A Taste Of Pleasure

“Danica, you know I’m about to go to bed. I need twelve hours or...” She paused. “What on earth—” A half sigh. “Are you crying?”

It was the exasperated sigh that pulled Dani from her fetal position on the couch. She dabbed at her eyes and wiped her nose with a tissue, then took a calming breath. Her mother never stood for such theatrics, even though she was still the most dramatic woman Dani had ever known.

“Yes.” Dani swallowed. “It’s been a rough night.” Dani heard rustling in the background and imagined her mother in a face mask and silk head wrap resting in her king-size bed.

Although her mother was still considered a supermodel, at fifty-five years old—sixty-five if you paid attention to birth certificates—Francesca Watts was rarely offered work anymore, but she still treated every night like she was waking for a photo shoot the next day.

“Well, do I have to guess what happened or are you going to tell me?”

“I quit the restaurant.”

“Good, now you can start your own. I’m sure Daddy would give you the money.” Dani noted that her mother didn’t offer. She also wasn’t sure either of them had that type of cash just lying around anymore.

Dani sniffed. “That’s not all.” Dani made it through the abbreviated story of her breakup with Andre without another wave of tears.

“He wasn’t strong enough for you, dear, I told you that. Not many men can handle women like us.”

It was the same thing she said to Dani after her father had left and moved back to Sweden. Dani began to think the call was a mistake.

“Mother, just once I’d appreciate a little sympathy. I just want a virtual hug and for you to tell me it’s going to be okay.”

“Well, if you had moved to California with me instead of choosing to be nearer to your father, then I’d be able to hug you in person and do all of that.”

“That is not the reason I stayed, Mother. I chose my career over the both of you—it just happened to be in New York.”

“And now you’re crying.”

“There is no correlation.” Dani quelled her rising voice and shook her head. “God, why can’t we have a conversation like normal people?”

“Normal people?” her mother sneered. “We are not normal. Normal people aren’t Michelin-starred chefs, Danica. I made love to David Bowie, for God’s sake.”

Dani chuckled as she cringed, feeling a little better. Her mother actually sounded proud of her. “Please, I can’t handle that story now.”

“Yes. Yes. Now stop this crying. Did you get the dress I sent you?”

“It’s too small.”

“Well, did you gain more weight?”

And that lovely feeling came crashing down. “I don’t know, Mother, I don’t weigh myself on a daily basis like you do.”

“Well, that designer runs a bit bigger, I thought it would fit.”

“I’m fat, Mother, get over it.”

“You’re not fat, you’re full figured. Lots of women would kill for your hourglass shape. Women are paying thousands of dollars to achieve your natural breast size, my dear. But now that you’re done with that backbreaking job you can go back to Pilates.”

Her mother’s personal trainer had almost killed her one summer. She’d only lost a pound.

“No, thanks.” Dani sipped a glass of wine, trying to ignore the fact that her mother still thought of her as someone who just needed to work out a little more and poof, she’d be a size four. “She called me fat.”

“Who did?”

“The hostess Andre is cheating with.”

“And did you tell that hood rat that she was just a sex toy?”

Dani laughed then. She knew her mother had issues about her weight, but she never allowed another person to say so.

“I’m glad you’re laughing. Now, pull yourself up and take one step forward. You’ll figure out what to do. I have to go.”

Dani frowned. “Early breakfast with that old Persian billionaire?”

“No, darling, that ended months ago. I’m on my way to Milan tomorrow.”

At the mention of Milan, Toni’s firm lips and lean body popped into her mind. She ran a hand over her hair and shook the vision away. “Oh. Why?”

“I’m in a campaign for Chanel. Ageless, timeless, something or other. It was a cat fight between Naomi and me, God forbid they have two African American models in the campaign, but they chose me.” She waited a beat. “I was the first black model to walk in Paris, you know.”

Dani knew. She’d heard all of her mother’s groundbreaking stories. Had seen all of the pictures of her slim, satin-skinned mother gracing magazine covers.

Her mother’s success had been a series of highs and lows, with more and more lows as the gracefully aging beauty got older.

“That’s great, Mom. Why didn’t you mention anything?”

“You know how this goes. I’ll get there and they may not even use me.”

“So it’s like a test thing?”

“Mmm...something like that.”

Dani couldn’t imagine the blow to her mother’s ego. It was a go-see. An audition.

“They’ll be idiots not to use you.”

“Yes. They would.” Her mother seemed to hesitate. “Would you like to come? It’s been a while since we were in Milan together. I can get us a suite at the Baglioni.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“Well...yes. Why not? You’re not working.” Dani blinked, intrigued, but unsure if that was a good idea. The last time Dani had been invited to one of her mother’s shows had been during Milan Fashion Week when she was eight. The nanny canceled and the hotel staff couldn’t watch her, so her mother had to take her along.

You do not make noise or speak, Francesca had insisted in the limo to the photo shoot. I’m going to put you in my dressing area. And if anyone asks you who you are, you do not say a word. You run and hide. They might think you’re a homeless Italian child and just leave you alone.

But I want to see the cameras.

No. Francesca had sent her a look that could melt steel.

Why?