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My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it reverberate in my ears. I removed my watch and put it next to the fruit bowl. Then I unbuttoned the cuffs on my blouse and stepped out of my heels, leaving them side by side on the tiled floor. Then slowly, I headed for the stairs, moving towards the sound of the water, because apparently I was wrong. Apparently these things do happen. And they were happening now, to me.
Three stories were brewing at that S.E.C.R.E.T. charity event, which was where I first met Matilda Greene. But most journalists present only knew about two.
There was the Carruthers Johnstone story, of course. The recently reelected DA was in the corner issuing “no comment” about his new girlfriend and their even newer baby. And then there was the story of a small philanthropic organization that no one had ever heard of suddenly donating a staggering fifteen million dollars to various charities. We were told that S.E.C.R.E.T. stood for the Society for the Encouragement of Civic Responsibility and Equal Treatment, a legit charity registered with the city since the late ’60s, but I couldn’t find anything else about them. (It was only a while later that I’d come to know its off-the-books acronym.)
But the biggest story of the night actually staggered in a few minutes after my crew set up near the bar to interview Matilda. A very drunk Pierre Castille, one of the richest land developers in New Orleans, had crashed the party. He was generally extremely private, so to see him there at all was strange. To see him so incautious and disheveled was shocking, though I might have been the only journalist there who recognized him. Few pictures existed of him, and no video. He had never given a brief comment, let alone an interview about any of the goings-on of his company, which he had inherited from his equally elusive father. His was a name that would likely appear at the top of every journalist’s wish list, if you asked any of them whom they’d most like to profile. After all, he owned half the city and was scooping up cheap land along the river near the French Market. Plus, he was a bachelor, and to look at him was to wonder why. He had to be the sexiest beast I’d laid eyes on in a long time. And he wasn’t even my type. And now, there he was, weaving over to a small crowd in a dark corner near the kitchen.
A few minutes later, a drama erupted and it looked like a punch was thrown. Matilda emerged from the scuffle whispering something to a bouncer before joining me for our interview. By the time I had a chance to ask her what the tussle was all about, Security was escorting Castille out the door. As he passed us, his eyes narrowed at Matilda. He was about to say something nasty to her when he noticed me standing nearby. He smirked.
“Hey, Action News Nightly,” he said. “There’s a story here. It’s just not the one you came for.”
Then, before the bouncer shoved him out the door, he yelled over his shoulder, “Good-bye, whores!”
It was a vivid moment, but one that Matilda Greene did not care to expound upon when I asked her how it was that she knew Pierre Castille and why in the world he was talkin
g that way.
“Actually I don’t really know him,” she said, brushing imaginary lint off the straps of her evening gown.
“You just had the Bayou Billionaire forcibly removed from your party, he called you and your other guests whores, and you say you don’t know him?”
“A good hostess would have anyone that inebriated removed, billionaire or not,” she said. And with a wave of her hand she expertly changed the subject, launching into a smart interview about her charity’s goal to help women. Minutes later she ducked out of our conversation to comfort a teary brunette in a black satin dress who was also leaving the event in a hurry.
It was a perplexing, dramatic night.
Afterwards, Matilda and I exchanged cards. Even if nothing mysterious was going on with S.E.C.R.E.T., the fifteen million dollars, an agitated billionaire and an upset brunette, I filed that party away as a strange story to revisit. So when Matilda called me a couple of weeks later to ask me to lunch, I was thrilled, determined to poke around a little more.
We met at Tracey’s, a strangely masculine place for such a feminine woman. But they seemed to know her there, as though she were a regular at a sports bar. Matilda was prettier than I remembered, her red hair pulled back into a thick ponytail, the tension of that evening completely absent from her face. Seconds into our meeting, however, it was clear Matilda wasn’t there to talk about Pierre, her charity, or bawling brunettes. On the contrary, she was completely (and strangely) fixated on me, namely on a recent profile New Orleans Magazine had done on me after my port lands story broke and I was promoted to weekend anchor.
“Thank you so much for meeting me, Solange. Or should I say ‘The Formidable Solange Faraday’?”
Ugh. Matilda was referring to the magazine’s headline. The article itself was not really about my career. Instead, it was focused almost entirely on the fact that I was a single mom who hadn’t dated much in the eight years since my divorce.
“I cringe every time I see that magazine at the checkout lines.”
“I should think you’d be thrilled for the coverage,” she said.
“Normally you’d be right, but the article … it was a joke. Yes, I am divorced, but my parenting relationship with my ex-husband is good; he’s a great dad. We work hard at that. Calling me a ‘single mom’ is an insult to women everywhere who are actually raising kids alone, and to divorced dads who are doing their half of the work.”
And then I unleashed years of bottled-up indignation, the depths of which even I was unaware of until just then.
“They said it would focus on the hours, days, weeks and months my whole team spent on my port lands story, the one our network broke last year. We put some local politicians in jail over that graft scandal. But instead they portrayed me as some lonely, workaholic divorcée!”
I could almost see the ends of Matilda’s hair getting singed by my diatribe, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t admit to her or anyone else that almost a decade had gone by since I’d been in a serious relationship. There had been dates here and there. I’d had sex. But it was usually lousy, furtive and just not worth giving up the rare night I had to myself. I wasn’t really looking to get married again. I certainly wasn’t looking to introduce a new man into my son’s life. Besides, raising him was so deeply fulfilling it didn’t leave much room for anything or anyone else. And it was true, I loved my work. If anything I was married to that. But oh man, to feel a pair of warm feet in a cold bed every once in a while …
“How was the sex? With your ex-husband?” Matilda asked, blithely stirring her coffee.
To this day, I do not know why I was able to discuss my sex life with a complete stranger, but Matilda had a gift, a way of making it easy for me to tell her everything, even though she herself seemed to be a closed book.
“Julius and I were very compatible in that arena,” I said. “Then I gave birth to Gus, and everything … changed. I changed. He changed, or rather he didn’t. And sex kind of just fell away. At first it was because I had a baby to take care of. Then it was because he took care of the baby while I worked. A lot. Then I got ambitious, and really busy. And he … he didn’t. It took a toll on him.” My mouth wouldn’t stop moving! It felt like being hypnotized.
“Sounds like he had a crisis of confidence,” Matilda said.
“Yeah. That’s exactly right.”
I told her how Julius had been fine being a stay-at-home dad. At first. But one failed venture followed another and sex went the way of his self-esteem. Despite counseling, we drifted too far apart to ever really recover what we’d had.
“Was it a bad split?”
