by Ellie Rowe
A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I’m depressed, I’m hungry, and Ben and Jerry’s has never let me down. I rummage through my cutlery box to find a spoon, and plop down on my kitchen chair to go to town.
“Augh fuh tha gooood,” I moan with a mouthful of peanut butter toffee deliciousness. Normally, I’d reserve this kind of dirty talk for Roger, but what can I say? Love the one you’re with.
Ugh. Even joking about it turns my stomach. I keep seeing those bimbos coiled around his body, and the whole bacchanal scene makes me ill. No. I think firmly as I stab at my pint. Those bimbos will not steal my frozen joy!
I take another defiant bite before getting up to grab my laptop. Maybe some stupid romcom or a documentary about murderers will soothe my troubled soul. I’ve always found that garbage TV and ice cream pair together like fine wine and cheese.
It’s quite the startling difference, isn’t it? To actually go from the fine wine and cheese – life to Netflix and chill-by-yourself-with-heartburn. At least I’m independent. I snort to myself.
Back in my chair, I flip open my laptop to scroll through some mindless social media. Hopefully, someone’s got a new dog or a baby or something adorable to melt my brain for a moment while I think of what I want to watch.
I made sure to get my own streaming account long ago. I didn’t want to be one of those people who still rely on their ex for anything, especially an ex like Blake. I prepped for months, figuring out how our lives were tied together, before slowly unraveling them bit by bit.
To think he tried to waltz back in here when I’m down and try to ‘win’ me is infuriating and downright sadistic. Isn’t that what famous tyrants do? Sell their snake oil when you’re down and out?
Well, not this time, Blake, you fucking prick! This time, I’ll bounce back on my own. Without him or… Roger. My ice cream is difficult to swallow for a moment. Maybe I should have read his message?
No! It’s time for independence. Mindless scrolling! Get with the program, Natalie. I log on for my puppy posts, but there, waiting for me, are pictures of my first lunch with Roger in that fancy-ass restaurant.
Right next to pictures of him drunk on the town. Goddamnit, the bimbos are following me! I slam my ice cream on the table and keep scrolling. It’s like a car crash I can’t look away from.
Just underneath are more photos. My hand flies to my face in shock. We’re naked. Again. They’re photos from the last time Roger and I were in my old apartment, my hands tied up and all.
“Fuck!” I shriek and stand up from my laptop like it’s cursed. Maybe it is. How does this keep happening?!
I try to think back on our time together that night, painful though it may be. I swear I made a point to close the blinds, we both did! Fuck! Did I miss something? Otherwise... how?
Oh God, this is all my fault, again! Roger will be fine, of course. If anything, it’ll only help my image. I can hear his words in my head loud and clear. But what about me?
“What will Tabitha think?” I wail as I plop back on my kitchen chair. I hate wallowing, I really do. But, at this point, I’m ready to throw in the towel. I grab my ice cream, spoon, and a blanket and retreat to my bedroom to hibernate in my continued humiliation.
Twenty-Eight
Roger
I spend a lot of time thinking about all the ways I’m going to ruin that son-of-a-bitch publisher’s life. Initially, I imagine all the ways I’ll skewer him in court.
Eventually, I call Gerald.
“Let’s sue the bastard for everything he’s worth!” I shout into the phone before he can even say hello.
“You can’t sue him, Roger,” he tells me, his patience thinning.
“The hell I can’t. Isn’t that why I have your firm on retainer?”
“You also have me on retainer to give you sound legal advice.”
“Then advise me on how to ruin that fucker’s life.”
“You have no proof.”
“Bullshit. There’re pictures everywhere!”
That’s no joke — social media is crawling with images of Natalie and me in every sort of undress you can imagine. Along with pictures of my wild nights out, which I’m pretty sure include pictures of someone who isn’t even me. But when did the internet ever care for details?
“There’re pictures everywhere,” Gerald agrees, “but you can’t trace it back to anyone.”
I hang up on him without a response.
My legitimate avenues of revenge blocked, I imagine all the ways I will physically assault the scumbag when I finally get my hands on him. The fantasies range from different types of medieval torture, to just wailing away at the guy with my bare knuckles. I run on dreams of vigilante vengeance for a few days before finally calming down.
Which, of course, is when Buddy decides to take particular delight in sending me all sorts of pics he finds on various sites across the internet. I pretend to be good-natured about it, then I finally call him up.
“Buddy, I can’t find the asshole behind this and throttle his neck, but I’m more than happy to use yours as a substitute.”
“Sorry, Roger,” he mumbles. “You’re usually more of a roll-with-the-punches kind of guy about this stuff.”
“Not right now,” I say flatly.
There’s a pause on his end. Then he asks, “How’s it going with her?”
“I have no comment to make at this time,” I say in my best talking-to-the-press voice. It tells him everything he needs to know. He stops sending me those pics.
Still, just when I think I’m over the humiliation and frustration, I imagine someone like Jared Barron and his slimy lawyers cackling over the images. I think of every single lewd comment they might make, and the rage boils over again.
Finally, just when that newest wave of anger subsides… I think of Natalie. She must be seeing these as well. Given the trajectory her life’s been on since she met me, these constant reminders must be eating her up. No doubt every day makes her loathe me more.
The thought ties my stomach up in knots. I literally toss and turn in bed at night, thinking of it, punching my pillows in an act of sheer helplessness. I’ve never, ever felt so… impotent. So unable to rectify a situation.
Normally, if I’m ever stymied in business or in my personal life, I could at least drown my sorrows and frustration in booze and boobs. There’s no way that’s going to be an effective remedy this time.
It’s also not a recourse I feel any interest in taking.
Guess I’m growing, which is nice to know. It also kinda sucks. Being a childish, shallow playboy was a whole lot easier than this.
When I’m finally able to think rationally about what’s going on, there’s a nagging thought in the back of my mind that soon creeps its way forward, and eventually grows into an obsessive thought.
Because what’s insane to me is the sheer amount of pictures of Natalie and me. It’s like there were cameras everywhere. Sure, I know everyone has a camera in their pocket these days, and we’re all basically one-person news crews. Still, these all feel oddly… specific.
Which is why one day I find myself outside Natalie’s old apartment, waiting for a team of contractors to show up.
The apartment is still unrented. Oh, we’ve had offers. A place like this doesn’t sit empty for long in New York City, but I haven’t let the place go yet. I don’t know why. Maybe sentimentality.
I guess it’s because I’m still hoping Natalie will come back to it someday soon.
Down the hall, the elevator pings and four guys in white overalls get off. They’re bearing all sorts of construction equipment, ladders and toolboxes.
“Mr. Zane,” says the leader of the crew, a barrel of a man named Dennis. He’s one of those guys who looks and sounds like the most stereotypical of New York blue-collar dudes. Then you talk to him a little and find out the guy’s more well-read than some librarians. He’s also better at the stock market than I am. There are bankers who have less impressive second homes than Denni
s.
He’s been my go-to guy for nearly a decade now. I know I can trust him and his crew to be discreet.
“Dennis,” I say warmly, shaking his bear of a hand.
He grips my hand tightly and pulls me in close. He grins as he says, “How come I got the feeling we’re not just here to repair a hole in the wall?”
“Because you’re a clever man, despite the rumors,” I kid.
He holds a finger to the side of his nose. “Don’t let it get out.” He lets go of the joking manner and gives me a serious look. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Give me a minute to confirm something, and I’ll let you know.”
“Sure. What is it you gotta confirm?” he asks, not following.
“A hunch.”
I open the door and let him in.
As the guys mill about, I open the large manila envelope I’m holding. Inside are print outs of all the photos that have been circulating of Natalie and me in her apartment. I’ve been studying them a little more closely the past few days. I was finally able to put aside the embarrassment and anger and really observe them. That’s when I started having that nagging feeling.
See, these pictures aren’t just some long-lens shots taken from a building across the street. This isn’t the work of some low-life paparazzo like Weasel and his ilk. There’s something more going on here.
While Dennis and his team set their equipment down and size up the place, I move from room to room like a professional sleuth. In each space, I rifle through the photos I’ve got until I find one that’s of us in that room. Then I hold it up, trying to get a sense of the angles.
These apartments are top-notch construction. I’m not one of those guys – like Jared Barron – who charges a shit-ton for shoddy work. My apartments are worth every penny. There’s not a hole here or a poorly done bit of drywall there. No floorboard creaks nor do you find a loose tile. I know my stuff when it comes to building a home, and I maintain the highest of standards.
When I was fourteen, I worked for a summer doing construction on low-income housing. I didn’t have to, but I wanted to learn the business literally from the ground up, while doing some good.
I call on those old skills now as I examine the apartment in greater detail. I snoop around the place like I’m Columbo. Like I’m searching for that one, just barely noticeable clue, that will break the case wide open.
In what used to be the bedroom, I squat, and turn slowly on my heels. My eyes scan every inch of the room, lingering in corners, inspecting the floorboards near the walk-in closet.
I go up to walls and tap them. I listen for any sounds that seem out of the ordinary. I put my face flat against them and look for any bump or bulge or warp in the paint. I do everything but dust for fucking fingerprints.
And so on, one room at a time. It takes about twenty minutes, but Dennis and his team wait patiently.
After my initial search, there’s nothing that really causes my alarms to go off. But I also didn’t really expect to find anything. Whoever’s behind this – especially if it’s Natalie’s smarmy ex – is likely, a pro. They would have done some topnotch work.
But that’s why I called Dennis.
Returning to the front of the apartment, I find his men lounging by the windowsills and leaning against the walls. Except Dennis. He’s standing in the middle of the living room, eyeing it professionally. I make my way over to him. He senses the seriousness in my attitude and matches it with his own solemn tone.
“All right, Mr. Zane” he says. “What’s the job? Say the word, and my boys and I are on it.”
“Strip it to the studs,” I tell him. “I want to see every brick.”
I lean against the front door. Dennis and his people get to work quickly. Soon, the apartment is covered in a fog of plaster dust and echoes with the cacophony of walls coming down.
Twenty-Nine
Natalie
“Oh, wow, you’re, like, really pretty.”
I smile across the table as Brandi, the 24-year-old interviewer beams at me. The sound of shrieking children fills the air and I shift in the plastic-coated booth.
This is my own personal hell. I must have done something unforgivable in a past life. I wish I’d come back as a cockroach instead, the ones I can see scampering up the corners of this place look well-fed at least.
“Thank you,” I say sweetly and Brandi nods aggressively.
“So, like, for your first question, I wanted to ask if you’ve ever, like, worked by food before?” ‘By food’? As in, near it?
“Do you mean, have I worked in the restaurant industry before?” I ask, trying not to sound condescending.
“Oh my gosh, that’s, like, such a better way of saying it,” she laughs. “I love that! Yeah, the industry? Have you worked in the industry?” This poor girl probably didn’t even manage to get a degree from Des Moines community college.
“When I was younger,” even younger than you, “I did work in the industry, yes. My family had a summer home, and I worked a couple months out of the year at an establishment that sold ice cream.”
It was a sweet gig at the time. Rollerblades and little plaid skirts. All the popular girls wanted to work there. Girls, as in teenagers. And now, I’m an adult. Yet, here I am.
“Oh my God, that’s great! Wow! Okay! So then, okay, next question is: if you were to pick your favorite Dino’s dinosaur, which would you choose, and why?” She asks this question very seriously.
I take a deep breath and scan the menu. Each meal is themed by a different beast from the Mesozoic era. The question itself is humiliating, but nothing compared to answering it.
“Ah… I suppose if I had to choose, I’d go with… Tally the Triceratops—”
“Not Timmy the T-Rex?” she asks, alarmed. Have I said something wrong?
“Oh, well, I thought I’d avoid those tiny arms. It’d be awfully difficult to manage a team if I couldn’t reach my clipboard,” Brandi bursts out laughing, and I force a chuckle. I wish the meteor would crash through already.
“Oh my God, really had you pegged for the T-Rex. You’ve got this, like, energy, you know? Like you’d be on the prowl like a meat-eater, you know?” She says this knowingly, though I’m not sure I understand the reference.
“Okay, so we’re almost done! Ummmm, okay, we did industry question, dinosaur question, umm right! Okay, so if some customers were unhappy with their mammoth meal, what would you say to them to make sure they have the best Dino experience?”
“Well,” I start. At least this is sort of a normal question, right? “I’d check with the servers first to understand what went wrong and assess from there. If possible, I would comp their meal —” Brandi’s eyes go huge, so I adjust.
“Or try to placate the customer by offering a discount on our services, or perhaps a dessert?” Brandi looks awestruck. But that’s also her resting face, so I have no idea what this means for me.
“That’s like, the best answer I’ve ever heard. Except the part about comping meals, we try really hard not to do that, okay? Wow, okay so, Natalie?” She’s looking at me expectantly, so I nod.
“You’ve got the job! She reaches her hand across the sticky table and we shake hands. I feel numb.
I got the job.
I think, ultimately, it’s worse than if I hadn’t gotten the job. Brandi calls Tabitha over and I swear they’re almost twins.
They both smile broadly at me, and Tabitha asks for a hug, which I politely decline. As we’re walking out, Brandi thanks me for coming in, and says she’ll be in touch with more info about their industry. Just before I turn to go, she leans in close to me.
“We’re really excited to have you here. You’re, like, kind of famous.” Uh-oh.
“Thank you —” I start, but Brandi cuts me off.
“So, now that we’re working together, you gotta tell me. How do you look so good naked at your age?” It is an absolute triumph that I make it out of there without slapping her to death. At your age. How mu
ch humiliation can one woman stand?
I slump my way back to the shithole (as I’ve so fondly coined it) ready for an adult beverage and whatever’s left of the ice cream. If this kind of dinner keeps up, I’m not gonna look so great at my age.
I open my computer as I veg out, and my spoon falls from my hand. There’s another photo. Holy fuck, there’s another photo! This time, it’s in this apartment! The shithole! I look to the window, and, even through the grime, I can see sunlight.
Am I gonna have to live under a rock with blackout curtains my whole life?
What’s worse, the photo’s attached to a nasty, salacious article about how my rich ass lover finally scraped me off, kicking me to the curb to live in squalor.
I snap the laptop shut before I can read another word. They’re great at their jobs, aren’t they? Scraped, kicked, squalor. It’s really poetic, twisting the knife tighter and tighter into my chest.
Funny thing is, the article’s more believable than the truth. It makes sense that someone like Roger might toss me out on my ass, kicking and screaming. Who would believe I’d give up living like the Queen of Manhattan to go it alone in this dump by choice?
I wonder what something like this will do to Roger. Should I text him to warn him? Would he even care? The city believes him to be a playboy billionaire, so I can’t imagine finding out he shakes off women would be shocking.
No, this won’t hurt his image. But will it hurt him?
I can picture him, reading this trash and getting steamed on my behalf. The thought is almost comforting. Until I realize it’s all in my head.
Roger is trouble, and I’m the idiot who thought this time would be different. I have no one to blame but myself, and whoever fuckface keeps taking these goddamn photos!
“Can things get any worse?” I shout to the popcorn ceiling. Can they? Because I can’t imagine how. I feel bad for thinking it, and wait to see if I get struck by lightning or if the roof breaks open to reveal a biblical flood.