by Edward Vilga
Monique and I drop off the Jag at Andrew’s garage. We hail a cab back to my place. We’re barely able to keep our clothes on. We have the best sex we’ve ever had—and that’s really saying something. I wonder if it’s because there’s a greater connection between us (I can almost hear Monique responding, “God Forbid!”) or whether it’s simply the shared triumph of the day, of a job well done, and a goal achieved. Or, perhaps, it’s just that Monique finds my new bank balance—okay, it’s not mine, but my project’s—more stimulating than anything I can do in the sack.
In any case, whether it’s the quality of our time together, or the day’s victory, or just increased capital, Monique falls asleep and actually stays at my place until morning.
She’s seemingly not embarrassed by this breach of our Fuck Buddy contract, and I certainly wouldn’t dream of asking her to leave, but I can’t help but wonder if this means we’re embarking on a Mom-and-Pop mission together. Am I—or is she making me into—Becker Manqué?
In any case, at 7 a.m., Monique awakens leisurely, smiling at me like the lovely Cheshire cat she is. “Good morning, mogul,” she says and kisses me.
“Not yet,” I reply.
“Soon,” she says. “Soon.”
CHILD’S POSE
(Balasana)
When you can’t take it any more in yoga class, rather than getting up and grabbing a cigarette in the lobby, you’re supposed to put yourself in Child’s Pose.
You kneel, then send your hips back to your heels, letting your head melt towards the floor.
Unless your hips are insanely tight, it actually feels pretty good. Even the most demanding teachers know that they sometimes have to let their students chill, pausing after a series of challenging sequences before beginning another.
As an adult, however, I’ve found so many more potent ways of checking out.
I sometimes wonder if Shane would have continued with our restaurant even after my betrayal, dutifully holding up her end of the bargain. The investor’s withdrawal, however, immediately put a halt to the entire venture.
I still bitterly recall the moment where I gathered up the few things I’d left behind, like my laptop, as the rusty grate came down and the “For Lease” sign went up. I particularly recall the stinging sadness of the landlord, already irritated with my sudden evacuation, slapping Shane’s vintage Escoffier back into my hands. The perfect gift has been handed back to me unread, a metaphor in more ways than one.
I left a half-dozen messages that went directly to voicemail, agonizing that I was compounding things by now harassing her in my pathetic quest for forgiveness. We both had keys to each other’s places, but I wasn’t about to break in, yet I strayed dangerously further into stalker territory by waiting outside her building. Soon, I realized that she wasn’t there; she must have returned to her folks in Virginia or decided to stay with a friend. She’d made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with me.
And of course, I couldn’t fault her in the least.
I don’t want anything to do with me either.
Chapter 21
Totally back in character, the next morning Monique prepares to depart almost immediately upon awakening. As she dresses, she casually reveals her Sunday plans, also something she’s never done before.
Her day consists of Pilates, lunch with someone named Simone (whom she’s never mentioned, as we never talk about the people in our lives), going into the office for a few hours, and packing before she leaves for Becker Business in Rio for two weeks, then London, and then a month in Asia.
Just before leaving, as though it’s an afterthought, she gets down to business. “I’ll follow up and make sure the first portion of the $3.8 million is in hand by Wednesday. They’ll definitely want to structure something in partial payments to make sure it’s all going according to plan. That would be standard. Do you have a lawyer you want to draw up the LLC and do the filings so that we can get the bank accounts open?”
Since my lawyer is threatening to sue me for nonpayment post Haven debacle, the answer is a resounding “no.”
“We can use my personal attorney then. You’ll love her, actually. As ruthless as they come. When we were renegotiating my contract, I swear she’s the only person alive who’s ever made Becker break a sweat. Oh, and about my deal,” she purrs—here it comes, finally—“obviously, I can’t really run this for you. I’ve no time of course, but it does sort of feel like a potential conflict of interest with my day job.”
“I get that.”
“This really is your baby. I’m happy to advise as needed, of course, but I really think you mostly need me to initially structure things from a financial and legal perspective, and, of course, to handhold your investors until the money’s in the bank. Once you launch, with a good accounting and management structure in place, I’m certain you can run the day-to-day operations on your own.”
“I agree,” I say, wondering when she’s going to get to the dollars-and-cents punchline.
“So, think of it as a finder’s fee, but I think my receiving a standard ten percent of the initial offering seems reasonable. Don’t you agree?”
Even I can do that math. That’s $380,000—and, actually, that seems like a helluva lot of money, but who am I to argue? Without Monique’s help, I’d still be getting laughed at by glorified bank tellers.
I do have one concern, however. “Isn’t that going to topple the budget?” I ask.
“Nah,” Monique smiles with breezy confidence as kisses me and heads toward the door, “I built it in.”
The next two weeks fly by.
Although Monique’s largely in Rio, she keeps totally on top of everything. I find myself needing to log on hourly to check my emails from her. Each one is precise, never straying from her brisk, businesswoman mode. In business or in bed, Monique doesn’t like to waste time.
Papers are drawn up remarkably swiftly, papers I do mostly read, but frankly, without a law degree, I’d have to ask so many questions that the legal fees to explain them to me might exceed $3.8 million. Upon signing, the first payment (for one quarter of the offering) plus Monique’s ten percent finder’s fee, arrives in the new account for the LLC Monique’s set up. I can’t believe it. Suddenly, I have over one million dollars at my disposal.
Not really, of course. Until we’re up and running, Monique has sole authority to dispense the funds. It actually does make sense because not only is she the financial brains behind this, it’s also her professional standing, her attorney, and her accountant who make everything happen like magic.
There are a few moments—like with the Boyz—where I almost feel ancillary to my own vision, but then I stop myself. Monique may know how to make the numbers sing on the spreadsheet, but it’s my vision—a million tiny choices about obsessive details and broad design and getting in the right crowd—that will make or break this venture.
At midnight, I get a text message from Janek canceling our next lesson. No explanation, just a brief apology. It’s unlike him, but I’m not concerned. In fact, I’m grateful for the double benefits of getting to sleep late and being able to charge for the late cancellation.
Andrew and I don’t spend that much time talking about progress, but he makes a point to inquire during each and every session, usually picking up exactly where his last query left off. He’s genuinely interested, and he is completely focused when we discuss my venture, often offering immensely helpful practical advice. Nonetheless, as soon as possible, he winds back to his primary focus—himself.
Indeed, everything with Andrew has its own established routine. Board meetings, annual reports, and tennis clubs—in short, everything except his secret extracurricular activities—reflects an almost royal predictability. I have somehow become part of that comforting routine. For example, twice a week, I wave at the doormen, and they nod, calling up as a mere formality. Usually, I’m halfway down the hall and walking toward the elevator before Andrew or Danielle answers thei
r phone.
So I’m quite surprised when I show up to teach on Tuesday and the doorman, named “A. Gomez” (Their nametags are, strangely, first initial and last name only, as though more than that would be too familiar and lead to a social revolt.), stops me. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Harding isn’t here.”
“Really? He didn’t call me to cancel. That’s unlike him,” I respond.
I suppose there could have been some business or family emergency, and it is true that every now and then a voicemail does get lost. I leave a message saying I assume there was a miscommunication, and that I’ll see him on Thursday.
Two mornings later, when Thursday arrives, I’m even more surprised. Surrounding the exterior of Andrew’s building there’s a slew of paparazzi milling about. Cameras are poised, and reporters are at the ready.
I have no idea what’s going on, so I elbow my way through the throng until A. Gomez catches my eye and lets me pass into the lobby.
“What the hell’s going on?” I ask, thinking that this is not the kind of building that would ever sanction any new-moneyed tabloid starlet, no matter how much cash she offered them.
“You don’t know?” Gomez asks.
“Know what?” I continue in my clueless way.
A. Gomez seems pained to share with me verbally, gesturing instead to the New York Post headline on his desk. The cover photograph and headline assault me. There’s Andrew himself with a bold headline, “Harding Shoots Himself … Again!” placed over a cupid’s arrow and a photograph of what looks like an attractive woman sneaking out of a hotel room. From previous yoga-lesson confessionals, I realize this is the attorney on the Cincinnati merger.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. I barely skim the article although its point is overwhelmingly clear. The Über-wolf’s been caught in a trap.
Inside the paper, there are photographs of Danielle as the classic “wronged woman,” wearing sunglasses, looking down and downtrodden, but nonetheless ravishing. I suppose she is devastated, and the $10 million she’d be entitled to after nine months of marriage is apparently not going to cut it. It seems Danielle wants her tragedy lifted by contesting the prenup and getting a full third of Andrew’s assets, which the Post conservatively estimates at $1.4 billion.
“Do you know how to reach him?” I ask. “I just want to talk to him as a friend. See how he’s doing.”
With what I read as genuine sympathy, A. Gomez nods. “Sorry, sir. I honestly don’t know where he is. Mrs. Harding is upstairs now, but she’s told us no visitors are allowed except her mother and her lawyers.”
That’s fine. I am fond of Danielle, but I have no need to see her now, and I suppose I am officially more on the groom’s side here.
I’m not sure what to do. I’ve only got Andrew’s home phone, not his cell. I suppose I could track down his office and call there, but it might be quite a challenge to get through the barrage of reporters who are no doubt pursuing him for the story. I feel that, as his unofficial therapist, it’s my responsibility to check in on my patient rather than just allow our counseling sessions to terminate this abruptly. Yet truthfully, unless Andrew contacts me, there’s really nothing I can do.
The press takes a few pictures of me almost by default as I exit—clearly, I might be someone connected to something just because I gained entrance to the building—but there’s little fuss or calling after me. The press isn’t willing to risk following me, someone who’s perhaps not even a real player in this drama, when at any moment glamorous victim Danielle or how-the-mighty-have-fallen Andrew himself might appear.
It is, however, an amazingly beautiful May day, and as I walk aimlessly along Park Avenue, despite my concern for Andrew, I’m struck by how gorgeous the manicured perfection is. Quite soon, however, as I’m strolling along, that sense of being stared at begins to build. It’s a very funny feeling, and while I’m sure there are a handful of creditors from the last venture and a score of disgruntled chicks who are potentially angry enough to stalk me, I doubt that’s the case.
When I turn around, I see a sleek limo moving a little slower than the rest of the traffic. I stop, and the car slows. I turn right, and the gleaming vehicle follows me. This seems like rather cloak-and-dagger stuff, but then my annoyance gets the better of me. It’s 10 a.m. and I’m on Park Avenue in broad daylight; I want to know who the hell is tailing me.
I stop, and the limo pulls up alongside me. The tinted black glass window slides down, and there’s Andrew. “Hop in,” is all he says, and I, of course, comply.
“I’m afraid things are in a bit of a mess,” he rather understates as we whirl around the block, going I’m not sure where.
“I’m sorry to hear about all of your troubles,” I empathize.
Andrew launches right in to the latest saga, most of which I already know from our previous yoga-as-therapy sessions and from skimming the Post.
What’s striking about the conversation is that this is exactly like one of our old yoga sessions,with two differences: 1) we’ve dispensed with the pretense of any poses, restorative or otherwise, and 2) I’m not getting paid. Or at least, I don’t think I am. Andrew, however, makes that point clear as he dives into the next chapter of his travails.
“And most unfortunately, I’m quite frankly rather broke,” Andrew confesses.
“Really?” I don’t disguise the surprise in my voice. After all, this is coming from someone cruising around aimlessly in his chauffeur-driven Bentley.
“Danielle’s hired Vanessa Miller, who’s perhaps the most aggressive and ruthless divorce attorney I’ve ever met. How I wish she were representing me. As it is, all my assets—every credit card, every bank account—have been completely frozen. Of course, I still have a few friends and connections. I’ve got a suite at the King James since Clifton there is a dear old friend, and he knows I’ll settle up the second this is over.”
“And you’ve got wheels.” I still find it hard to believe that Andrew is broke. The two concepts “Andrew” and “broke” seem entirely alien to each other.
“Well, for the moment, I may be in possession of a Bentley, but I’ve barely enough cash to fill the tank.”
I’m sure Andrew is being relatively truthful regarding the overall situation, but still I find it hard to believe that he’s anywhere near panhandling on the subway. I can just hear his pitch: “Brother, can you spare … well, $25 for a martini at the Four Seasons?”
And yet, when he looks at me with those hangdog eyes, I see that he really is in pain. But damn it—worst-case scenario, Danielle gets half of everything, leaving him with what … seven hundred million dollars? Being a little less than a billionaire myself, I feel that that’s the kind of suffering anyone should be able to bear.
For the first time, I’m feeling annoyed with Andrew, perhaps—curiously enough—because I’m no longer pretending to teach him yoga. Although I am no one to give anyone advice or lecture to anyone, particularly on the ethics of sexual indiscretions, I find myself ready to launch into a “Snap Out of It” moment. Seeing him screw up his perfectly awesome life—zillions of dollars, vast respect, gorgeous young wife, acres of sowed wild oats—actually pisses me off. Although I have zero credibility in this regard, I want to give him a tough-love speech about not trashing his life with endless mindless indiscretions.
Maybe that’s the problem, I think. Maybe no one has had the guts or the opportunity or the inclination to tell Andrew the truth: that these problems are entirely of his own making, and that it’s high time he stopped indulging in such chaos.
Just as I’m about to attempt my first ever “it’s time you grew up” speech, I’m utterly thrown when Andrew—my Role Model—his baronial composure lost, actually chokes up. Seemingly on the verge of sobbing, he holds himself back but reaches for the perfectly triangulated pocket square in his suit pocket and unfolds it. He wipes his face, obscuring the question of whether or not any tears fell, although it seems like perhaps a few were shed.
I’m silenced. The dude’s in pain. His suffering is real. He doesn’t need a lecture from me. This whole incident would obviously be enough of a wake-up call for anyone. What he needs now is just support. I throw a filial arm around his shoulders. It feels both a little awkward and yet totally right.
A moment later, when Andrew’s fully composed, I remove my arm with a double tap, an oddly comforting gesture as though I’m burping a baby.
We drive ten or twenty blocks through Park Avenue green lights, circling pointlessly around our country’s highest per-capita-income zip code. Andrew looks away, trying to stabilize the waves of emotion coursing through his stately frame.
“Thank you,” is all he says.
I nod, trying to convey that I’m there for him. “This must be very difficult,” I say to him.
“Yes. It certainly is.” There’s a weighty silence. Andrew fills it. “But there is one thing I’ve learned.”
I wait, extremely glad that my speech was unnecessary and eager as always for Andrew’s wisdom. He turns to me, that intensely vulnerable look still in his eyes.
“I never should have sent the Cincinnati lawyer flowers. It always stands out on a credit card statement.”
I have no response. That’s the lesson? That’s all he’s learned from his downfall. Andrew continues, unaware of my reaction.
“Other things—jewelry, for example—you have to pick out in person and can just pay for in cash,” he continues. “You’d be surprised how many reputable jewelers will even give you a significant discount when you do. And obviously, any trip or dinner or hotel room just seems like a normal business expense. But flowers on your AmEx statement: that starts ringing bells. Any wife is bound to eventually to put two and two together.”
I take this in. He’s not capable of learning to avoid the folly of his ways. As always, he’s only interested in one thing—not getting caught.