rang repeatedly. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece as she rushed out of the shower. It was only six. She hoped Chris wasn’t coming over early. Throwing on her bathrobe and sliding into her slippers, she ran to the intercom.

“Who is it?” she asked, a little frazzled.

“It’s your knight in shining armor,” the voice responded.

Dior frowned. “Who?”

“It’s Jerome,” the voice sounded.

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to apologize for the other day. I gave Miss Margie her money back so you can just go ahead and pay me now so we can keep the peace.”

Dior suddenly got so angry she stormed out of the door in her robe and slippers. “Jerome, I don’t believe you.”

“What? I thought I was being nice….”

“Go to hell! Before I smash you in the face, you lousy bastard.”

“Yo, you know you don’t have to be so—”

“Jerome! What I tell you about harassing my tenants? Boy, don’t make me go get my baseball bat and swat the shit outta you,” Margie’s voice rang out behind them.

“Miss Margie,” Jerome started stammering. “I was just—”

“Boy, I know just what you was trying to do,” Margie said as she walked up behind him and swatted him upside the head. “Now get outta here before I call your mother and tell her you’re still out here trying to hit on young girls with your trifling ass.”

“Man, forget you and her,” Jerome said as he backed away from the door. “I got me a real nice girl. A professional girl with a good job, too. I don’t need to be messing with you.”

“Yeah? Well, then don’t,” Margie shouted at his back. The woman then giggled and turned back to Dior. “Actually, this time it looked like I was saving him from you rather than saving you from him. I thought for sure you were going to knock him out with your little bitty self. Bet he won’t be bothering you anymore.”

“He’d just better not,” Dior said as she stomped back into her apartment.

Later on that evening, Dior relaxed in Chris’s arms. “You know what? You really grow on a girl.”

“Talk about growing…” Chris smiled and moved Dior’s hand to his manhood.

A wicked smiled appeared on Dior’s face. “Better yet, let’s not talk about it. Let’s get to doing something about it.”

“Dior! You did it! You landed the account! I just heard back from Pacino’s people. Congratulations!”

Dior looked up at Barbara in disbelief. “Really?”

“What do you mean, really? Yes, really! And I’m really taking you to lunch to celebrate. In fact,” Barbara said grandly, “I’m taking the whole team out to lunch! No, scratch that. We’re going out for cocktails. I’m feeling good today!”

“Congratulations,” Candace said with the most insincere smile Dior had ever seen. “I guess you’ve cemented your position here, haven’t you? But then maybe I could have landed the account if…” Candace’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, never mind,” she muttered as she walked away.

Dior wondered what the girl was going to say, but didn’t wonder long. She had phone calls to make. First to her aunt Claudia, then to Gordon in Human Resources, who said he’d already heard and told her that the powers-that-be had already arranged for her to get a five-thousand-dollar bonus, and then to Chris, who heartily congratulated her.

After Dior finished her calls she turned on her computer to do some shopping. She hadn’t been at her new job a month and already she landed a prestigious account. I owe myself a new purse for this one. She gasped when she saw that Gucci had a new clutch bag priced at $980 with matching sunglasses for an additional $550.

She felt only the slightest pang of guilt as she ordered two of each. True, she did need to pay off the coming American Express bill, but after all, a bonus was supposed to be spent on luxuries, not necessities. At least that was her philosophy.

She felt a stronger pang of guilt when she logged on to MySpace and saw that there were eight messages from Mr. Good Black Man 2008. She’d been almost totally ignoring him for the past week because of the time she’d been spending with Chris.

But that’s life, she thought as she deleted the messages without reading them. And Chris is real life. And real good.

“Are you ready?” Larissa interrupted Dior’s leisure.

Dior looked up a bit startled and asked, “What time is it?”

“Four thirty.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late. Let me just shut down my computer.”

“Okay. Just meet us in the lobby,” Larissa said, leaving Dior’s cubicle.

Dior logged off MySpace and shut down her computer. She gathered her belongings and went into the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup. She made sure she looked as cute as she did when she first left her house that morning. From what she read, there were going to be lots of prospective companions at the lounge she was on her way to.

Dior, Barbara, Larissa, and three other ladies from the agency took the elevator to the parking garage. Half of the group, which included Dior, got into Barbara’s Mercedes S550 and the other half drove in Larissa’s Infiniti M45. Larissa followed Barbara to Chill Lounge in Midtown. They valet-parked and went inside the lively after-work spot. The music was a mix between hip-hop and R&B and pop. The atmosphere was laid-back but sophisticated. Couches for seating and lit candles and fireplaces gave the place a warm, cozy feel. The attendees were businessmen and-women, still in their work clothes, munching on hors d’oeuvres and sipping fine wines. Dior followed her party to a private room with a large rounded booth just for their group.

“This is a nice place, Barbara,” Dior complimented her boss’s taste. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Don’t mention it,” Barbara replied, opening the menu. “This is where all the professionals meet. You can enjoy happy hour, network, and even close deals here.”

“It beats the golf course, that’s for sure,” Larissa butted in.

The ladies chuckled, all except one, Candace, who sat sullenly silent.

“So,” Candace said after they ordered their drinks, “what’s it like in Canada?”

“Well, Montreal is like any regular city.”

“Oh yeah? Well, did you ever run into any celebrities in the streets in Montreal like you did here in New York?” she asked.

Dior wasn’t sure where Candace was taking their conversation, but she went along. “No, not at all.”

“So I guess seeing someone famous overly excites you, or is this how you land all your clients?” Candace sneered, as she pulled a weekly tabloid magazine out of her pocketbook and threw it on the table.

Dior’s mouth dropped open when she looked at the picture staring at her. There she was in front of Pacino’s restaurant with her breasts cupped in his hands while he kneaded her nipples. Beneath the picture was the caption PACINO GETS A HANDFUL AT HIS RESTAURANT’S GRAND OPENING IN JANUARY.

“Oh my God, this is so fake!” Dior protested. The gasp that escaped from the other women at the table caused her to furiously blush.

“So you weren’t at the grand opening?” Candace began interrogating.

“Yeah, I was there, but—”

“But you didn’t lift your shirt?”

“I lifted my shirt, but—”

“But what?”

Dior looked around the table and the women were all looking at her waiting for her response. “I was just getting an autograph. I love Al Pacino and I never saw him up close before and, well, I didn’t have anything for him to sign so I, you know…”

“So you had him autograph your breasts?” Barbara asked in an incredulous voice.

“No! Not my breasts, just my chest. My breasts were covered. It wasn’t like I flashed him. For God’s sake, I was wearing a bra!”

Candace picked up the article and laughed. “Not in this photo you’re not. If you ask me, it was more than an idea that made them give you the account.”

“Well, who’s asking you?” Dior grew furious. “First of all, I didn’t even know that Al Pacino’s restaurant would be my first account! Second, I am very professional! I get clients based on my ideas, my presentation, and overall my results! I have a proven track record! That’s why I was hired here in the first place! And third, that photo was doctored. I never showed him my breasts!”

Embarrassed and angry, Dior excused herself from the table. But before she could walk away, Barbara placed her hand on her arm and told her to sit back down.

Dior did so, while grimacing at Candace.

Then Barbara said, “You have a point, Dior. The opening was before I told you about the possibility of our getting that account, so there’s no way you could have done that to land it. And”—she coolly picked up her apple martini and took a sip—“to tell you the truth, when I first moved here twenty years ago I was a huge Bruce Willis fan. I’m not going to tell you what piece of my anatomy I had him sign.”

All of the women at the table, except Candace, exchanged stares, then burst out into laughter.

“Of course I was a college sophomore at the time, and you’re supposed to be a professional woman, but we all have our little misjudgments in behavior,” Barbara said, glancing over at Candace, who was now beet red. “So, how about we just get rid of this?” She picked the article up off the table and began to crumble it.

Dior stopped her and asked, “Can I have it?”

“For what?” Barbara quizzed.

Dior blushed and shyly responded, “For a keepsake.”

Barbara laughed and Dior and the other ladies followed, except, of course, Candace.

Barbara gave Dior the article and Dior thanked her. She then folded the paper neatly and placed it in her pocketbook. She felt relief as she picked up her menu and continued on with her evening. Deep inside, she was glowing. She hadn’t been living in New York for but a second, and already she was being harassed by a hater and a tabloid. She felt like a star. Now all I need is a teacup yorkie, she thought.

“Hey, Dior, did Barbara tell you your campaign is starting in a couple of days?” Larissa appeared at Dior’s cubicle a few weeks later, cheerful as usual even on a Monday morning.

Dior lifted her eyes off her computer screen and landed them on Larissa. “Yeah, I know,” she said. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“Well, the account execs have a list of the time slots. I’ll grab you one when I go down there later.”

“That’ll be great. Thanks, Larissa,” Dior said, returning her eyes to the numerous unread messages in her MySpace inbox.

Dior read and replied to several of the messages that were pretty general from people she didn’t know. Then she came across four messages from Mr. Good Black Man and she kind of froze up. He was asking how she had been and he wanted to make sure she was all right since he hadn’t heard from her in a while. She looked at the date of the last message. It was more than a week ago. He must have finally given up on her.

She wanted to reply to him, but she had grown such feelings for Chris that she didn’t feel that it was necessary to continue going back and forth with Mr. Good Black Man. Plus, realistically, Chris was her better bet. He did exist and every quality was proven, whereas Mr. Good Black Man was still a mystery, nothing more than a person who could type. On the other hand, Mr. Good Black Man had piqued Dior’s curiosity. She did get to know and like him and if she didn’t go further with him, she knew she would always wonder if he really did look like Blair Underwood.

As she was contemplating what to write back to Mr. Good Black Man, her cell phone vibrated on her desk. She took her hands off the computer keyboard and picked up her phone. Mandingo appeared in her caller ID. She pressed the Talk button instantly to avoid missing the call from Chris.

“Hey,” she said, using her soft I’m at work tone.

“What’s up? Are you busy?” Chris asked, considerate of her time as usual.

“No. Just sitting here on the computer at work.”

“Oh, is that what your eight hours is used for?” Chris joked.

Dior checked him. “Actually, I am on lunch. I just decided to stay in today. It’s so cold outside.”

“Yeah, I know,” Chris agreed before getting to the point of his call. “Listen, I was wondering. I mean, this is probably short notice, and I should have asked you before, but I was wondering if you’d like to go out Thursday…” He paused. “For Valentine’s Day.”

Dior leaned forward, placing her elbows on her desk. She smiled and said, “I have to check my calendar, but I can tell you right now, it’s looking like a yes.”

“Well, I hope so. I have somewhere I want to take you. So check your calendar and call me with the results. In the meantime, I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed,” Chris said.

“Who are you talking to?” a deep voice sounded in the background of Chris’s phone.

“Hold on,” Chris told Dior. “Matter fact, let me call you back.”

Dior was slightly confused, but she didn’t think much of Chris’s sudden need to hang up with her until seconds after ending their call, he called her right back. She pressed TALK and put her ear to the phone anticipating Chris’s explanation. But instead, she heard the male’s voice again.

“I heard you, Chris!” he said. “You sounded like you were damn near having phone sex!”

“Cut it out,” Chris’s voice returned. “I was talkin’ to a customer!”

“A customer? So do you ask all your customers to spend Valentine’s Day with you? Is that some kind of special you’re giving out?”

There was a brief silence.

Then the male’s voice said, “Uh-huh! See, Chris, I caught ya ass this time! I was standin’ right outside that door! You really did it with this one! You hear me?”

Chris finally broke his silence. “Baby, it wasn’t like that at all. I’m tellin’ you. You caught the conversation wrong.”

Dior’s mouth dropped open as she realized what was going on at the other end of her phone. She felt like she had to throw up. She ended the call and hurried to the bathroom. Inside a stall, she sat down on a toilet seat and held her hands over her face. She was trying to gather her thoughts and calm her stomach. She was disgusted. Thank God she hadn’t violated her golden rule of never doing it without a condom. But even still. She stood up quickly and leaned over the toilet, retching until it felt like the lining of her stomach was going to make an appearance in the commode.

After a while, she left the stall and went up to the sink to rinse out her mouth and wash her hands. She looked at herself in the mirror, and the feeling of her having to throw up returned. She leaned over the sink waiting for something to come out, but nothing happened. She patted her face with warm water and wiped it afterward with a paper towel. She finally got herself together and went back to her desk.

She picked up her phone to call Chris and curse him out and she noticed she had a missed call from him. She opted to check her voice mail first before calling him back.

“Dior, I’m sorry about that. My roommate and his friend were arguing. Call me back when you can. Bye.”

Dior pressed 9 to save the message, then hung up and dialed Chris. Who did he think he was fooling?

“Chris, hi, it’s Dior.”

“Yeah, my bad about that,” Chris started off.

“Chris, there’s no need to drag this on,” Dior said. “You called me back by accident and I heard your whole conversation and I know it was you arguing and not your roommate and his friend.”

Chris didn’t say anything so Dior took it upon herself to go on.

She rested her head in her palm and said, “I should have known you were gay.”

“No, no. See, you’re wrong! I’m not gay!” Chris all but shouted.

“Yeah? Well, is it called something else in New York?”

There was a long pause before Chris finally said, “Dior, I am bisexual. But—”

“There are no buts, Chris,” Dior said.

“Listen,” Chris pleaded, “I know I should have told you up front, but it wasn’t like I was planning on messing with you while I was messing with a man. I’m very considerate when it comes to that. If I’m dating a woman, then I’m straight and monogamous at that time. And when I’m dating a man, I’m gay, but still monogamous at that time.”

“Even if that was acceptable, and it’s not, but even it was, I don’t trust that it’s the truth,” Dior said.

“I’m telling you—” Chris started to beg.

“What you’re telling me and what I heard are two different things and I prefer to go with what I heard. Good-bye, Chris.”

Dior hung up her phone and put it on her desk. She rested her head beside it. She couldn’t believe how wrong she was about Chris. She had misread men before, plenty of times actually, but good grief, this topped them all. She was hurt, but more confused. A million questions twirled in her head and she didn’t have an answer for one of them.

She felt so shitty she actually wanted to call out sick the next day, but she managed to drag herself into the office two hours late. But try as she might she couldn’t concentrate on her work. Everybody who walked by her desk asked her what was wrong, even Candace. She told them that she was just a little tired, but that was it. She wasn’t one to tell her business, especially to coworkers. It would be all over the office if she did. She shuffled papers around for about an hour or so, then gave up on even trying to put on a pretense.

She logged on to the Internet and immediately went to MySpace to see if there were any new messages from Mr. Good Black Man 2008. She was so disgusted and disappointed with Chris that she needed somebody to talk to immediately.

Hey, she started her message, I’ve been a little busy with work. My campaign is being run and a lot of finishing touches had to take place in the past few days. Anyhow, I’m freed up again so you have my undivided attention. What’s been up?

She waited anxiously for Mr. Good Black Man to reply, but he wasn’t online so she didn’t expect it to be soon. Dior was restless, looking for things to do to take her mind off Chris. She walked to the front lobby to see if Larissa had gone and got the time slots that indicated when her commercials would run. It turned out that Larissa was at lunch. She started walking back to her desk, deciding to hell with it, she’d just go home after all.

“Okay. What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m fine, just a little tired.” Dior stuck to her story.

Gordon crossed his arms and gave Dior a full up-and-down look before continuing in a more gentle tone.

“Tired of what?” he asked. “What did he do? You can tell me, I won’t say anything.”

Dior was suspicious of Gordon’s persistence, but for some reason she felt comfortable talking to Gordon more so than any of her female counterparts. Plus Gordon was gay and maybe he would have some advice for her pertaining to Chris.

“You have to swear to me you won’t say anything to anybody,” Dior said.

Gordon touched his forehead, his chest, his left shoulder, then his right shoulder, making a cross with his finger. Dior trusted in his gesture and gave him the spill. His lips were tight and his eyes were intense as he hung on to Dior’s every word. When Dior finally got to the punch line, Gordon fell back into his chair and put his hand over his mouth as if he had heard the most shocking story in his life.

“Girl, no!” he gasped.

“I am in shock, Gordon,” Dior said, shaking her head despondently. “I was really feeling something for him. I didn’t see that one coming at all.”

Gordon sat back up and leaned forward on his desk. “Well, let’s take it back some. You said when he first came to your house to deliver the furniture, he looked real nice?”

“Yeah, you know, put together nicely.”

“Okay, I can understand him being all dolled up when y’all went on your date. But coming to deliver sofas and stuff, I don’t see a man getting shitty sharp for that. So that there, Ms. Dior, should have told you one of two things about Mr. Chris—either he was a playboy whose sole purpose of being a delivery boy was to entice his lady customers and see how many of them he could end up in bed with, or he was gay.”

Dior smirked at Gordon’s snap analysis, but then shrugged. Hell, who was she to disagree with him? She was the one who had just been played for the fool. “You might be right.”

“Damn right, I’m right.”

Dior sighed. “I wish I had this talk with you much sooner.”

Gordon grinned. “Well, you got me now, so put me to use. What else you need to know, girlfriend?”

Dior chuckled and then she had an idea. “Well, I do have one other prospect. I should let you read his profile and see if there are any warning signs I should look out for.”

“Profile? You met him on one of them online thingees?”

Dior nodded her head reluctantly. “On MySpace.”

“Girl, please. Don’t be embarrassed about that. I’ve met many men on MySpace who checked out. I love it!”

Dior grew excited. “Really? Well, let me pull up my page real quick and read these messages of his that I saved. Tell me what you think and tell me what I should write back.”

Gordon walked behind Dior’s chair while she logged on to her MySpace page on her computer. The two of them read all of the messages between Dior and Mr. Good Black Man from the first to the last.

“Um, um, um, he sounds spicy!” Gordon said.

“Does that mean gay?” Dior worried.

“No! Oh, God no. I would have said tangy if I meant that. He’s straight—definitely straight. Now, everything else, like how white his teeth are and the size of his penis, those are all up for grabs, you know what I mean. But it’s worth a chat and chew,” Gordon instructed.

“So you think I should pursue him?” Dior asked.

“Uh-huh. If you don’t, I will,” Gordon teased.

Dior gave Gordon the look. “You know that’s a sensitive subject.”

“I’m just playing.” Gordon laughed. “Okay, back to business,” he said, getting serious again. “When he writes you back, no matter what he says, you reply by asking him out tomorrow for Valentine’s Day. Now, don’t say Valentine’s Day in the message. Just say Thursday. You don’t wanna sound too mushy asking him to be your Valentine. Plus, this will be a clear sign of whether or not he’s taken. Because if he says I have something to do and asks to make it for another day, then the truth of the matter is, he is spending V-day with his primary. And I’m not talkin’ ’bout a doctor. You keepin’ up?” he asked, looking up at Dior.

Dior nodded her head.

“Now, if he accepts the date for Thursday, then you propose to meet him at MoBay—”

“You know about MoBay?” Dior cut in. “That’s one of his favorite clubs.”

“I know, I just read all his info, remember?” Gordon began writing something on a Post-it note. “It’s a nice little spot in Harlem and they have jazz musicians play there on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. But you don’t want to go on Friday or Saturday, why?” He turned to Dior.

“Because I specifically want to spend Valentine’s Day with him.”

“Because why?” Gordon further tested.

“Because that’ll tell me that he’s single.”

“Right! Ooh, Ms. Dior, you learn so quickly. I can do this with you all the time.”

Dior hugged him enthusiastically. “You know, you’re my first real friend here in New York. And I’ve been here over a month.”

“Really? You haven’t made any girlfriends yet?” Gordon asked in surprise.

Dior shook her head. “I’ve got three women my age who live in my building, but they all seem very busy and maybe not too friendly.”

Gordon waved his hand. “Well, child, don’t even worry about it. Every girl needs a male gay friend and now you got one. Now go ahead and handle your business.”

Dior grinned and took the neon-pink Post-it note that Gordon had given her. She glanced over it and saw that it had the name and address of MoBay on it. It also had Good Luck written on it with a smiley face beside it.

Gordon gave Dior a hug and headed back to his office. “Don’t let one monkey stop ya show, girl!”

Dior glanced down when her cell started vibrating. When she saw it was Chris’s number she turned the phone off without hesitation.

After that, she went on Gucci.com. She knew she had work to do and she had every intention on getting to it, but first she had to clear her head. And even though Gordon’s talk did her some good, a new Gucci pocketbook would top it off. That would make her forget all about Chris. And in order for her to get back into her work, that was exactly what she needed. Besides, if everything went according to Gordon’s plan, she would have a hot date the next day for which she would need something new to wear, and every woman knew that the pocketbook was the staple to any wardrobe. So let’s start there, she thought.

After work Dior went inside a quaint boutique that had caught her attention a few weeks before. There were two women in there, one behind the counter and the other greeted her at the door.

“Hello, welcome to Chell-C’s. If you need help with anything please let me know,” the medium-height, skinny, pale woman said.

“I’d like to see that dress in the window,” Dior told the woman.

“Oh, let me get it for you. Would you like to try it on?”

“What size is it?”

“It’s a zero,” the woman responded.

“Yes, please.”

The woman took the dress off the mannequin and carried it to the dressing room in the back of the store. She neatly laid it across the plush lounge chair inside the dressing room and held the curtain up allowing Dior inside.

“Let me know if you need help putting it on,” the woman said as she exited the dressing room.

Dior stripped down to her stockings, panties, and bra. She slowly stepped into the knee-length long-sleeved dress that seemed to sit perfectly on every inch of her body. The fabric felt good against Dior’s skin and the deep floral print looked rich and made a statement. The dress was surely a one-of-a-kind. It was just right for Valentine’s Day at MoBay, sexy and bold, yet classy and sophisticated. Dior looked at herself in the mirror, turning to see her back and each side to make sure the dress looked good from every angle. Then she looked at the tag to see just how much it would set her back. Five hundred and fifty dollars, she read. Then her thinking cap went on as she rationalized spending that kind of money on a dress when she had a world of other priorities.

This is the dress that I could be meeting my future husband in. It has to be something that stands out from the rest and it has to say all the right words. Now, I could easily go to Bebe or BCBG and get a cute dress for half the money, but I’d be risking walking into MoBay dressed like somebody else or two other people for that matter. Everybody shops at those stores. This is a first impression and it must be a lasting one, Dior thought.

She gave herself one last look and one last justification before she decided to take the dress. Before paying for it, though, she asked what the store’s return policy was. She wanted to make sure she could get a refund if Mr. Good Black Man didn’t accept her invitation. Everything worked in her favor and she paid for the dress with her American Express card and left the store. I’ll pay the bill off as soon as it comes in, she thought as she took a deep breath. Outside the boutique, she raised her new dress slightly in the air, in part because it was her only means of getting the attention of a cab driver, but more so as a salute to her efforts. Here’s to giving love one more chance, she thought as she stepped up to a taxi and got inside.

Dior couldn’t wait to get home to see if Mr. Good Black Man would say yes to meeting her in person at MoBay. And it wasn’t really about going on a date, either. She was more eager to read through his response. It became about the challenge at that point. She wanted to see if he would fall through or if he really was what he cracked himself up to be. Lord knew she didn’t need any more impersonators. She wanted the real deal, and if a man was not that he need not apply. Her time was too valuable for pretenders.

“Mr. Good Black Man said yes,” Dior boasted.

“Goodie!” Gordon cheered, clapping his hands. “So that’s one worry down.”

“Yeah, one down and one hundred to go,” Dior replied.

Gordon flagged Dior playfully and jumped right into the interrogation. “Are you excited? What are you going to wear? What time did you tell him to be there? You are going to arrive later than him, aren’t you? You’re not going straight from work, are you?”

“Yes. A really cute dress. Seven. I don’t know. And no, to answer all your questions.”

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Gordon said, holding up a finger. “Yes, you are excited. Okay, good. You’re wearing a really cute dress, not so good.”

“Why not? You think I should wear jeans?”

“No, a dress is appropriate. But when you say really cute dress, it makes me think of a fifth-grade graduation dress, you know, something your grandmother makes for you,” he explained, frowning.

“Oh no, not at all. When we Canadians say really cute we mean like…”

“Hot?”

“Yeah! Hot! It’s a hot dress!”

“Okay, okay, now we’re talking. And you want him to be there at seven, but you’re not sure if you should arrive before or after him?”

“I don’t know,” Dior said, leaning against Gordon’s desk.

“I would say get there early. Not too early, just like five, ten minutes before him. This way you get to play what I call sneak peeks. Once I had a blind date and we were to meet at this club. And this is a club that’s known for fine men, so I was like if this guy turns out to be a monster, then I need to be able to diss him and get with somebody else in the club. The only way I figured I could do that was by showing up early and scoping out the guy first. See, we had planned to each bring a white rose so we could point out each other. Well, I hid my white rose in my man bag. I was sitting at the bar looking at everybody walk through the door. Finally he came in with that white rose and I almost fainted. Girl, he looked like King Kong and Shaba’s gay son.”

Dior laughed.

“You know who Shaba Ranks is, right?”

“Yeah. I’m from Canada, not Mars, Gordon.”

“I’m just checkin’,” Gordon said. “But anyway, that white rose stayed in my bag the whole time while I danced the night away with some other guy.”

Dior and Gordon talked some more, Gordon giving Dior tips on what she should and should not do on her date. At the end of their lunch break, Dior retreated to her office and finally used her time to do some work.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Dior,” Larissa said, placing a wrapped gift on Dior’s desk.

“Thank you, Larissa,” Dior said, picking it up. Dior handed Larissa a box of candy hearts and wished her a happy Valentine’s Day also.

“It’s an office survival kit,” Larissa volunteered, smiling.

“Aw, this is so cute,” Dior said. “You would be the one to find a gift like this.”

“I got Barbara a coffee mug that says ‘Boss’s Coffee, I am the Boss. Come and talk to me before you decide to piss in my coffee,’” Larissa excitedly told Dior.

Dior chuckled. “That’s cute. Where do you find stuff like that? All I got her was a bottle of vintage wine.”

“Well, she likes wine.”

Dior shrugged her shoulders. “Next year I’ll be more creative.”

“Well, I’m not going to keep you. I see you’re pretty busy,” Larissa said as she gestured at all the papers scattered across Dior’s desk.

“Well, thanks again, Larissa.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you,” Larissa said, leaving Dior’s cubicle.

Dior took a brief break to look through her gift from Larissa. She laughed at the comments that each candy referred to, particularly at the peppermint that read you pretend to work, we’ll pretend to pay you. “Imagine that,” she mumbled as she thought back on all the on-the-clock hours she spent surfing the Web. She put the candy back down and looked at her watch. It was ten thirty—six more hours before she would be able to go home, and two and a half hours after that she would be seeing Mr. Good Black Man for the first time. She couldn’t wait. The day couldn’t move fast enough.

Dior worked constantly throughout the day, trying to make the time fly. She didn’t get online once, unless it was for research, and she only took a twenty-minute lunch. When four thirty rolled around, she was already on the elevator when normally she would just be shutting down her computer.

Outside was pleasant, although brisk. But the winds were calm and there was no precipitation or signs of any, so for winter weather in New York that was considered pleasant. First, Dior walked a couple of blocks to the bank so that she could get some money from the ATM. She wanted to have cash on hand to pay her drivers throughout the evening and in case for some odd reason she would have to buy her own drinks.

On the subway ride home she leaned her head against the seat and drifted off; organizing what she would do when she got home in her mind. She would run herself a bath and while waiting for the tub to fill she would lay her dress out across her bed. She would get the nude bra and panty set she had bought specifically for the dress out of the Victoria’s Secret bag and take the tags off. Then she would take her Donna Karan nude stockings out of the pack and lay them across the dress. She would wrap her hair up neatly and get in the tub. She would put on her Michael lotion by Michael Kors and the matching perfume. She then would put on her undergarments, do her makeup, and let her hair down. Last, she would slip into her dress and put on her pumps. She would check herself out in the mirror. Then she would transfer all her important items such as her license, lip gloss, cell phone, money, and condoms into her new Gucci purse. Once all that was complete, she would put on her mink and walk outside to hail a taxi.

Everything went according to plan when Dior got home. She was dressed to kill and ready to meet the man behind the MySpace messages. Her purse in one hand and a single white rose in the other, she got into a cab she hastily hailed at the corner. As soon as she sat down on the seat and gave him the address for MoBay, the driver turned around so fast you would have thought he had whiplash.

“Oh no. Not you!” he said with a scowl.

Dior looked startled as she tried to figure out why the driver was mad at her.

“You’re the one who tried to run without paying me,” he reminded her.

She put her hand on her forehead in frustration. “Oh God, it’s you. Listen, I’m so sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean any harm,” she said.

“Sorry doesn’t pay the cab fare,” the driver snapped. “You want me to drive you to MoBay on 125th Street? That will be six dollars.”

Dior nodded. “That’s fine.”

The driver glared at her in the rearview mirror. “Show me the money.”

“What?”

“Show me the money,” he repeated stubbornly.

Dior was ready to say to hell with the driver and try to hail another cab, but it was getting close to seven o’clock and she didn’t want to be late. And the fact remained that if the driver was acting shitty he had every right to do so. After all, she did try to stiff him for the fare. She blushed at the memory.

She opened her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

“See!” she said, showing it to the driver.

“Good. Now pay in advance.”

“You’re kidding!”

The driver shook his head. “How do I know you’re not going to stick that money back in your pocketbook and then jump out without paying me?”

Dior sighed and handed him the twenty. “You can keep the change,” she said wearily.

The driver looked at her queerly. “You sure? You gave me a twenty, you know. I said the fare would be six dollars.”

“I know. This is just my way of saying I’m really sorry about what happened last month. And believe me, I’ve never even done anything like that before. Please, forgive me. But can you start driving now? I’m going to be late.”

“Sure, and thanks.” He put the cab in gear and prepared to pull off but all of a sudden stopped.

“Now what’s wrong?”

“This money isn’t counterfeit, is it?” he asked suspiciously.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Dior reached for the car door.

“Calm down, calm down. I was just kidding,” he said as he started down the street. “So, you have a hot date for Valentine’s Day? You look real nice. I noticed that when you got in the cab.”

I know this man isn’t trying to push up on me. Dior grimaced and rolled her eyes, then noticed the driver looking at her in the rearview mirror again.

“Listen,” he said in an annoyed voice, “I was just trying to be nice. You don’t need to make a face like I’m trying to pick you up. You’re nothing but a fare to me. And shoot. I don’t even like women. I’m gay.”

Dior blinked her eyes in surprise, then burst out in laughter.

“What’s so funny? You have something against gay men?” the driver asked with a growl in his voice.

“No, no,” Dior hurriedly assured him. “Listen, you’re not going to believe this, but…”

As they drove down Malcolm X Boulevard, Dior spilled her guts about her tragic encounter with Chris, the encouragement she’d been given by Gordon, and her plan to meet a blind date that evening.

By the time he pulled up next to MoBay they were chatting like old buddies.

“Can you move up just a little so you’re not right in front of the club? I’m following Gordon’s advice and scoping him out before I find myself jumping from the fire into the frying pan. Don’t worry. I’ll pay you extra.”

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, now that I’ve heard your story I almost feel obligated to wait for you.” He turned in the driver’s seat to face her. “No offense, but you don’t seem to have any kind of Gay-dar going for you. I want to stick around and make sure you get a straight guy this time.”

Dior giggled. “I can’t even get mad. Thanks.”

Patrons went in and out of the chic lounge, but none carrying the white rose Dior and Mr. Good Black Man agreed to bring with them. Butterflies started to dance in Dior’s stomach as she embraced the idea that she might have gotten stood up. She opened her purse and took out her mirror to touch up her makeup, and in that moment Mr. Good Black Man jumped out of a cab in front of MoBay and headed for the door.

“There he goes!” the driver said. “That guy has a white rose.”

Dior sat up in her seat and peered out the windshield. The only visual she and the driver could get of Mr. Good Black Man was his profile. But when he reached out and put his hand on the door to open it, he turned around and the two of them got a good look at his face.

“Oh no! It can’t be!” Dior groaned and fell back onto the seat.

“Isn’t that the guy who took care of your tab that day?” the driver said, oblivious of her reaction. “Naw, he ain’t gay. But no offense, because he was nice to you and all, but he seemed like he had the making of a real jerk if you ask me.”

Dior was sick to her stomach. Mr. Good Black Man was pesky Jerome from her block. She was too through, wanting to go back home and cry herself to sleep. How could she have been so stupid? she thought. She should have seen through his “I don’t post my picture because I’m not superficial” routine. A Blair Underwood look-alike? Jerome was butt ugly, no matter what he was wearing, and he didn’t even bother to dress up for the blind date. He was actually walking into the club wearing that same old dingy army jacket. And a business owner who owned real estate? Jerome didn’t even have a job and he lived with his mother! She should have known better than to go out on a blind date with a guy she met on the Internet. She got just what she deserved.

“So, what are you waiting for?” the driver asked, interrupting Dior’s pissed-off thoughts.

Dior shook her head in disgust. Here she was all dolled up to meet the man of her dreams and the whole night was a bust. The thought of going back home and spending the night alone in her apartment contemplating her series of bad decisions brought tears to her eyes. No, she decided as she tried to blink back her tears. I’m out, and I’m going to make the best of it. She wasn’t going to go home and waste her stunning and costly outfit. Besides, she could use a drink, so she decided that she wouldn’t abandon an evening at MoBay. Instead, she paid the driver and right before she stepped out of the cab, she handed him the white rose. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Huh? What’s this for?”

“You don’t really think I’m going to waste a perfectly good rose on that fool, do you?” she said with a smile. “And I’m certainly not going to let one monkey stop my show. I’m going to go in and have a good time by myself.”

The driver grinned. “Good girl. But you don’t think he’ll recognize you?”

Dior shook her head. “We never exchanged pictures, and I never even gave him a description of myself. He’ll recognize me from the block, but I don’t think he’ll have the nerve to come over and say anything to me.” She smiled when she remembered what Margie had told her about him not bothering people once they stood up to him.

She walked inside MoBay and took a seat at the bar. “What would you suggest I have?” she asked the bartender when he came to take her drink order.

“Harlem mojitos are the house specialty. Can’t go wrong with that,” the man answered politely.

“Hey, that’s what I’m having. You’ll love it.”

Dior turned and faced Jerome, who had come up behind her. The man seemed stunned. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Dior said with a sneer.

“Forget you. I’m here meeting my girlfriend,” Jerome said angrily.

Dior snorted. “Judging by the way you look I can just imagine what she looks like.”

“I’ll have you know she’s a professional woman with a job. And she looks better than you,” Jerome retorted.

Dior snorted and turned back to the bartender, who was putting her drink on the bar. “Who’s that playing?” she asked him, pointing to a light-skinned man with long dreads blowing the sweetest sounds from his tenor sax.

“Julian Meyers. He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”

Dior nodded, then noticed a couple getting up from their table. She hurriedly paid the bartender, grabbed her drink, and rushed over before someone else could claim the spot. Her mood still lousy, she placed her jacket over the back of the vacant chair at the table to make it look as if she had a companion who had perhaps gone to the restroom.

Thirty minutes and two Harlem mojitos later, Dior’s mood finally began to mellow. She started swaying her shoulders to the soulful jazz and looked around the bar. This place really is nice, she thought. I really am glad I stayed. She looked over at the bar, then did a double take. Was that the girl who lived above her squeezed in at the bar? What was her name again? Tamara?

Things are looking up, after all, Dior thought happily. Who needs a man? Sometimes sisterhood is all it takes.