Diary Of A Blues Goddess. Erica Orloff

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СКАЧАТЬ was likely considerably smaller). And whatever Cammie wanted, Cammie got. Including a five-thousand-dollar muted oyster-colored Vera Wang dress and a diamond tiara.

      I was on the small stage that had been built by the dance floor, sparkling in my silver gown, with not one but two pairs of pantyhose on. Well, not exactly. I had one leg each of two separate pairs. I arrived at the wedding in the Wite-Out pair, which I had put on while Jack screeched his way onto the plantation’s grounds, me wriggling into them on the front seat, and which had a run in the left leg—held in check by a smear of white. Gary, obviously tired of my ruining a pair of hose at every wedding, and always in the leg visible through the slit of my dress, almost always keeps an extra pair of my size B’s in nude, with control top, in his keyboard case. I had counted on that all along. I had grabbed them from him as he mopped at his forehead, and I raced to the bathroom, sweating all the while, making my hair frizz and curl faster than ever. Putting on the new pair, my nail made a run in the opposite leg. Again, I cursed the geniuses who could send a probe to Mars but not make a run-proof formula. However, with some creative cutting with a steak knife borrowed from the kitchen, I had, ostensibly, one full pair of pantyhose. One of each leg, with a double set of control tops. I was feeling very tight-tummied.

      And I was singing the aforementioned simple-to-remember words to “Celebration.”

      And I glanced across the dance floor.

      And the words to “Celebration” left my mind.

      Gone. Like a giant black hole had sucked them from my brain. Nothing in my mind but “la, la, la.” Gary looked at me imploringly. Jack stared at me desperately, as if willing the words into my brain. But it was hopeless. Because there, across the dance floor, standing on the perimeter, looking slightly older but still confident and handsome, was Casanova Jones.

      The only man I’d ever, even briefly, thought might be The One.

      chapter

       4

      I t was the shriek heard round the world. Or at least round the French Quarter.

      The day after the Wedding of the Year and my momentary attack of amnesia, my friend Maggie came over to cut my hair and dye Dominique’s eyebrows to match her new platinum look. As soon as I told them that I had run into Casanova Jones, Dominique shrieked and began hugging me and jumping up and down.

      “Did you fuck him in the men’s room?” Dominique squealed.

      “No, I did not!”

      “The ladies’ room?”

      “Give me a break.”

      “You thought about it though.” She stepped back and wagged her finger as if scolding a child.

      “God help me, you’re impossible.”

      “This guy must be something if he’s a possible bathroom screw,” Maggie said, directing me toward the sink. “I need details. Like who is he? And what the hell kind of name is Casanova Jones?”

      “I can’t tell you yet. I’m in hair shock. What, exactly, are you doing with your hair?”

      Maggie works at a trendy salon near the Garden District. She makes a ton of money—in cash. She makes a whole lot more than a wedding singer, I can tell you—though I guess that isn’t really saying a whole hell of a lot. Still, she doesn’t have to wear sequins to do it. She’s considered one of the best stylists in the city and even does the hair of a couple of well-known actresses when they are in the Big Easy shooting movies. But somehow, despite knowing everything there is to know about cutting hair, and highlights, and foils and all of that, her own hair is what I would gently term “experimental.” It’s art. What kind of art, I can’t tell you. This particular Sunday, I would perhaps call her hair color raspberry, though it was more accurately some strange hybrid of red and purple. And the cut was lopsided. As in uneven.

      “It’s asymmetrical. That’s very in this season.”

      “It’s lopsided.”

      “You call it lopsided.” Her hazel eyes played peekaboo as her hair fell in front of her face as she moved. She has a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and though her skin is very pale, she never wears makeup—which drives Dominique insane. “My clients call it asymmetrical and pay a hundred and fifty bucks to have it cut this way.”

      “Fine, but while you’ve got sharp scissors in your hands, remember that I’m still in favor of both sides being even.”

      “You can carry the asymmetrical look.”

      “I don’t want to carry it.”

      “Why are we even talking about hair? Tell me about this guy you two are screeching about.”

      “All right. He was my one unrequited love. The one guy that if I could go back and do it all over again, go back to high school knowing what I know now, I would have fucked him. More precisely, I would have lost my virginity to him instead of the asshole I finally did lose it to my freshman year of college.” I liked to pretend my entire two-month relationship with Dan What’s-his-name, Virginity Bandit, never occurred.

      “So what happened between you?”

      “Nothing much. A lot of flirting. I don’t know. We just never acted on it. Maybe it was timing. That and he was one of the ‘beautiful people.’”

      “I know you’ll find this impossible to believe,” Dominique interjected. “But Georgia, despite being one smokin’-hot, overwhelmingly sexy thing now, and me, being the delectable creature standing before you…we were outcasts in high school. For God’s sake, I was a boy in high school.” She shuddered.

      “You—” Maggie raised an eyebrow and playfully stared up and down at Dominique “—I could see. But Georgia?”

      I nodded. “And he was…I can’t really explain how I couldn’t even speak every time I was within five feet of him. Total lust.”

      I knew Maggie would understand. Maggie had wanted Jack from the first moment she laid eyes on him five years ago. He was her one unrequited lust. Jack, on the other hand, gravitated toward magnolia queens, not a Goth, pale-skinned, raspberry-haired woman with a pierced belly button and tribal tattoos encircling her arms.

      “We just called him Casanova Jones because he was such a damn slut,” Dominique added. “His real name was…what the hell is his real name, Georgia?”

      “Rick.”

      The night before, Rick had approached me between sets, raising the eyebrows of my bandmates. Certainly, I was their lead singer, but to them, I was the woman with panty lines and lingerie-obsessed cats. I was the woman who spilled cocktail sauce down the front of her one white gown—which no dry cleaner could salvage. In short, to them, I was Georgie, the woman least likely to attract a guy who owned—didn’t rent—a custom-fitted black Armani tuxedo.

      “I thought it was you.” Rick had smiled, leaning in to kiss my cheek, and allowing his lips to stay there for that fraction of a second too long. He took my hand and held it, his index finger stroking the inside of my wrist ever so slightly. “You’re still as beautiful as ever, Georgia.”

      “Thanks. You look the same. Shorter СКАЧАТЬ