by Ellie Rowe
He blinks at me. “My lunch isn’t even here yet.”
“Get it to go.”
He gets the hint, tosses back the rest of his drink, muttering something about talking to me later and leaves.
“Please,” I say to Natalie, pulling out the chair Buddy just vacated. She slips into it. I settle down across from her.
It doesn’t take a sixth sense to feel the eyes upon us. I can imagine the phone calls and text messages going out after folks leave the café.
OMG, just saw Roger Zane and a girl.
You’ll never guess who’s here with his ‘cover girl’.
I concentrate instead on the fact that Fate seems to have taken a hand when it comes to me and Natalie; meeting her by chance at the wine store; meeting her by chance here on the sidewalk.
I settle in and decide to enjoy wherever Fate – and this lunch –takes us.
Seven
Natalie
“I’m sorry, is that whiskey?” I ask as the server returns to our table with a tumbler full of booze. Roger had walked in and made a cryptic hand gesture to the bartender, and viola, the drink appeared.
Roger massages his sore cheek and looks at me.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m having a pretty lousy day,” he smiles at me and shakes his glass so the big fancy ice cube clinks against the sides.
What the hell. It sounds like a great idea to me!
The fact that my job was on the line for something entirely out of my control stings. After all I’ve done for this company, one lousy tabloid scandal, and I’m being reprimanded like a naughty college student. That and fucking Gabby.
“I’ll drink to that,” I say as I nod toward his tumbler. Roger smiles and signals to the bartender. Before I know it, a glass full of delicious whiskey is placed right in front of me.
“I owed you a drink anyway, right?” Roger says as he shoots me another smile.
“I think you already covered that with the case of wine,” I say, starting to feel tingly. This day may be for shit, but at least the guy who fucked me (in a fun way) is being nice. Besides, we’re in this together.
“Did I?” Roger asks, looking genuinely puzzled.
I can’t tell if he’s being cute, or if he really doesn’t remember. What happened to him last night? He shakes it off and resumes his charm.
“Well, Ms. Ashcroft, what shall we drink to this time?” he asks as he raises his glass. I laugh and blush a bit, remembering the start of our evening.
“I think you ought to pick. I said the shop owner last time, and somehow jinxed us into this hell, so this one’s on you.” I don’t mean to sound so bitter when I say it. The night ended quite well in my opinion.
But this whole thing is teetering on disaster. I can feel it in my bones. Maybe our new toast will break the spell and everything can go back to normal.
“Alright,” Roger smiles, giving me a once-over that makes my skin hot. “I’ll toast to the tabloid! Hell, this kind of press might actually help my business,” he laughs and starts to take a sip.
I stare at him, any heat flushing through my body immediately shriveling to ice. What the fuck did he just say to me? Roger finishes his sip with a sharp inhale, enjoying the taste, before he catches my eye.
“What?” he asks, looking worried. “You don’t like it? I can get something else —”
“This is not a fucking joke, Roger,” I say through gritted teeth. He stops signaling to the bartender and looks at me, concerned. “This may be a fun little fuck-up for you, but this bullshit this, violation… it almost cost me my job.”
Roger is deadly quiet at that revelation.
“So, enjoy the boost in your sales, but sometimes, things have real consequences for people who aren’t Roger Zane.” I take a big sip of my whiskey and enjoy the smooth burn. Damn, but that’s delicious.
It’s already starting to take a little of the edge off my burn. How could I have forgotten I’m talking to a man of playboy privilege? Fucking some fancy magazine editor would look great for his adoring fans. Guess he doesn’t care who gets trampled in the process.
“I’m sorry, Natalie.” Huh? I look up to see Roger leaning across the table, looking earnestly into my eyes. He reaches for my hand and I’m too shocked by the gesture to move it. “I didn’t know. That was shitty of me to say.”
Oh.
I slide my hand away from his and pick up my glass. “Just think of something else to toast to before I walk out of here, okay?” Roger smiles, but he still looks worried. Oh God, does he actually care what I think?
“Alright, let’s drink to the delicious lunch I ordered for us.”
I’m about to ask what the hell he’s talking about when plates of food arrive. Am I on TV or something? What is this magic? I raise an eyebrow and clink my glass to his, taking another sip.
It’s already pooling in my belly and giving me the same lovely buzzy feeling as last night. Oh, wow, this food. For a moment, neither of us says anything because we’re so invested in what we’re eating.
Somehow, they’ve made even the salad taste divine. Everyone in the office stays in shape by picking at their luxury iceberg lettuce like they’re enjoying themselves. And, too often, I’ve been a victim of such leafy horror.
But this is amazing. The chicken is cooked to perfection, I’m not sure what this sauce is, but I’d fuck somebody to have the recipe. I look up at Roger. I’ll bet I could fuck this somebody for the answer. I’ll have to ask after I finally swallow my food.
I’m not sure if it’s the whiskey, the meal, or the company, but I’m starting to feel a little less angry about Roger Zane and this historical shit show of a day.
“Why would they go after you?” Roger asks as he calls for another round. “I don’t get it.”
I sigh and finish my drink, ready to give the digest version of my shitty ex-husband.
“I’m not sure if you can tell by my ‘throw-caution-to-the-wind’ attitude last night, but I’m recently divorced.” I watch Roger to see if this sinks in unpleasantly, but he merely nods and continues to listen.
“He dragged me to court for almost a year. He didn’t want to get divorced, though God knows why. He had enough women scattered throughout the city! I don’t think he would have noticed if I suddenly wasn’t around to remind him; he’s a cheating asshole.”
I stab my fork into the salad, wishing it was his face. I look at Roger, and he looks concerned again. Shit, did I say too much?
“Sorry…” I start, but Roger waves me off.
“Not at all. I’m just wondering how such a scumbag landed a woman like you.”
I blush again, resisting the urge to slap myself across the face and snap myself out of it; but it feels nice to hear. Plus, I’ve already done enough slapping for the day, right?
“Thanks,” I mumble awkwardly into my salad. “Anyway, he, my ex, owns all the tabloids that are blowing this up. I’ve been living like a monk trying to stay out of them for all the court proceedings, but —”
I pause, suddenly horrified. How the fuck did he get those pictures anyway?
“So, you think this is all his plan to get back at you then? You must’ve cleaned up in court,” Roger chuckles appreciatively as he receives his next glass.
“Oh, I most certainly did,” I laugh. “That suite you… toured last night...”
Roger smirks.
“That was part of my winnings. Can’t imagine he’s too pleased about it, but…” I trail off, still wondering how they got the shot.
“Is something bothering you?” Roger asks, his brows furrowed. “I mean, besides every shitty thing you just told me, and the equally shitty morning you just had?” he adds, and I snort.
“It’s just… I can’t wrap my head around how they got those pictures.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Roger nods.
“I mean, is he spying on me?” I look at Roger, but he just shrugs.
“Dunno.”
Well, that’s helpful. Isn�
��t he supposed to be one of America’s most brilliant business minds? Still, I don’t have it in me to hate him. He really has been an exceptional listener. I know the bar’s so low for me at this point in my life. But, really. He’s not the dick I presumed him to be.
I think back to how I felt waking up; the sun on my face, bearing my nakedness to the glowing morning skyline. Fuck. I slap my hand over my mouth.
“What? What is it?” Roger asks. “Are you sick?” Idiot. Cute idiot.
“No, no. I’m just. We didn’t close the drapes or anything last night. I mean, I didn’t think to. Could they have gotten a picture from outside? Fuck, this is all my fault —”
“Hey,” Roger’s hand is suddenly on mine and his blue eyes are staring intently at me. “Drapes or no drapes, no one has a right to take photos of you without your consent.”
Damn, if we weren’t so very clearly in public and most recently shamed in a tabloid, I’d consider leaning over to kiss him.
He’s right.
I didn’t ask for this anymore than he did. Even if his career isn’t on the chopping block, I’ll bet it still feels pretty grim to see a photo of your ass on every newspaper stand this side of Broadway. Great ass though it may be.
I’m about to pick up my drink to toast him for a day-saving lunch, when I see someone out in the street with a camera, a camera pointed directly at us. They’re snapping away, pushing aside pedestrians to get closer to the glass.
“No fucking way,” I say as I stand up, slamming my hands on the table. Roger leaps up and tries to follow my line of vision. You’ve got to be kidding me! Is that Johnny ‘Weasel’ Stanfield?
“Is that guy taking pictures?” Roger asks, but I’m already flying past him for the door. I’m not sure if that’s the Weasel, but I’m damn sure gonna find out.
Eight
Roger
It’s like an action movie.
Before I know what’s happening, Natalie is up and out of her chair. She hops the little fence that, a few minutes ago, I’d so gentlemanly helped her over. That she does so in heels and a pencil skirt adds to the excitement. Trust me.
Then she’s down the block. I stand and watch as she shoves some pear-shaped, balding dude with a camera up against a wall. I hop the fence once again, and take off in hot pursuit of Natalie.
By the time I catch up, she’s raining her fists down on the guy’s shoulders and back. He hunches over, trying to protect his camera. I have no idea who this ‘Weasel’ is, but there’s something enjoyable about watching the dude get shit-canned by Natalie.
She leaves off punching him and is now smashing one of her heels on his toes. Weasel lets out a yelp. I’m tempted to see how far this goes. If he really is working for the tabloids, then I have no qualms about his getting a little punishment. In my book, the paparazzi rank somewhere just below cockroaches and slightly above lawyers.
Except, I become aware of the crowd that’s forming. Cellphones are out. The front page of Exposé Extra garners some eyeballs, but not nearly as many as social media. The irony of being photographed beating up a paparazzo is lost on Natalie, given how fired up she is. So, regrettably, I figure it’s time to step in and break up the fight.
“OK, OK…” I say. “End of round one.” I put my hands around Natalie’s waist and hoist her away from Weasel, who’s now down on one knee. I think I can hear him actually whimpering.
“Bastard works for my ex!” Natalie accuses as she squirms in my arms. That’s an interesting twist. I set her down and pull Weasel up to stand. Then I get in his grill, still gripping his arm.
“That true?” I ask. “You work for Blake Western?”
“I don’t have to talk to you!” he tells me in a nasally voice that’s heavy with a Queens accent. He yanks his arm out of my hand. “Fuck off, Zane.”
All right. I can play bad cop, too. I turn back to Natalie. “Were you finished?”
“No.”
“Have at him.”
Weasel throws up his hands, “Wait, wait!” He’s literally shaking, poor douche bag. “Yeah, I work for Western.”
“And?” I encourage him.
“He saddled me with following his old broad around.”
Natalie’s face goes red with rage again. She points a finger at Weasel. “He’s the son-of-a-bitch who took those photos from the other night.”
“That true?” I ask him. “You take those pics?”
“That out of focus horse shit?” he sneers. I give him a look that lets him know his critical opinions are not of any interest to me.
“No,” he says more agreeably, “I didn’t take those snaps.”
Natalie takes another step toward him, and he presses himself further against the wall. “Hey, I swear! I swear!”
I believe him. Some scum in this world are actually terrible at lying. They have so little care for their own moral appearances, it never occurs to them to be untruthful to save face.
So, Weasel’s just a hired monkey out to satisfy the boss’s obsession with his ex. It’s too bad. I’d like to know how this whole mess got started, too. A mystery for another day.
Natalie is still fuming. I could basically give two shits about Weasel and Western’s obsession with Natalie, but I would really like to go back and enjoy my lunch with her. Right now, this Weasel situation is a first rate cockblock, or getting-to-know-her-block, or whatever.
I turn back to the shitbag. “Weasel, is it?”
“Yeah,” he says, like I just asked if his name was ‘James’, like that was the name his beloved mother gave him. New York, man.
“OK, Weasel. How much is Western paying you?”
“I don’t gotta tell you that.” He gets another look from me and immediately says, “Two smacks for the day.”
“Great,” I tell him, pulling out my wallet. I slide out four crisp hundreds. Weasel’s eyes go wide. I’m aware of the fact that Natalie’s do, too. “Here’s twice as much if you promise to fuck off and never try to get a picture of this nice lady again.”
Weasel goes for the cash, but I snap my hand back just in time. “First delete the pics you just took.”
“Aw, Zane, c’mon…” I open my wallet back up to return the bills. “All right, all right, geez.”
I guess he can do the math. Weasel quickly deletes the images, I hand him the cash, and he’s off into the New York City crowd with a quick two-finger salute and a “pleasure doing business with you.”
What a, well, weasel.
I turn back to Natalie, wiping my hands together like I’m brushing off dirt. “Well, that takes care of that. Shall we finish our lunch?”
To my surprise, she’s now giving me the evil eye that she’d fixed on Weasel a moment ago. “Why did you do that?”
“Because you were pissed off at what he was doing.”
“I don’t need you to rescue me.”
What’s going on here? “OK…” I say. “So, our food is getting cold, and —”
“I’m a big girl,” she interrupts.
“Believe me, I’m aware.”
“I can solve my own problems.”
She can’t be serious, right? “Is this your way of saying ‘thank you’, because —”
“Money doesn’t solve everything, you know.”
“Well, it certainly solved this, didn’t it?
She turns on her heel and storms off.
Thank fucking you!
I pursue her once again. “Hey, what the hell is this? Why can’t you just accept a little bit of help?”
She doesn’t answer me; she just keeps walking with her eyes straight ahead and her lips pursed with fury. Christ, it’s like this lady’s only got two settings. I mean, this is a huge overreaction, right? Wouldn’t most people be happy to have a mess like this wrapped up so neatly?
“Yes or no,” I say, “my money got rid of that asshole and saved you from further embarrassment?”
Now she stops and turns to me. I kind of wish she’d kept walking, because the anger radiati
ng from her is actually kinda scary. No wonder Weasel was cowering. “Not all of us are so rich, we can just afford to do whatever the fuck we want and then count on our wallets to clean up the mess.”
“Yeah,” I point out, “that’s why I did it. Because I was in a position to be helpful. In fact, in English, we have a word for when someone lends their money to a person in need. It’s called ‘charity’.”
The word’s barely out of my mouth before I realize my mistake. Sure enough, she slaps me. Again. People are still filming us, and I think about how many ‘likes’ that will get on social media.
“So, that is all I am to you?” she vents. “Some sort of charity case?”
“No, that’s not what I said…”
“And was that a ‘charity fuck’ you gave me last night? Because let me tell ya, Zane, that’s charity I can do without!”
“Wait a second. Last night was not ‘charity’ and you know that.”
“No. What I know is — I would like you to leave me alone.”
My head’s spinning. How did things go sideways so quickly?
I watch her go. Sad as it makes me to have her storm off… it does give me a nice view of her ass in that tight skirt.
Yes, I’m a bit of a dog.
Back at Maria’s, I’m in a daze. I sit down to try and enjoy the rest of my lunch. I barely taste my burger. I stare at the empty seat across from me; the whiskey glass with her lipstick on it is still there.
Whiskey. Nature’s remedy.
I dump what’s left of her drink into mine and polish it off. I gesture to Louisa to bring me another.
To my surprise, it’s Maria herself who delivers the drink. She’s in her chef’s jacket and has her long black hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Ho, boy,” she says as she settles into the seat across me. She’s a Boston native and has never quite shaken the accent. It’s a funny contrast to the highbrow nature of her cooking.
“You caught that?” I ask.
“I heard the commotion and saw her hop the fence.”