by Ellie Rowe
Everything looks so mismatched. The lovely, elegant pieces I’d saved up for and cherished are all crammed into this crummy apartment. Still, there’s at least a roof over my head. And a sneaky little devil I need to thank.
I whip my phone out, already feeling better, and text Roger to thank him. It’s short and sweet. I set it down to start unpacking, when there’s an immediate ding. Shaking my head, I reach for the phone.
“So much for playing it cool,” I chuckle as I check my messages. He’s responded with a dinner invitation. Ah. While my first impulse is to jump at the opportunity to get out of this shithole, I shy back.
After all, if this whole thing is about being independent, I can’t keep running back to him and relive ‘my old life’. I need to set boundaries. I text him as much and wait by the phone.
He responded lightning-fast last time, but a couple minutes go by, and I’m standing like a heel waiting for him. Shit. Did I hurt his feelings? Is he mad at me? A knot twists in my stomach at the thought.
I’m such an asshole. Maybe I owed him more than a ‘thank you’. If anything, I could have had dinner with him tonight to thank him for the movers, then set the boundaries later!
I toss my phone on the counter and am heading to the cutlery box when there’s a loud knock on the door.
I scan around, looking for whatever the movers forgot as I push my way past the boxes to the door. They said he’d already tipped, but maybe they miscalculated or something? I swing the door open to ask them, when my heart catches in my throat.
It’s not the movers at all.
It’s Blake Western, my shitty ex-husband. And he’s grinning to beat the band. I tighten my grip on the door to keep my knees from giving out. What the fuck is he doing here?
“Hello, Natalie. You look ravishing as ever,” Blake grins, flashing his million-dollar smile. I’m not shitting you, fixing this guy’s mouth cost one million dollars. Something about all the drug use and lack of dental hygiene catching up to him. But now he looks like a movie star.
“What are you doing here?” I finally croak out. Blake smiles and reaches for my hand, but I recoil like I’ve been bit.
“I came to check up on you, to see how you’re holding up, honey.” How dare he use pet names at a time like this?
“That’s rich. It was your stupid fucking tabloid that cost me my job, which I know you know, so why don’t you turn around and stop trying to ruin my life.”
“Hey, hey, hey, baby,” Blake’s brows furrow with concern as he tries to reach for me again.
“Don’t,” I growl, and he puts his hands up in surrender.
“Listen, Natalie, this is all just a big misunderstanding, okay? I didn’t want them to run that article, I swear. But it was too good. You looked too good.” He bites his lip as he studies me from head to toe. That look used to make me reach for him, but now it just makes my skin crawl.
“Bullshit,” I snap, still holding firm at the door.
“Temper, Natalie,” Blake warns, then sighs and adopts his smile again like a tired adult. “Look, I’m willing to work some magic with the tabloids for you. Nat, I can’t stop thinking about you, about everything that went wrong. I can fix this.”
I’m trying desperately to register everything that’s happening. At one point, maybe long ago, I would have loved to hear this kind of confession. That he still cared, that he wanted to fix things. But now, I know his heart.
“Nat, do you hear me? I can fix this… if you’re willing to give us a shot.” He closes the distance between us and I’m too shocked to move. “We’ve still got thirty days before the paperwork gets filed anyway, right? Come on, baby, give me another chance and I’ll make it up to you.”
His hand slides up my chest to caress my cheek. That snaps me out of my stupor. In a rage, I slap his hand away from me, and he recoils with a whiney “ouch”. It reminds me of Gabby Green, and I see red.
“Bullshit, Blake! All you do or say is bullshit! Your company, your tabloid, our fucking disaster of a marriage — it’s all bullshit! If you cared about me at all, you wouldn’t have published that article in the first place, you, you snake!” I push him hard in the chest and off my threshold.
I’m panting, clinging to the door as my arms tremble in fury. Blake looks shocked for a moment before his face slides into a sinister grimace. I don’t care. The last thing I want is to see this prick ever again.
“You’re gonna regret that, Natalie. I promise you.” With a snarl, he fixes the lapels on his suit, and I slam the door in his face before he can say another word. The walls shake and dust drifts from the ceiling.
I lock the door and step back, crossing my arms in front of my chest for comfort. I look around at my fresh new hovel, and think, he’s right. I already regret it so much.
My chest tightens. Even Roger?
I lean against my tiny stove and let my head fall into my hands. I just don’t know anymore. How can I trust myself with a man if I fell for all of Blake’s crap? Would I know any better if Roger was different?
I mean, I fell in love with Blake in good faith. I seriously, truly believed we could make each other happy. He had me hook, line, and sinker, and even when the infidelity started, I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.
Blake would never do that to me, I’d thought, he loves me. He wouldn’t hurt me. The signs were there, of course. The way he’d ruin people’s lives with his shitty tabloid, the zeal behind every disgusting photograph or false story. It was telling.
I tell myself that Roger is different, right? He wants to help, respects my independence, and is constantly extending his wealth and generosity on my not-so-ideal situation with no strings attached.
But, what if my regret isn’t leaving Roger behind, but leaving his generosity behind? I do miss it. I worked hard my whole life to be in that suite, to be able to afford the things I love and dote upon those I care for.
Now this.
I see a crusty old mousetrap in the corner, the roach poison and the years of caked-on grease lining the corners of the kitchen pantry.
Faced with all these changes and new circumstances, how can I say for certain what my feelings are toward Roger?
Twenty
Roger
Space. Space. Give her space. Deep breath. And… Space, space, give her space.
That’s the mantra I repeat over and over as I sit in my office looking through some files.
Usually, that mantra is followed by something like — Don’t even think about her, Roger, think about something else.
But that’s like the old, ‘Try not to think of an elephant’ thing. You end up thinking about the elephant.
So, all I do is end up thinking about Natalie.
Normally, when I’ve got a girl on my mind this much, I would do a full-court press. You know the drill; you’ve seen it in movies. Fill her office with flowers, send jewelry to her home, have her place redone while she’s out. I mean, I’ve done all that for women I was a lot less interested in.
Thing is, I know none of that’s going to work with Natalie. It’ll just piss her off which is awesome. I mean, I love that she doesn’t want all that stuff.
It also means I’m at a loss on how to pursue her.
Or if I even should.
A man could go crazy, bouncing back and forth in his brain like this.
Instead of playing mental ping-pong with myself, I try for about the hundredth time this morning to put my focus back on work. Since the 755 deal fell through, and since I doubt even Gerald will be able to fix that fuck-up with Jared Barron, I need to find a new building to go after.
Sitting on my desk are about a half dozen briefs covering the best bits of city architecture up for grabs. None of them excites me, which is crazy. The scent of a deal has always been what I live for. I’m like a dog after an ambulance when it comes to chasing deals.
I hit a button on the desk phone and buzz my secretary. “Theresa, has Gerald dropped off any more building portfolios?”
<
br /> “No, Mr. Zane,” she replies.
“Cool,” I say back into the intercom for no reason, other than to try and pretend I’m not disappointed.
It obviously doesn’t work because Theresa buzzes back, “Mr. Harris seems to think there were some promising locations in the files he did drop off.”
“Oh, I’m sure there are.”
“Mr. Zane…” Her voice is cautious. She pauses.
“Yes, Theresa?”
I can sense her weighing what she wants to say. I’m relieved when she just settles with, “Can I bring you anything?”
Natalie, I think.
“I’m good, Theresa, thanks,” I say.
I stand up from my desk, pushing the thought of work out of my mind. I stare at the city around and below me.
For the first time in five years, I let my eyes wander East, all the way to the river. There’s a particular building that way I make a concerted effort never to look at. Now I do. I take in the high rise’s spiraling glass architecture. I look at the two-story penthouse, connected to its own greenhouse and heated infinity pool.
Where Tabitha Lawson and I were going to live after our wedding.
Tabitha was long and lean, with pale blond hair she often pulled into a tight bun to show off her high cheekbones. An upper East-Sider born and bred. You remember her. She started modeling at six and never stopped until her late twenties when she flipped to the other side of the camera. It was how I met her.
She was doing a cover shoot of me for Fortune. I thought it was love at first sight. I thought she thought so, too. Six months after that shoot, we were engaged. We set a wedding for three months after that. Nothing could stop us from spending the rest of our lives together.
Those nine months with her were incredible. Tabitha was smart, sexy, connected. She spoke three languages fluently. Our nights were filled with outrageous dinners, movie premieres, theatre and ballet openings, parties in the Hamptons with celebrities, politicians and the intelligentsia.
It was a fairytale.
At the same time, my days were filled with high-end deals that always seemed to go my way. Well, mine and my partner’s way — Eddie Bruce, a friend from business school. He and I had been pals since the first day of classes. We formed our company right after college, and it took off. We could do no wrong in those days.
Eddie was an Australian who loved New York City. He was always tan, always laughing, never wore a tie. He was also wicked smart about real estate. No one could resist us when we worked together.
It was a ton of fun.
Everything was on the up-and-up. My nights were filled with romance alongside Tabitha, and my days were filled with million-dollar deals alongside Eddie.
Then it seemed I saw less and less of both of them. The days got longer, and the nights got shorter.
I’d find myself alone in the sprawling offices Eddie and I owned. He would go on trips here or there. Told me he was trying to expand our reach across the U.S., or over into Europe. I didn’t question him. I trusted him implicitly, and always had.
I’d also find myself alone in the penthouse. Some nights, after the construction crew and interior designers had left, I’d go in there and just stand in the dark, wondering what she was up to. She told me she was on a photo assignment somewhere or other; shooting a mogul in LA or a disgraced duke in Europe.
I didn’t question her. I trusted her implicitly because I loved her so deeply.
Two days before the wedding, they took off together.
“Roger, you know we were never right for each other anyway, not really,” she wrote in a brief note she left on our kitchen table.
“Oy, mate, hope there are no hard feelings,” he texted me a few days later.
“I’d like the ring back,” I texted her.
“Eat shit, Eddie,” I texted him.
They absconded to Australia, just outside of Sydney, at a sprawling mansion I didn’t even know Eddie owned. They left me with a business suddenly in turmoil and a huge penthouse suddenly too big.
Oh. And a broken heart. They left me that, too. Guess it was what hurt the most.
I sold the penthouse. Changed offices. But the broken heart was with me wherever I went.
That’s when I really began to live the billionaire-playboy-party life. Before Tabitha, I’d gone out just enough to get my name on Page Six or in the tabloids every now and again. Eddie and I knew a little notoriety was good for business. Mostly, though, I was so consumed with work – and then with Tabitha –I didn’t have time to live it up.
All that changed after their betrayal. I’d think of Tabitha and have a drink. I’d think of Eddie and snort a little coke. I’d think of them together and go home with a stranger. Whatever it took to drown out the sorrow and the hurt. Whatever it took to make sure I never got myself in that kind of vulnerable situation again…
Except, now look at me.
I force my gaze away from that penthouse of broken dreams. Instead, I stare way downtown. A long way. Natalie’s new place is down there somewhere.
Do I dare take another risk with another woman?
“Get to work, Roger,” I mutter to myself. I pick up folders at random and look at the address. Sitting at my computer, I hop online, telling myself I’m going to do some research on this highly promising property or whatever.
Except, I do what I always do when I’m feeling maudlin like this. I start scrolling Tabitha and Eddie’s social media pages. Listen, I’m only human, same as everyone else. I do some hate-scrolling. Or, as others might call it, stalking.
Thanks to everything they post, I know more about their lives now than I did back then. There are pictures of them on the beach and on his boat. There are always pictures of them on the beach and on his boat.
From their feeds, it seems like all they do is spend time near or on the ocean. There’re plenty of pictures of them being lovey-dovey. One or two red carpet events. Inevitably, there’s a post of some arty picture she took of Eddie captioned with a message about how much she loves “this incredible, thoughtful man who saved me” and blah-fucking-blah.
Ah, the internet, where your heartache lives forever in ever new and interesting ways…
Those days, when things went south, were bad times indeed. Maybe I keep tabs on them to remind myself never to let those come around again.
I think about Natalie once more.
And try to throw myself back into my work.
Bad times, all around.
Twenty-One
Natalie
I know I’m supposed to be listening to whatever garbage this asshole is saying, but I can’t. I’m too distracted by the printout of one of their recent articles behind him. The tag reads, “Busty or Rusty: Voters Decide if These Cans Can’t or Can”.
I’d like to die now please.
I’m in some super low-rent NYC rag of a paper. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. That’s not the only favorite article pinned to the wall.
There’s some shit about Dressing for Success: ‘From Bedroom to Boardroom’, and another rating the women featured on the cover of Times by most boneable. This includes Margaret Thatcher and Malala.
“Now, Natalie, tell me a little bit more about why you want this,” the chief editor gestures toward himself and gives me a knowing frat boy stare.
“I beg your pardon?” I ask as politely as I’m able.
“I mean the job,” he laughs, too loudly. “Of course.”
I don’t laugh. I’m still horrified by my surroundings. The chief editor, ‘Bucky’, stands up, his gut brushing against the table, which lurches from the impact. I’m forced to throw my hands on the table to keep our coffee from flying off.
“Easy, tiger,” He winks as he straddles the chair next to me. My hackles are officially raised, but I sit tight. “So how do you feel, Natalie?”
I hate how he uses my first name. We’re not friends, asshole. Far from it.
“How does it feel to be in the throes of my humble paper? I can
’t imagine what it feels like to have the entirety of the publishing world turn its back on you.”
I clench my teeth to keep from smacking that smug look off his face.
He’s taunting me. In a fucking interview. In an interview I’m way overqualified for, by the way. It only makes this even more humiliating. What am I doing here?
Oh, that’s right, I’m fucking desperate.
“Well there’s no such thing as bad press, right?” I try to smile and Bucky laughs, too loudly again, taking the opportunity to scoot closer to me.
“Usually, I’d say the same, but this…” He reaches over to me, getting far too close to my personal space. Grinning near my mouth, he finally pulls back with a copy of the tabloid. There I am again, splayed across the cover.
“This is something else.”
He whistles as he fondles the photo. “You know, I’m a big fan.” he says, eyeing me over the top of the paper. “In fact, I made sure to buy up quite a few of these. Ya know, just in case they get ruined from overuse.”
He winks, and I’m ready to hurl. If only I had thought to record this conversation, I could put this asshole on blast.
“I’m not sure if you’d work out here though, as an editor…” he sighs as he folds the paper. “Besides, it looks like Blake Western has been making noise about buying us out.”
My face grows hot, but I keep my expression icy.
I’m not gonna let this shithead get to me. I don’t give a fuck about this job, and only need to wait for a useable exit from this god-awful verbal assault.
“However, if you could see your way into demonstrating what these pictures showcase… maybe I will consider giving you a junior job; writing copy or something like that.” He takes this moment to lean forward, his hand reaching closer to my breast.
In one fell swoop, I pick up the coffee and toss it in his face. He howls in pain and surprise, and goes flying backward from his chair, landing flat on his back. Serves him right for saying something earlier about liking his coffee “hot” before wiggling his eyebrows at me.