He has the decency to look uncomfortable for a second, but it passes quickly, and in no time the same self-assured, self-contained man who dismantled Clem Ford’s flawed arguments tonight stares back at me, awaiting my next move.
“Could you sign by my favorite quote instead of in the front of the book?” I ask. “I folded down the page and highlighted the passage.”
He turns to the page, and I know he’s being confronted with his own words, words I’ve nearly memorized.
Too many of our American systems are built on bias. The irony is that these biases are often inextricably, if unconsciously, connected to our own sense of superiority. The very biases that make those in power feel stronger, better, actually weaken them. Our biases are our blind spots, and we need others to guide us in the darkness of our own ignorance.
He contemplates the passage for a moment before signing and handing the book back to me.
“It’s not personal,” he says with what looks like genuine regret in his eyes.
“When you’re the person, it feels personal.” I lean closer, speaking for his ears only. “What you wrote in that book about bias, I believe it. Do you?”
“Touché,” he says with a tired smile. “You don’t pull punches, do you?”
“No, I don’t, especially when it comes to Grip. Even though he knows where you stand on us, he still respects and admires you. So do I. I believe you can help each other and help a whole lot of people.”
I let those words sink in before going on.
“For that reason, I encouraged him to continue his work with you.” I firm my lips and narrow my eyes. “But hurt him again, and you’ll have to deal with me.”
For a moment, shock overtakes his expression, and I wonder if I went too far. Then something cracks. His eyes light up, and laughter—completely at odds with the sobriety he’s demonstrated all night— spills from his mouth. It goes on for several seconds, and I’m determined not to join him, but my lips twitch, which only sets off another round of laughter. After a few more seconds of me awkwardly watching him laugh at me, he settles into a relaxed grin.
“Message received, ‘Grip’s Bristol.’ Have a good evening,” he says, dismissing me with a nod and still smiling. “Next in line.”
I step aside with my signed copy pressed to my chest. Grip still has quite a few fans he’s making his way through, and he catches my eye and mouths, “Sorry.” I cross my eyes at him, drawing a wide grin before he turns his attention back to the selfies and autographs. I do what I’ve become accustomed to doing trailing behind superstars— my best imitation of a wallflower, posted up and waiting.
“Excuse me, have we met before?”
I glance up and can feel surprise and disgust warring on my face when I see the man in front of me. I school my features, unwilling to give Clem Ford the satisfaction of knowing my thoughts.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Ford.”
“Well you obviously know me.” He smiles like an amicable snake.
“I’m here tonight, so of course I know who you are.” I turn my attention to my phone, refusing to engage with him. “But no, we haven’t met.”
“Your mother is Angela Gray, right?”
Despite my inward double take, I look at him with no sign of surprise.“Yes. You know her?”
“The Hamptons.” He snaps his fingers as if now he has it. “Last summer in the Hamptons. We were both at her fundraiser for some charity or another.”
I nod, remembering as vaguely as he does, but enough to know I was t
here. “Yes, but I don’t believe we met.”
“Not formally.” His eyes make quick work of my clothes like they aren’t there and he can see what’s beneath. “But who could forget a woman like you?”
Clem Ford is sixty if he’s a day, and he might be a bigot and an opportunist, greedy and corrupt, but he’s not a dirty old man, as far as I know . . . so I’m not sure why he’s trying to convince me that he is. His eyes, poured into their deep sockets and surrounded by a network of wrinkles and saggy flesh, hold no real interest, at least not of a sexual nature. He’s not a man who does things for no reason, so why is he bothering with me?
“Can I help you?” Grip asks from behind Ford.
If I hadn’t been watching him closely, I would have missed the glint of satisfaction in Ford’s eyes before he turns to face Grip. No, he didn’t have any real interest in me, but he knew how to draw the person he is interested in. I was the unsuspecting bait in whatever trap he wants to set for Grip.
“Mr. James.” With his back to me now, I’m left with the unflattering view of the balding back of Clem’s head. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to hear from you this evening.”
Grip’s eyes remain locked on Ford, assessing, picking around his intentions.