A Meeting In The Ladies' Room

by Anita Doreen Diggs

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

In the rarefied world of Manhattan publishing, most of the intrigue takes place in the books. But all that is about to change for respected editor Jacqueline Blue. . .

It's not easy being one of the few African Americans in an overwhelmingly white industry. Yet, until now, Jackie's biggest problem has been her unrequited love for Victor Bell, a handsome member of the Black Pack, her weekly professional group. Does Victor prefer tall women? Light-skinned sisters?

But then comes the morning her boss is suddenly murdered. It seems that Jackie was the last person to see Annabelle Murray alive--and the circumstances were not pretty. Jackie's fingerprints are all over the crime scene and, to make matters worse, she had sworn not to tell anyone why she was invited to her boss's home in the first place. And just as everything is hitting the fan, Victor asks her out to dinner. Jackie knows that when it rains it pours--but now she's knee-deep in hot water--and bailing herself out will be the toughest challenge she's ever faced. . .

"Anita Diggs has displayed the pain, the remorse, the struggles, and ultimately the hopes that everyday people face. A story propelled by 'real' people. . ..simply too hard to resist." --Donna Hill, Author of If I Could

"A fast-paced, compelling story about love and its power to both heal and redeem." --Kim McLarin, author of Meeting the Waters

"A heart-stopping story. . .a dynamic new writer is on the scene!" --Yolanda Joe, author of This Just In and Hit Time

Release date: June 12, 2012

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

Blackmail is a despicable act, and I only stooped that low because my alternative was to spend twenty-five years in prison for a murder that I didn’t commit. My name is Jacqueline Blue, and I’m really a decent woman. I obey the laws of New York State even when they don’t make sense. I support my mother, who, because she didn’t finish high school and has no skills, can’t find a job. I contribute to the NAACP even though they hold more banquets than protests during these last years of the twentieth century. I also respect the privacy of my fellow human beings. So, if someone had told me a year ago that I would dig into the background of a New York Comet reporter and uncover secrets to force her cooperation in my affairs, I would have laughed uncontrollably.

My biggest problems at the beginning of this year were my unrequited love for a traveling salesman named Victor Bell and editing an offensive biography written by Craig Murray, an untalented scribe who was married to my boss. It was a lonely existence, but I figured that once Craig’s book was completed and Victor had come to his senses, my life would become paradise. God had other plans.

It was the middle of January and so cold outside that my ears, fingers, and toes grew numb during the ten minutes it took to walk from the office building where I worked in Times Square to B. Smith’s restaurant for the weekly Black Pack get-together.

We called ourselves the Black Pack because the eight of us were the only African-American professionals working in the rarefied world of Manhattan book publishing. Each of us worked for a different company. We had nothing in common except a shared cultural heritage and a need to vent about the frustration, alienation, and invalidation that we experienced from some members of the Dominant Culture. At the end of each dangerously soul-sapping, energy-draining week, it was nice to take off our Corporate Negro masks and relax.

I can still see myself, pulling off a heavy red wool cape and matching gloves as I followed the hostess to a round table where five members of the group were already seated. My hair was freshly braided, curled, and hanging loose around my shoulders. I was wearing a square-necked, long-sleeved red dress, belted at the waist, which had cost way too much money but looked so good on my buxom, five-foot, five-inch frame that it was guaranteed to show off my coffee-colored skin and make Victor sweat.

Victor wasn’t there and my heart sank, even as the others greeted me cheerfully. Paul Dodson caught my eye and knew my instant misery. Paul was the only one in the group that knew about my crush on our colleague.

Alyssa was missing also. Our workloads made it impossible for all eight of us to show up every single Friday night. I sat down, hoping that Victor would stop by later.

Rachel was there, dressed to the nines and batting her eyelashes at each male who passed by the table. Everyone in the group knew that the only reason Rachel Edwards never missed a gathering was that she was desperate to find a rich husband and B. Smith’s attracted its share of professional Black men. Rachel was one of the few black publicists in the business, but she didn’t care about us, Black book buyers, or anyone except herself. She longed for a luxurious house, set on a few acres of land in Westchester County, where she could hobnob with the wives of other rich men and spend the rest of her time serving on committees. She was a pathetic gold digger who had recently dyed her hair blond to match.

Sitting across the table from Rachel, I tried not to notice her flashing smiles in the direction of several brothers in business suits who were having drinks at the bar to the left of our table. A pretty and petite woman just past her thirtieth birthday, Rachel was wearing a black knit dress that clung to her curves. I know this because she got up several times during the evening to go to the bathroom so that the men could watch her glide.

“Why Jackie, don’t you look sensational in that red dress,” she said with a smile.

“It is definitely working,” Joe Long agreed.

“I’ll bet it’s a Nicole Miller,” said Elaine “I went to Harvard” Garner.

Elaine was one of the most irritating people I had ever met. She had a habit of bringing up her Ivy League education at every possible opportunity. It was my boss, Annabelle Murray, who had nicknamed her Elaine “I went to Harvard” Garner, and I shared that information with Paul, who laughed himself silly. People in the industry made a game of getting off the phone before she could mention Harvard and avoided as much social interaction with her as possible. The Black Pack couldn’t do that because she was . . . well . . . Black.

“Probably a Nicole Miller knockoff,” observed Dallas Mowrey as she poked at a slice of lime in her drink.

For a split second I felt like scratching Dallas’s eyes out, but suppose Victor was simply running late? It just wouldn’t do for him to find me in an ugly catfight with that fat, pockmark-faced, cross-eyed, just-bought-a-brownstone-but-don’t-have-enough-money to-put-a-decent-roof-on-it little bitch.

He was a very quiet, sophisticated, intelligent gentleman who would never date me after witnessing a scene like that.

I glanced over my shoulder just to make sure Victor wasn’t approaching the table before I said, “Go to hell, Dallas.”

A waiter took my drink order as Rachel giggled nervously and Paul tapped the side of his water glass with a knife. “Ladies, ladies, we’ve come together for good food, strong drink, and Black unity. I’m not feeling any sisterly love here.”

Paul was trying hard not to chuckle—the sight of his cheeks all puffed up with the effort made us laugh.

Joe Long peered at me over the top of his glasses. “Congratulations on signing Jamal Hunt.” Joe was a slim, bespectacled, nervous-looking editor who specialized in books on slavery, segregation, and the civil rights movement because the editorial board at the company he worked for wouldn’t let him buy anything else. He was smart, reclusive, and good-looking in a tweedy, college professor kind of way.

“We didn’t bid in that auction,” Joe continued, “but I knew that the major houses were going to battle hard to win his next two books.”

Acquiring Jamal Hunt’s next two books was a definite feather in my cap. He was the crown prince of hip-hop-flavored fiction.

“Thanks, Joe,” I replied. “That damned auction dragged on for two days.”

“Who was the agent?” asked Rachel.

“Penelope Aaron.”

We all shared a collective groan. Penelope was the nastiest, most abrasive literary agent in the business. All the editors, black and white, hated her guts but she was particularly galling to members of the Black Pack. She was a white woman who had an all-Black stable of writers only because authors of her own race absolutely refused to deal with her. They thought she was stupid, incompetent, and low class.

I didn’t think Penelope was stupid. Duplicitous and conniving, yes. But not stupid.

What pissed me off was the sassy, singsong, pseudo-southern voice and bits of Black vernacular she threw into her conversations in an effort to bond with me. It was insulting; I wasn’t having it and once told her so in no uncertain terms. Since her writers found her misguided attempts at Blackness amusing and the other Black editors never told her how they really felt, she could not understand my position.

Dallas said, “Girl, you have got your hands full! Jamal Hunt thinks he is God’s gift to the literary community and, as quiet as it’s kept, I had to rewrite most of that shit when I was his editor.”

I wanted to know more about those rewrites, but how would it look if I talked against my own client? Defending Jamal was the only professional thing to do. I took a long swig of my Bacardi ’n’ Coke. “Actually, I’ve spoken to him once and he seems kind of sweet, and besides, his last book sold eighty thousand copies in hardcover.”

Dallas ran a chubby, bejeweled hand through her hair. “Jamal is a pain in the ass.”

The waiter reappeared for our food orders. B. Smith’s specializes in what Paul calls “nouveau soul food.” I ordered the macaroni and cheese with Thai chicken wings.

“I’m going to wash my hands,” Rachel said. Dallas and Elaine had to get up because Rachel was squished between them.

Dallas waited until Rachel was out of earshot. “Why the hell doesn’t she just go over there, ask one of those guys out, and be done with it? This is ridiculous.”

“She really needs to stop that shit,” Elaine grumbled. “When she gets back, I’m going to tell her to sit somewhere else. Jackie, why don’t you trade places with Rachel?”

“And have me getting up and down like a jack-in-the-box?” asked Paul. “No way.”

I ignored their childish little squabble.

The restaurant was large and airy with about two dozen tables carefully arranged so that diners could speak without being overheard. The place was owned by a former fashion model named Barbara Smith who was the first Black woman to appear on the cover of Mademoiselle magazine. That cover and many others had been blown up and now graced the walls of her restaurant. I had also seen her in TV commercials for Revlon, Clairol, and Noxzema and as a guest on The Today Show and Good Morning America. She was one of the few Black women who wrote entertainment and lifestyle books for a major publishing house. As I gazed at the magazine covers featuring this talented and gorgeous creature, a little sigh escaped me.

“You will never look like that,” Paul said, teasing me.

“And you’ll never look like Denzel Washington either,” I retorted.

We both laughed.

“Actually, I think Jackie is a very handsome woman,” Dallas said.

It was an insult disguised as a compliment. I flashed a smile in her direction. “Thank you, Dallas. I admire the way you find such fashionable clothes on the plus-size rack.”

“Cease fire!” commanded Paul.

Elaine casually asked Paul if Victor had called to say he wasn’t coming.

“Nah, I didn’t hear from him. I guess he is out on the road.”

“I think our Victor has made himself a love connection,” Dallas said, laughing.

My heart sank. “What makes you say that?”

“I saw him coming out of Victoria’s Secret over on Madison Avenue last week. He was alone and carrying two shopping bags of stuff. We talked for a minute but he wouldn’t tell me who the lucky girl is.”

Dallas thrived on gossip and it didn’t take much to get her started on the personal dramas of other people. Paying attention to her stories provided more entertainment than a Hollywood melodrama.

Victor was funny, single, intelligent, well read, handsome, and polished. I wasn’t interested in hearing any sordid tales about my dream man, but Joe stopped her before I could.

Joe slammed his glass down on the table. “I swear, you are such a vicious gossip! I’m surprised you didn’t just assume that Victor is a cross-dresser and start spreading that dirt around!”

I had never seen Joe get angry before and his reaction was so extreme that no one knew what to say. It was clear from the expression of murderous rage on his face that Dallas had unwittingly stumbled into dangerous territory, but that didn’t make sense unless Joe had a crush on the same “lucky girl.”

I downed my rum and Coke in one gulp—and half of Paul’s Scotch. The combination made me wince.

In due course the whole world would know Victor’s secret and it would rock us to our very foundations, but that night I was still determined to become his woman and this information caused a new heaviness to curl up around my heart.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” Elaine asked finally.

“Nothing,” Joe replied shortly. “Excuse me.” He headed toward the men’s room.

“I’m confused,” said Rachel. “What just happened here?”

There was a lot of murmuring around the table about Joe’s astonishing behavior, but I wasn’t listening to any of it. Dallas was indeed a gossip, but once in a while her information was accurate and this made Victor’s consistent rejection of my overtures during the past year even harder to swallow. I ordered myself two drinks from a passing waiter.

Paul whispered in my ear, “What’s the matter, Jackie?”

“I wonder who Victor was buying underwear for and whether it’s just a fling or if the woman really means something to him,” I whispered back.

Paul made a tsk-tsk sound and then said, “It’s time you and I had a talk.”

Whatever he wanted to say to me would have to wait. Elaine was starting the “let’s bitch about white folks” hour.

“Did you hear what happened to Alyssa Kraft?”

Alyssa was one of us. A tall, slender, copper-skinned sister from St. Louis, she was a genius at fixing even the purplest of prose. She was also kind, charitable, and sweet.

Joe slid back into his seat. “What about Alyssa?”

Elaine took a sip of her Bailey’s and said, “Alyssa went to some thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raiser in D.C. a few months ago and she was seated next to Davina Coolidge.”

Paul whistled. Davina Coolidge was the highest-ranking African-American in President Clinton’s administration.

“They did the polite chitchat thing and it turned to girl talk. At the end of the evening, they exchanged phone numbers. Every time Davina came to New York, she called Alyssa for dinner or drinks. Whenever Alyssa was in D.C. visiting her folks, she called Davina.”

“Wow!” said Dallas.

“At some point, Alyssa suggested that Davina’s rags-to-riches story would make a terrific inspirational memoir. At first Davina said no, but she eventually changed her mind. So, Alyssa helped her write a short proposal and presented it at her editorial meeting this week. Well, Marlena Rashker, the executive editor, told Alyssa that she had done a fantastic job, but since the project had ties to the White House, she would have to share it with Marlena.”

“What a load of crap,” I said.

“I know Marlena Rashker,” said Paul. “She is going to take all the credit, have her name in all the press coverage, and push Alyssa so far back in the process, even Davina won’t remember her existence.”

“Ah,” Elaine replied, pointing her swizzle stick in Paul’s direction. “Our Alyssa must have known something like that would happen and told Davina to expect it. Well, to Davina’s credit, she had instructed Alyssa to announce at the meeting that her editor had to be an African-American or she would find another publishing house.”

We were all grinning and cheering by now and even Rachel stopped batting her eyes at the men who were drinking at the bar. Our whooping and hollering provoked quite a few reproving stares from our fellow diners, but we didn’t care.

Joe murmured, “That took a lot of guts. I wouldn’t have had the nerve to say it.”

Elaine held up her hand for silence. “I’m not through. When Alyssa made that statement, Rashker went wild. She stood up and screamed at Alyssa in front of everyone.”

I was surprised. “What exactly did she say?”

“She yelled, ‘Who the hell do you think you are? ’ ”

There was a gasp from Dallas. “Oh my God, poor Alyssa.”

“No shit,” agreed Paul.

“Alyssa,” continued Elaine, “just sat there like a pillar of concrete. My contact over there told me that she seemed literally incapable of movement or speech. The woman told Alyssa point-blank that she better not ever pull a stunt like that again . . . that there was no such thing as black editing or white editing . . . that Alyssa better hope the book earned out its advance or she was going to be pounding the sidewalk looking for some more black editing to do.”

“Get the fuck outta here!” Paul exclaimed in disbelief. “Even if that’s what she was thinking, I can’t believe Marlena Rashker would be stupid enough to say it in front of a room full of witnesses.”

There was a general murmur of agreement.

“This is really bad,” said Joe, “but there is a silver lining to this cloud.”

We all wanted to know what on earth it was.

Joe steepled his fingers and what he said next made perfect sense. “Alyssa Kraft is the only member of the Black Pack who is guaranteed a job for the next hundred years. She won’t be downsized, outsized, or anything else. This stupid woman, whoever she is, just opened the company up to a gigantic racial discrimination lawsuit and the powers that be over there are going to make sure that our Alyssa is kept very happy.”

“Apparently Alyssa didn’t share your optimism,” Elaine finished triumphantly. “She quit her job the next morning.”

“Does anyone have her home phone number?” I asked. “This is terrible. We’ve all got to do something.”

“Like what?” asked Elaine. “She is a grown woman who decided that she would prefer to work elsewhere. She wasn’t fired. I say we all stay out of it.”

“I agree,” Joe said.

“Me, too,” Dallas chimed in. “The last thing I need is a bunch of angry white people breathing down my neck.”

Paul said nothing, and by the look on his face I knew that he agreed with Dallas.

Elaine cleared her throat. “There is one other thing.”

A leopard just cannot change its spots. I knew what was coming.

“There is no way Davina Coolidge is going to sign with them after what happened, so I wouldn’t be stabbing Alyssa in the back if I took a trip to D.C. and met with her, would I?”

“What time does your flight leave, Elaine?. . .