Читать книгу Falling Into Grace - Michelle Stimpson - Страница 12

CHAPTER 6

No makeup. No brush. No jewelry. Camille’s crusty lips threatened to pass along whatever “virus” she’d contracted. When she got to work, her first objective was to saunter by Sheryl’s door with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Kleenex in hand.

“Hey, Sheryl,” she eeked.

“Oh my goodness, you look awful,” Sheryl cried. “I mean, in a sick person kind of way.”

“I know, I know.” Camille sniffed, careful to guard her expression after the near insult. “I just didn’t want to let the team down.”

Sheryl shook her head. “No. If the office catches what you’ve got, we’ll all be down. Take a vacation day. Go home.”

The Academy Award nominee put a hand on her forehead. “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Okay. If you insist.”

Slowly, Camille shuffled down the hallway a few steps. Then she stopped, just like she’d planned, and made a U-turn back to Sheryl’s office. “Sheryl, I almost forgot. Can I get my check?”

“Well, you know we’re not supposed to give them out before eleven. But in this case, I’ll make an exception.” Sheryl turned the tiny key and opened the door to the upper-right drawer containing the precious paychecks. “Here you go.”

Almost too quickly, Camille grabbed the check. She reduced her speed by a notch as she placed the envelope in her purse.

“How’s Fluffy?”

Fluffy? “Who?”

“Your cat.”

My cat? My cat! “Oh, she’s fine. Dialysis makes her weak, you know.”

“How long have you had her?”

Camille shook her head. “Not long. Not long at all.”

“Let me know if you need any help with her,” Sheryl volunteered. “I’ll be glad to cat-sit if you need to get out over the weekend.”

Sheryl was taking this too far. “We’ll be fine, thank you.”

First, she stopped at the check-cashing venue nearest her job. A seedy operation at best. If she ever paid back the money she owed JPMorgan Chase for insufficient fund fees, she wouldn’t have to fork over seven dollars every time she got paid. Money orders took up another four bucks. That extra thirty-something dollars a month could have paid for her cell phone. Ridiculous how much she had to pay to participate in the good ole American way. Not to mention the fact that her credit was shot after a defaulted student loan a few years earlier.

Maybe if she’d been a car manufacturer, someone might bail her out?

“One, two, three hundred. Twelve, and seventy-five,” the cashier counted the money behind reinforced glass.

Camille scooped the cash from the silver dish between them. “I need three money orders.” She’d already figured out whose turn it was to get paid this month. Electricity and cell phone. The others would have to wait until their envelopes turned pink.

Sporting a stone-cold face, Camille finished her business at the window while the line behind her grew. She kept every patron in her peripheral vision. Though Camille had spent several years riding high, she had come of age in the Singing Oaks community of Dallas. Not the roughest neighborhood in the city, but by the same token, not the kind of area to leave your car door unlocked. She knew better than to give the impression she was preoccupied, creating the perfect opportunity for someone to catch her slipping.

The cashier placed the notes in the tray. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

The woman looked past Camille. “Next in line, please.”

Money orders printed, Camille stuffed everything deep inside her purse, pulled her strap onto her shoulder, and clamped her arm down on the bag. She marched back to her car and sped out of the parking lot, wise enough to realize it’s not a good idea to hang around strangers when they know you’ve got hundreds of dollars in cash on you—poor neighborhood or not.

Next stop, the post office. Camille mailed her payments to respective creditors. Not exactly on time, but well within the thirty-day window before being reported to credit bureaus.

Final stop, the beauty-supply house for a front lace wig that screamed superstar. She bought her stocking cap and, with an assistant’s help, selected an eighteen-inch bone-straight honey blond style that took at least five years off her face.

“Very pretty. I like long for you,” the woman, whose own black hair touched her behind, remarked.

“I’ll take this one.”

Camille returned to her apartment to engage in the most important makeover of her life. Starting with her hair, ending at her feet, she curled and painted, filed and blended until the woman standing in front of the full-length mirror looked almost as good as the girl sitting next to Beyoncé online. Except Camille weighed more. And she was older; one could always tell by the eyes. Still, she looked way better than that Susan lady. Sounded better, too. She had this.

John David’s office boasted more credits than Camille had been able to dig up on the Web. Replicas of gold albums lined the walls, and pictures of John David with some of top leaders in music gave him credibility that might have excluded him from her list if she’d known better. He was more like an A-minus agent. Sitting in the waiting area, Camille suddenly felt lucky to have landed an appointment with him.

“Miss Robertson, John David will see you now,” his assistant, a Hollywood-thin woman with long, old-Cher-like hair, rose to escort Camille through the uptown suite. Even more accolades covered the corridor leading to John David’s office.

The secretary rapped on the door, opening the way for Camille to lay her eyes on the man who could change her life forever. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, surveying Camille’s overall appearance.

She did the same, taking note of the cowlicks and a long, sloping nose that hinted at Jewish heritage. Slick brown hair and an ample midsection gave him that used-car-salesman feel. Under any other circumstances, Camille might have steered clear of his type, but he was exactly what she needed now because, as far as the music world went, she was a used car.

“Timber, this is Camille. She’s the one who lied to you.”

Camille’s mouth dropped.

Timber tilted her head to one side, her eyes scraping up and down Camille. “Humph. Nice move.”

“Sorry about that,” was all Camille could say.

Timber left without accepting the apology.

Camille returned her attention to John David, wondering why he’d ratted her out like that.

As if he’d read her mind, he said, “Wanted to clear the air. Timber doesn’t like being lied to.”

Timber better get over it. “I understand.”

John David motioned, and Camille sat in the guest’s chair. “Oh, here’s the material you asked for.” She gave him the CD and an envelope containing one of the photos she’d taken five years earlier when Bobby Junior said he could get her booked at a few nightclubs.

Sunlight poured in through opened blinds, which also afforded an enviable view of the city. To her left, a bookcase filled with white binders and books so thick they had to be stuffed with legalese and other reference guides. This all made sense, of course, because online research showed John David had once been an entertainment attorney.

To her right, shelves containing more photographs. Most interestingly, John David was married with a daughter.

John David’s desk itself was a work of art. Heavily lacquered wood, gold accents, the stuff old lawyers’ offices are made of.

Before Camille could properly savor the moment, John David started. “Let’s cut to the chase. I found some of your old videos on YouTube. Was your voice digitally enhanced?”

“No.”

“Great. You’ve got a strong, pure sound, and your face is attractive. You might want to do a little nipping and tucking, file down some rough edges. But overall, your look is hot.”

Alrighty, then.

John David detoured to his Apple laptop screen. His fingers danced across the keyboard, then he waited, presumably for a Web page to upload. “So, yesterday, after we talked, I started thinking. Brainstorming.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

Camille sat on the edge of her seat.

“You ever sung gospel?”

“Um, yeah, back when I was little. My mom was the church musician. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Perfect. That’s what we’ll do,” he stated.

“What’s what we’ll do?”

“Make you a contemporary gospel singer.”

Camille stuttered, “But . . . I mean, I can . . . it’s just not, you know, what I had in mind.”

He sat back again, put his hands on top of his head. “You heard of Heather Headley?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“Oleta Adams?”

“Yes. She’s awesome.”

“They were semihot names in R and B, but now they’re even bigger in gospel. They’ve managed to keep a career going by gaining a new audience. Trust me, if you don’t hit it big in music by twenty-five, you either give up on being a superstar or go back to the drawing board. Those are your only two choices.”

He had a point. Both of them were excellent, unique mainstream singers who had crossed over into Christian music. Still, gospel?

“Is there any way I can, you know, do some other type of music. Like light pop, or whatever Bonnie Raitt sings?”

“Camille, you’re no spring chicken. The only sector forgiving enough to take you back at this point is Christians. They’ll accept anybody at any age and any size, which, by the way, would pose a serious problem for you in the mainstream.”

“I can lose weight,” she stammered.

“I strongly suggest it, gospel or not,” he said matter-of-factly. He laid his eyes on Camille’s. “If you’re serious about getting back into this business, you’re going to have to do what you’ve gotta do. If you were a man, this would be a totally different conversation.”

Camille squinted. “So, men can do whatever they want at whatever age, huh?”

“Pretty much,” John David concurred. “Take Jonathan Butler. He does gospel and jazz. Kirk Franklin does gospel, but he’s very welcome in the secular crowd. Some might even say he’s better received there than in Christian music, just by looking at the charts.”

“This is so unfair.” Camille crossed her arms. “The arts are supposed to be universal. Transcend race, class, and gender.”

“This isn’t art, Camille, it’s business. It’s the way of the world. I didn’t make the rules, but I do understand them and I don’t break them unless I have to,” John David said. “In your case, we need to follow them to get your foot back in the door.

“Trust me, your best bet is gospel. It’s good music. Some even say it helps people. Maybe you can do R and B again later, I don’t know. But if you’re not willing to reinvent yourself as a gospel singer, I suggest you find yourself another agent.”

His words bore no hint of compromise. Camille squirmed in her chair. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. I haven’t been inside a church in, like, three years.”

“Then there’s your starting point. I suggest you join a church. A big one, and we’ve got plenty of ’em right here in Dallas. Become a member. Get yourself connected with the musicians. Get a demo with a choir or something behind you.”

John David handed Camille one of his business cards. “Come back when you’ve got all that in place, and I’ll get busy working on my end.”

Camille ran her thumb across the lettering on the card. She felt like her life was slipping away. This one last line had all but shriveled up and left her without a way back to her destiny.

“Have a good day,” John David shooed her out.

Camille blinked back tears as she let herself out of John David’s office. She breezed past Timber without a word. It probably would have been best to apologize again, but her pride couldn’t let the woman get a glimpse of the disappointment brewing in Camille’s chest.

The elevator ride down provided a chance to compose herself long enough to make it to the car, where Camille promptly burst into tears. This meeting had not gone the way she’d planned. John David was supposed to ask her to sing again, be blown away by her in-person sound, then whisk her over to someone’s studio to record a killer song that he would distribute to a major producer. That major producer would, in turn, sign her, next week, with a huge bonus that would allow her to kiss Aquapoint Systems and the entire Fossil Terrace apartment complex good-bye forever.

But no, no, no. John David would agree to represent her only as a stupid gospel singer, of all things. Not only did he want to make her a gospel singer, he wanted her to become a gospel singer before he’d actually do anything to promote her!

And the gospel game was certainly different than R&B. Half the attraction with a worldwide audience was sex appeal. Booty-shaking, hip-thrusting, cleavage-flashing dances sold just as many records and concert tickets as great vocals in her old world. Why couldn’t she just capitalize on her body—after she got it back in shape, of course?

There was also a teeny tiny part of her that didn’t like the idea of singing gospel just so that she could become a star again. This part, Camille knew, came from her mother’s influence (Bobby Junior would have told her to jump on the chance). But Jerdine Robertson would have told Camille point-blank not to play in the Lord’s house.

With a heavy foot on the pedal, Camille screeched out of the parking lot. She soon discovered that a bad attitude could be just as distracting as text messaging on the road. A fellow motorist honked at her when she stomped on her brake and made a quick right turn without signaling. She honked back. Yes, she was wrong, but she was not in the mood to be chastised by some guy driving a wood-paneled station wagon. He was wrong just for owning that thing.

Just so happened, a police officer witnessed Camille’s rash antics. His siren startled Camille initially. What did I do? All her tags were current. Insurance active. She slowed to a stop in a restaurant parking lot and waited for the officer to inform her of why he was stopping her, adding insult to injury on one of the worst days of her life.

She leaned forward for a wider angle in her sideview mirror and soon got an eyeful of tall, dark, chocolate in sunglasses and a uniform. Unfortunately, he was also sporting a metallic clipboard with a pen. And a wedding band.

Her driver’s window squeaked to the halfway point. “Hello, Officer. Is there something wrong?”

“You,” he barked, removing his shades. A dark brother with white teeth was a winning combination in Camille’s book. “You were weaving down Commerce, and you cut off another driver at the light. You could have caused an accident. Have you been drinking?”

Such ugly words from such a beautiful man. “No, Officer. I don’t drink.”

“Could you step out of the vehicle, please?”

She obeyed, taking this moment to offer a reasonable explanation. “Officer, I just got some bad news and lost track of where I was going for a second. I’m not under the influence of any illegal substance.”

Despite her justification, she was still subjected to a field sobriety test. She passed, of course, but the policeman still gave her a ticket for failure to maintain a lane of traffic. What kind of violation is this?

“Be more careful,” he scolded. “Cars are dangerous weapons, Miss Robertson. Don’t get behind the wheel if you’re psychologically impaired.”

Camille accepted the ticket. “I understand.”

Upon entering her apartment, Camille dropped her bag and flipped off her shoes. Life was just plain ridiculous. You think you’re advancing one square forward when, actually, you’ve been pushed all the way back to “go.”

She plunked onto her couch and fished the ticket from her bag. The back side of the document gave a range for the ticket fine. Two hundred to two hundred twenty-five dollars. She’d have to go to the station to determine the exact amount.

Already, her mind buzzed with thoughts about what she would have to give up or pull off in order to pay the associated fines without skipping a beat on her bills. Twenty extra leads would cover it. Dang! That wouldn’t work. Camille had thoroughly convinced Sheryl that her phantom cat needed extra TLC. Trying to come in early or stay later now would bust the tall tale.

Selling twenty CDs in front of the beauty supply might work, if the bootleg DVD man didn’t chase her off his turf. Or maybe she could work a week at a retail store. If she hadn’t burned her relationship with her Mary Kay director, she might be able to host a few shows.

Ugh! Why don’t police officers think about how they’re messing with people’s lives when they write these tickets?

No matter what, she’d have to add to her forty-hour work week for a while to keep this thing from escalating to a warrant. Yet, even with a payment plan, there was nothing to spare in her budget.

Maybe she should just get pregnant and have a baby so she could get free food, reduced rent, and a small fortune every tax season. She’d always wanted a daughter. A little diva named Madison. Camille snuggled back into her couch at the thought of her mini-me. Would she be a prissy mama or one of those tree-climbing, frog-catching tomboys? Would she inherit her mother’s voice and her grandmother’s instrumental talent?

Then there was always the possibility little Madison would be a complete horror. Drawing on walls, fighting at school so Camille would have to come off her job to attend parent conferences. And what if Madison grew up to be a serial killer? The world would have one more lunatic on the streets all because Camille Robertson couldn’t get one big break. They’d blame Camille, and she’d blame John David.

Snap out of it!

Camille placed a hand on her forehead. The whole kid scheme was crazy, but she had to do something. She couldn’t live the rest of her life in a state where two hundred dollars threw her into panic mode. No matter what, she had to work her way out of this. There was no easy path.

And then it hit her. If she was going to put herself to work doing something she didn’t really want to do—like give birth—she might as well work for something she did want. Seriously, if she was willing to raise a child, she should at least be willing to join a choir and lead a few songs.

John David had said that if she did her part, he’d do his. That probably wouldn’t help her in the short term with this ticket, but something had to give.

The counsel Jerdine gave her daughter about her first job working at McDonald’s came to mind. Camille had been complaining about having to clean the men’s restroom. “It’s so nasty!”

“Well”—her mother had laughed—“they kick the men out before you go in, right?”

“Yes,” Camille conceded while buckling her seat belt.

Jerdine was always on time to pick up her daughter. She never wanted any of Camille’s male coworkers offering her shapely daughter a ride home.

“Baby, sometimes you have to do what you have to do first in order to do what you want to do later,” Jerdine comforted her only daughter.

Camille sat straight up on her couch now. She closed her eyes and spoke into the air. “Okay, Momma. I know you didn’t mean for me to use your advice in a bad way, but you also said that God lets everything happen for a reason.

“I don’t know all the reasons, but I’ve got to go for it. Singing won’t go away, Momma. I have to do this.”