Rich Girl Problems by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker Page B

listened to a message on her cell phone. “This. Is. Bridget. Apparently you are confused by your current situation. This. Is. Not. The Chaunci Show. You don’t get to disappear for an entire weekend without taping. No one’s heard from you and this is unacceptable. Now unless you want me and my team of attorneys to sue your ass, then I suggest you call me back or this will not be pretty.”
    Click.
    Chaunci slid her cell phone back into her purse and stared at the reflecting sun rays in the water.
    This was supposed to be a hit it and quit type of thing. One season. Two seasons tops. Just long enough to solidify my brand’s place in the rat race, so that when people saw my name and my face they’d know everything I touched turned to gold. The Oprah effect . . . or something like that.... I never considered that things would turn left.
    She looked up from the water and reclined her seat.
    A series of headlines rushed into her mind.
    Why am I always on the cover of some skanky tabloid? Why is everyone wrapped up in me, my eight-year-old daughter, and my fiancé, Emory’s, life? Why would anyone give a damn if I’m a millionaire and Emory is a regular Joe with a cleaning business? That’s my affair and should be no one else’s concern....
    Chaunci shook off her thoughts and sat up in her seat. She reached for her cell phone and checked her e-mail. She had four from Bridget and one from the network’s president. She deleted all five without reading them and placed her phone back into her bag.
    She reclined her seat.
    To think I was pissed about Idris saying our daughter, Kobi, couldn’t be a part of the show this season. I hated giving in, but I knew he was right. Reality TV was ruining her life. Our daughter had a horrible school year. Her grades were bad; she was teased and bullied. We pulled her out of one school, placed her in a more exclusive school, where all the New York A-list celebrities sent their children, and she cried that she missed her friends.
    I couldn’t win.
    She sighed again.
    Thank God that Idris put his foot down and decided against her being on the show. And I’m glad I let her go and spend the summer with him and his wife . . . that bitch . . . and her kid . . . in South Africa. Kobi needed that. I needed that.
    And fuck Bridget.
    Yes, I escaped this weekend. I damn sure did. I chartered a jet and flew to the south of France. Auvergne. A remote and quaint village where no one knew my name, knew my fame, or knew anything about this damn reality show. All the locals knew about me was that I was a foreigner there to visit. They wished me a good time, recommended the best wine, and after that they all left. Me. The. Fuck. Alone. I was able to sit in my villa, put my feet up, look out the eighteenth-century window at the green rolling hills, and pretend that all that mattered in the world was my moment and me.
    And no, I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. Hell, the tabloids seemed to pull the most private moments of my life out of thin air. I needed to steal some quiet time for me.
    I swear I hated going back home. Because as soon as the jet landed there were reporters at the hangar snapping pictures, salivating, and screaming that they’d heard I was in South Africa having a secret affair with Idris. Stupid. Dumb. Ridiculous. Nonsense.
    I kept my composure though, smiled, and merely said, “All you need to know is that I had a wonderful time. And, no, I was not in South Africa. ”
    But I was back in the good ole US of A. The home of the free, the brave, and the do whatever the hell they wanted to do to the rich and famous. Why? Because these people, these fans, and these reporters all felt entitled to my life and my business, with the fucked up philosophy that I signed up for this. And, yeah, maybe I did, but not to this extent.
    Every day I had to defend what I’d worked hard for—my money, my empire, and my