Behind Closed Doors

Chapter Thirty-four

In June 2010 Phoenix received an invitation to attend a party that was to be hosted by Anthony St. Claire in his palatial house. The man had sold off his control of the studio, and so he was giving a party to celebrate it and hand over to the new controller.

Under normal circumstances he would have refused to go to the occasion, because he was one that hated all the flash of parties, but he owed it to the great man to attend for it was with Anthony St. Claire that he had made his bones. He had to see the older man hand over the reins of power to Henry Johnson. How long ago had it been since he’d last seen his lover? Six years? Seven years?

The following Saturday evening he dressed up in a perfectly tailored black shirt and matching slacks, with a glittering black belt studded with jewels encircling his waist, and then he was set to go. With his silver Bentley coup, and the stunning model he’d gotten for the night, he looked a vision of the perfect movie star.

When he arrived at the Clair House, there were guests already everywhere. There were the men in their expensive luxury cars and even more expensively maintained trophy wives and girlfriends. The women were all dressed to kill, what with their coiffed hair and their perfect bodies which were maintained with the latest fad diets, fitness trainers that cost fortunes to maintain, and the older women who had to be kept good-looking with very expensive beauty treatments and yellow complexions gotten from expensive imported L’Oreal bottles and elbow-length Brazilian extensions sewn to their scalps.

Phoenix mingled with the guests, a bright faux smile frozen on his lips as he worked the crowd, and all the while he struggled to mask his boredom. With his leggy piece of feminine perfection planted firmly by his side－ she was bored too, which was surprising because he had pegged her to be one of those young women who would do anything to be in the limelight－ he walked the grounds.

That was, until he felt a pair of eyes watching him coldly. He paused as the hair at the back of his neck prickled, and then he saw the creature whose pair of cold eyes were fixed on him. It was a woman in her mid to late twenties, with a huge mass of upswept coppery hair that reached down to her elbows, a beautiful face that must have lost its natural deeper tone of brown to acquire the lighter yellow color that was favored by Nigerian women of the current times, and a firm, trim body which was an indicator that she was one of the Lagos elite, for these set were those that did not believe that the plumper you are, the richer you were perceived to be. Her gown was an expensive DJ7 designer number in deep pink, and it looked quite sheer across some parts of the front, with a stunning feather train at the hem of it which brushed on the ground.

‘Della, darling, would you excuse me for a moment?’ Phoenix said to his companion, just as the young woman in the expensive pink gown swept towards him in high heels, her body radiating wealth and the over-confidence that came with it.
‘Phoenix, how nice to finally meet you for the first time,’ she said, and then she raised one hand to brush a lock of stray hair from her face, displaying inch-long acrylic nails that was painted the exact shade of her gown.

‘Fiona Johnson,’ Phoenix said to her in acknowledgement, and he saw her eyes flash with annoyance. His lips curled in a small smile. ‘Are you surprised that I would know who you are? After all, you and I are bound together by your husband.’

‘You have no right to mention Henry to my hearing!’ she hissed in a low voice which was intended only for him to hear. ‘I now know what Henry saw in you, if it’s true that what I suspected at one time is true of the two of you.’

Phoenix sighed. ‘What exactly is it do you think I am or was to your husband?’

‘You－’ she started.

But he cut her off. ‘Exactly, Fiona; you have no idea of what happened between me and Henry so please keep the disdain to yourself. There was nothing to what you are thinking, to what you might have thought at the time you thought whatever it was you thought of him and me.’ He fixed her with one of his signature cold looks that had been immortalized on the screens. ‘I only befriended Henry because of what he and his mother could do for my career, and when I had what I wanted from him, I ran away. As it stands, Mrs. Johnson, I haven’t seen or heard from your husband in over seven years.’

Fiona shivered at his words, as if her toned body had been invaded by an icy chill. She stepped back from him.

‘Yes, it’s true, and why wouldn’t it be so?’ the actor continued coldly, his body tensed with anger as if he was ready to spring at her. ‘You stand there with your bleached skin, your money, and that look of contempt on your face, and then you accuse me of sleeping around with your husband. How dare you? Do you know that you have put a stain on my reputation by calling me a homo?’

Fiona winced. ‘I did not say that,’ she snapped, but her defenses had cracked.

‘You didn’t say that, but you meant it. So, how about we tell your husband what you suspect of me? How about we ask him about that, you and I? I am quite sure that the Henry I know may turn very violent against you, or better still, he may admit it. Then what do you think will happen to you? You know then that whatever marriage you have with him will wash down the drain; is that what you want?’

‘No!’ Fiona was now trembling slightly, and Phoenix knew that he had hit a nerve; was it possible that Henry had turned violent towards her in the past when she’d brought up the issue of homo before him?

‘Fiona, do not look so sad, my dear. You are a very beautiful young woman, married to a man many women would give their teeth for, and what if you really have accused him of doing what you have running through your mind, do you think he can do that to you?’

‘No.’

‘Good; that’s because it’s the truth between us. I have nothing to do with your husband－ I never had and I never will. Do not hate me unless you’ve had the time to be with me and formed an honest opinion of what you think for yourself.’

He was smiling at her as he said this because he knew that he was lying to her about the relationship he had with Henry, but he felt that he had to do what he did because he would not want her to be gripped tenaciously by the horror of it that she’s be unable to function properly. He had saved her sanity, and he felt he had to be thanked for it. Then he turned and walked away from her even though she had whispered for him to wait. What was he waiting for? What further business did he have with the wife of his former lover? What did they share together apart from the fact that they had shared the same body, kissed the same lips, sucked the same penis; was she into fellatio?

As his mind kept on drifting, that was when he saw Rosalie Johnson, standing off to one side, engaged in deep conversation with a very handsome young man who was so pretty that Phoenix already knew that he would be a catch for the gay men in Lagos. He stared at her, his mind reeling as if from the shock of a physical blow. There she was, the sexy manipulative Rosalie, her cloud of dark hair framing her beautiful, unlined face, her neck and her wrists bedecked with jewels. She looked incredibly good, trim and fit, the thin material of her gown wrapped around her figure like a glove. It had been years since he had last seen her, but he hadn’t expected her to continue looking stunning and hot. She was fifty-four, but she looked at least fifteen years younger than her age. More importantly, what was she doing here?

He pivoted around so that she wouldn’t see him, and then he began to weave his way through the crowd of partiers to the main mansion which was roped off from the grounds where the party was in full swing; the house was off-limits to the guests save for a few close friends of the movie magnate. As he approached the front porch from which a uniformed guard glared at him, he suddenly stopped and looked up sharply to the terrace, aware that someone was watching him.

And there, standing as still as a statue, was Henry Johnson.

Author's Note:

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