by Ellie Rowe
“You should have seen what happened next.”
“Well…” she takes out her cell phone and opens Twitter. Turning the phone to me, I see a video of me and Natalie confronting the Weasel. Goddammit.
Natalie puts her phone away, gives me a wry smile and asks, “Everything OK, Roger?”
I consider that question for a moment. “No, actually, it’s not. That woman is nuts.”
I take a satisfying sip of my whiskey, then I add, “And I’m crazy about her.”
Nine
Natalie
Oh, God, what the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I acting like this? This isn’t me! I held it together through hours of court proceedings, hearing the cruelest and nastiest shit come out of the attorney’s mouth, and I kept my cool.
But what about now? Who am I? I feel like one of those trashy wrestlers, getting into catfights and slapping the shit out of reporters and referees alike. Who am I kidding? At least they make an honest living.
And at least they’ve got a skintight little wrestling number on when they’re being photographed. Unlike me.
Maybe it was the whiskey at lunch that set me off. Definitely not my normal... Or maybe this is all pent up from having to live like a nun for the last year.
What I need is to catch my breath and chill the fuck out. That first glass of whiskey was good, I shouldn’t blame it for my Weasel beating. I stood up so fast to run after the little wretch, I can’t remember if I got a chance to taste it a second time. Maybe I should have slammed it before running outside.
At least that would have explained my actions. I massage my temples as I turn into the park. I like this area. It’s usually a nice little respite from the hustle of the office. It was one of the few places I’d chance being in public for the last year.
My mood begins to brighten a little as I walk down the path and I see dogs lounging with their owners. Everyone’s keeping to themselves, mostly reading. Oh, fuck. I stop short as I pass a park bench and see myself, splayed open on the cover of a tabloid.
It’s like a goddamn horror movie.
I turn around, trembling, only to see someone else reading the same stupid tabloid. Even the guy with the dog is holding one! My head starts to spin, and I immediately keep my head down, shuffling through my purse for my sunglasses.
It seems that everywhere I look, someone is reading that trash. There I am again, and there’s Roger’s ass over and over and over. I whip my sunglasses on and try to slow to a normal pace. No sense drawing attention to myself.
I take a second to peek over at another bench. The man folds the tabloid up, nodding his head thoughtfully before looking up at me. I try to look past him, nonchalant. He scrutinizes me for a second, then continues people watching.
Phew, seems like I’m not being noticed at least. I must be unrecognizable with clothes on. Isn’t that lucky... I try to enjoy the rest of my park walk, but it proves impossible. Everywhere I turn, I see those stupid censor signs covering Roger and me.
It disgusts me.
I turn around to head back to the office. Now that the adrenaline (and the whiskey) has worn off, I’m feeling pretty terrible, and more than a little concerned. It felt great to beat the shit out of the Weasel, and it’s been a long time coming. But what happens now?
As I reminded him earlier, there are very real consequences for people who aren’t Roger Zane. Throwing my glasses back in my purse, I walk through the revolving door to the office. I try to gauge if anyone in the lobby or front desk is treating me different. That’s usually a bad sign.
It seems like almost everyone is avoiding my eyes, and not in a “she’s intimidating” kind of way, definitely not a good sign. I get into the elevator and take a deep breath.
You’re fine, Natalie. It’s been a shit day, but you’ve done an amazing job for this company. No one can replace you. You’re fine.
The elevator door opens and my heart drops, like an elevator plummeting sixteen flights. Gabby is waiting for me. The bitch looks like the cat that got the canary, with the snide little side smile I’ve come to detest.
“They want to see you,” Gabby smirks, gesturing down the hall to the main boardroom. Fuck. My face becomes etched in steel as I brush past her, allowing my purse to swing into her gut on the way. I hear her whine an overdramatic ‘ouch!’ but I don’t care.
I knock on the door and enter. Immediately, the sound goes out of the room and all eyes are on me. It’s painfully clear this meeting is a lot less friendly. It’s possible the panini maker went out at lunch, but more likely than not, this has something to do with my lunch date with the Weasel.
“Sit down, Ms. Aschcroft.” It’s not a request. It’s a demand.
I take my seat and try to steady my hammering heart.
“Are you aware that your little lunch incident is already plastered all over the internet?” one of the board members hisses, his face turning a rancid shade of purple.
“I want to apologize for —”
“I am not finished speaking!” Definitely much less friendly. “In the short time from our meeting earlier to now, you have somehow managed to further disgrace yourself!”
I grip the sides of the chair to keep from shrieking back at this blue hair. I’ve already been on trial, asshole; you have no idea what I’ve been through!
“Slapping your cohort, your bedfellow, Playboy disaster billionaire, Roger Zane, in public!” The purple board member retires and another takes over to continue swinging.
“Ms. Ashcroft, not only are there witnesses, but there is video evidence of you not only having your hands against Mr. Zane, but also on a photographer! Many accounts claim he was an innocent bystander to your zealous rage!”
I can’t stand it any longer. “With all due respect, that photographer is a known —”
“I don’t want to hear another word!” the board member sighs heavily. He takes a moment to regain his composure by dotting the beads of sweat in his forehead with an Armani handkerchief. “Ms. Ashcroft, you have been an asset to this company, but you gave us your word your private life would give us no further trouble.”
“It seems you cannot survive even a lunch break without revoking that promise.” Another shareholder jumps in, “We have no choice.”
My hammering heart stops for a moment as the realization sinks in. “Ms. Aschcroft, I’m afraid we’ll have to let you go.”
Let me go... Let me go? I can’t believe this is happening. One minute I’m flying high, just out of court and ready to double down on this career I’ve sacrificed and worked so hard for, and now? Mr. Green steps forward, his face troubled.
“Please take your time to collect yourself, Ms. Ashcroft. You have until the end of the week to clear out your office. I know this company has meant a great deal to you, and I assure you, your position will remain in good hands. Ms. Green has already volunteered to handle your responsibilities and will be named your immediate replacement.”
Of. Fucking. Course. Daddy promised.
I can just see Gabby with her ear smooshed up against the crack in the door, squealing upon hearing her name announced to the room. It’s all unreal. I feel so utterly blindsided, so numb. I’m not even angry.
I nod to the board members and say ‘I understand’ although really, I’m just robotically going through the motions. I’m breathing, I’m staring at the table, (the table I chose when I redesigned this entire space), and I’m trying to think back to where it all went wrong.
How could one night of, admittedly, incredible sex wreak such havoc?
The shareholders finally stand up, and I somehow even manage to smile as they shuffle out of the boardroom. Mr. Green is the last to go, and says something about ‘giving me space’.
The door closes with a click, and I’m left alone, staring over Manhattan. What the fuck. I stand up and move to the glass, gazing out at the skyline. I look down at all the little ant-people scurrying to and fro below.
I built this empire. Me.
I think
back when one of the shareholders spat out that this place was a temple, a place I was privileged to work at. This may be a temple, but it was built on my back.
God, I remember the beginning, when we rented this floor of offices, for chrissakes. And now, we own the building. Well, they own the building.
It’s been my work; my optimism; my willingness to take risks; to stick my neck out that has led this company to where it is today. And yet, someone somehow took some shitty photos of me the one night I let myself have some fun, and I’m to blame. I slam my fist against the glass.
Now I’m angry.
This company that I’ve given so much to could have backed me up. They could have taken my side and said to the world —these photos are horrifying, that they have been taken without my consent, and that this company will stand by me and take legal action against whoever is responsible!
We could have spun this in our PR, we could have worked with this to our advantage if they’d just given me half a second to speak! The tears sting my eyes as I let my hands fall to my side. Gabby Green is in my office as we speak, probably ‘helping’ me with the move.
This company will go on.
And me?
I’m out on my ass.
Ten
Roger
I’ve got to say, there are definitely some talented folks on the internet.
In the three days since I last saw Natalie, the videos of her whooping Weasel’s ass have taken on a life of their own. One user has posted a slow motion version set to an 80s love ballad. Someone else did a deep fake, exchanging Natalie and Weasel’s faces for two loathsome New York politicians. There’s even one intercut with some action scenes from recent superhero movies.
My personal favorite though, is the one where Japanese anime effects have been added. There are lightning bolts and energy blasts, and things like that, as well as some sound effects from one of the popular cartoons. I watched that one several times in a row.
The one I keep coming back to, however, is the original video of her wailing on Weasel. I’ve got to say, as impressive as it was to watch in real life, on video, it takes on an even more glamorous appeal. Even a slightly erotic one.
It’s not that I’m turned on by the sight of a woman hitting the Weasel, but more that it’s her doing the hitting.
Natalie... In that tight skirt, holding her own. Taking care of business. So strong. So… well, so unlike the women in my circle.
It is highly possible that the video has been the catalyst for some self-servicing being done by males in the city.
On the other hand, less impressive and inspiring in any way is the video of her slapping me. It’s gotten the same sort of treatment. Some genius has actually put together a twenty-four-hour loop of Natalie’s hand connecting with my face. It’s titled, “Roger Zane Gets Hit All Day Long & Ur Welcome, Ladies.” The lack of originality in the title is disappointing.
More disappointing is the number of views it’s garnered.
Apparently, Jared Barron has seen that video as well. “Oh, man, I mean, just over and over again!”
I’m sitting with my lawyer, Gerald Harris, in Jared’s office. He’s standing behind an oak desk that I swear is the size of a queen-sized bed. Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows provide us with a view of the city. Jared’s three lawyers, all of whom look like cardboard cutouts from a Yale Law School ad, lounge on a couch off to the side of the room.
Jared starts imitating me getting slapped. “I mean, just — Whap!” He jerks his head to the side over and over, saying, “Again, whap! And again, whap! Hee hee!”
“Glad it brought you such amusement, Jared,” I say through a forced smile.
“You always do, bud. You always do!”
These are supposed to be the final negotiations for 755 Park Avenue. My purchase of this building will set up all my future ventures. It is the first step in my plans to create greener, more sustainable multi-use high rises. I’ve been working out my ideas for a building like this for the last ten years. We identified 755 as the perfect spot to finally put those ideas into practice.
Negotiations for the building have taken two and a half years because Jared Barron is the king of dicks. On Wikipedia, under the entry for ‘smarmy, greasy NYC real estate moguls’, there’s a picture of him. He’s ten pounds of refuse in a five-pound bag. I’ve put up with this short, slim-fit-suit-wearing, smirking son-of-a-bitch for way too long.
Today’s the day I finally seal the deal on 755 and get Jared Barron out of my life.
But the prick won’t shut up about Natalie.
“I saw those photos in the paper, too,” he goes on. He looks at his lawyers. “You guys see it?” They grin. “Course you have. Gotta say, Roge, she certainly is a fine piece of ass. I mean, it doesn’t hurt your image any having you associated with her, am I right?”
I look at my fingernails nonchalantly, like this isn’t getting to me. But, inside, I want to dig those nails into his skull and gouge out his eyeballs. Don’t blow this, I tell myself. So, I say, “Aw, Jared, it takes a lot to ruin my image.”
“Not much image to ruin!” Jared bursts out laughing. “Tell me though, she worth it? Nice and tight, huh? Ya give her a good going over?” He bites his lower lip and makes some lewd gestures. “You musta got her good to get her so riled up, she slaps you like that.”
I force another smile. “What can I say?”
“What can you say, you dog!” He literally ‘ruffs’ at me.
My lawyer can see my jaw muscles clenching. He leans forward in his chair and says, “Why don’t we get back to the deal?” He taps a large stack of papers – the contracts for 755 – sitting on Jared’s desk. “We’ve all been working long and hard on this, after all.”
“’Long and hard’ is Roge’s speciality, huh, buddy?” Jared holds his forearm and fist down by his groin in what I guess is supposed to be a representation of a cock. He uppercuts the fist a few times and makes little grunting noises. His lawyers giggle like little boys.
“OK, OK,” Jared says. “Let’s get down to business.” He sits in his chair.
I take a deep breath. Gerald pats my arm reassuringly. A few signatures and I’m out of the woods.
Then that fucker opens his mouth again. “Tell me though, buddy. You going to see her again? Because if not, can I get her number? I got some things I’d like to do to that ass of hers.”
OK, that’s it. I launch out of my seat. “Fuck you, Jared.”
He leans back and smiles at me. The son-of-a-bitch has been baiting me and I bit!
“Aw, c’mon, Roge, just having a little fun with you.”
“You are a sleazy, disgusting little shit-stain, you know that?”
“Roge, buddy!”
Gerald stands up beside me. “Why don’t we step outside for a second?”
“No. Fuck it. The deal is off.” I hear myself saying, even though I can’t believe it myself.
Jared can’t, either, I guess. He makes an amused ‘O’ face. It’s a monumental force of fucking will that I don’t punch him.
“Roge, man, c’mon…” He leans over his desk like he’s about to share a deep, dark secret. “I know what kind of a hard-on you’ve got for 755.”
I lean over his desk, almost nose-to-nose. “You can take 755 and shove it up your goddamn ass.”
Then, for good measure, I palm his face and shove him back into his chair. Whipping around, I zip toward the door.
“Roger! Please!” Gerald shouts after me. “We can still work this out!”
My hand on the doorknob, I look back toward all the people in the room. I’m suddenly ashamed to be associated with any of them. It literally turns my stomach. “I wouldn’t buy that fucking property,” I tell them, “if that dipshit sold it to me for a dollar.”
And I’m gone.
I seethe the whole way home. I tear through the streets like a cannon ball. Pedestrians see me coming and can sense they better get out of my way. Fortunately, they do.
I’ve just blown up something important, just supremely sabotaged myself professionally. Jared’s not going to stop at denying me 755. He’ll do whatever he can to undermine any deal I make with anyone else going forward.
It’s possible I just ruined my entire business over a girl.
No. Not just over a ‘girl.’ Over Natalie.
When I think of it that way, it somehow doesn’t seem so bad.
Inside the lobby of my building, I scan for her. Just like I’ve done every time I’ve passed through here for the last three days. We’ve met by chance twice already. I’m hoping lightning strikes a third time, and she’ll be here. I even try to find excuses to linger, talking to the doorman, pretending to make an inspection of the floors and walls.
Finally, I grab my mail (maybe there’ll be some good news?) and ride the elevator to my penthouse. During the trip up, I calm down. My thoughts are still a jumble, but the urgency of my anger lessens. I flip through the mail.
One of the envelopes just has my name written in a loopy handwriting. I know without foreknowledge that it’s from Natalie. My heart skips a beat. For some reason, I hesitate to open it.
The elevator pings and I wander into my apartment. I let my jacket fall to the floor, tossing the rest of my mail aside; half of it lands on the sideboard, the other half on the floor. I ignore it.
I tear open the envelope. My eyes scan the page. The first part of it is typed, printed from a computer.
“Attn: Mr. Zane,
This note will serve as notice that I will be vacating my apartment as soon as possible. Thank you,
Natalie Ashcroft.”
Under that, handwritten, she put:
“I can’t afford to rent from you now that I don’t have a job.”
It feels like she’s slapped me a third time.
And, just like the first two, I deserve it.
Eleven
Natalie
“Ugly... Yikes... Expensive... Oh, God, is that puce?”