Free Lovers & Players by Jackie Collins Page B

probably be full of criticisms and snippy remarks–unless she’d changed, which was highly unlikely.
    It would be so nice if they could get along for once. But Liberty harboured too many issues, and Diahann was wise enough to realize that she was asking the impossible to expect her daughter not to get on her case.
     
     
    The afternoon dragged by. Unused to doing nothing, Liberty found herself severely bored. She thought about working on one of her songs–there were several unfinished lyrics she was desperate to complete. Then she decided it wouldn’t fly. She had to be in the mood to write: it was impossible to just pick up a pen and create magic.
    Too bad. She wished she could. She wished many things–number one being she wished she had a father.
    Fact of life: according to Mama, she didn’t. For Mama refused to discuss who her father was, and no amount of questioning had ever produced results. Even Aretha had no clue who that man might be. ‘Your mama never told no one nothin’,’ Aretha had informed Liberty, when she’d first moved in. ‘Lil’ sis left home when she was sixteen to chase some kinda singin’ deal in New York, an’ a few years later, when she got herself knocked up, she never told no one back in Atlanta. She must’ve bin doin’ okay, ’cause she had you all by herself, raised you till she sent you t’ me, never got married, an’ we never heard nothin’ regardin’ no steady man. ’Course, your mama’s always bin private ’bout things, that’s her way. We’re sisters, only we ain’t that close.’
    Liberty had listened carefully, for this was more information than Diahann had ever confided. ‘Why do you think she gave it all up and started working as a maid?’ she’d asked.
    ‘Gave up what , sweet thing?’ Aretha had answered, exasperated. ‘From everythin’ I heard she was strugglin’ from week to week tryin’t’ make a livin’ singin’ in all kinda dives. A steady job along with some place to live must’ve seemed pretty damn nice. No rent. No worries. An’ let me set you straight, she be that man’s housekeeper , not his maid.’
    ‘Same thing,’ Liberty had muttered.
    ‘No, it ain’t,’ Aretha had argued. ‘It’s not like she’s down on her hands an’ knees scrubbin’ the old dude’s crapper.’
    Liberty often thought about the possibilities of who her father was. Before they’d moved into Mr Diamond’s house Mama had entertained plenty of boyfriends. She remembered one man in particular: his name was Leon and he was tall (she was tall), he had artistic hands (so did she) and, like Mama, he was a singer. As far as she could recall he’d moved in for a while when she was five, and treated her as if she was his kid. He’d taken her on long walks through Central Park, visits to the zoo and, best of all, every Saturday afternoon he’d sat her down and let her listen to all his favourite recording artists. Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, the Temptations, Gladys Knight. She’d loved it. By the time she was seven she was familiar with all the soul greats and, to the amusement of the grown-ups, she could manage a fair imitation of Diana Ross or Patti LaBelle.
    Sometimes, as a special treat, Leon and Mama would sing a duet, and she’d sit watching them, totally enthralled, thinking that they sure made a handsome couple, and they sounded wonderful.
    Leon had lived with them for a couple of years, until one night Liberty had woken up to a fierce amount of screaming and yelling, and in the morning Leon was packed up and gone.
    Looking back, she’d realized that his skin was very black, and so was her mama’s. Her skin was light, a creamy milk chocolate, so she’d finally reached the regretful conclusion that Leon couldn’t possibly be her dad. This saddened her, but there was nothing she could do about it.
    One memorable day, shortly before she was banished from Mr Diamond’s house, Mama had stood her in front of the bathroom mirror and lectured her about