by Sage Rae
“I thought there was something amiss,” he said, his voice raspy. “He’s been taking meetings without me. I knew that, based on a few emails I was getting. But Jesus, it’s all been going so well. I’ve hardly taken the time to notice.”
“Been running around town with people like Marcia,” Charlotte murmured, dropping her eyes to the ground.
Manu took immediate offense, spinning his chair back toward her. He smacked a palm against his chest, blaring at her. As he spoke, spit came out of his mouth, diving to the ground below. “Fuck it, Charlotte. I’ll go out on my own, you know? I never needed Peter. He was just fucking there for so long that of course we went into business together. But I never needed him.”
Charlotte listened to his ramblings, feeling that they were akin to the drunken ramblings of a person in a small town, saying that they could have always gotten out—always become something. They were delusional words. She pressed herself against the wall, recognizing that they were both faced with incredible feelings of loss. Peter Bramwell, a constant in their lives, was darting away from them—moving as fast as he could toward another reality. They weren’t enough.
In time, Manu kicked Marcia to the curb and set up a guest bedroom for Charlotte. Through the wall, Charlotte listened as Manu called Peter for the first time (he ultimately called five or six times that night, at various degrees of drunkenness), and railed into him. From what Charlotte heard, it was clear that Peter had already moved most of the clients to his private name, his private account. He’d left Manu with only the bare bones of the company, nothing more. It was too late.
Manu howled deep into the night, a horrific, wolf-like sound that kept Charlotte awake. She pressed a pillow over her head, feeling her heart sink deep into her gut. Hatred lined every thought she had. She knew that nothing about their world could ever be the same.
When she awoke the following morning, she began to pack Manu’s things. He was stretched out on the couch, a bit of vomit flecked around his mouth. When his eyes parted, surrounded by cracked, dried gunk, she announced to him that he had to get rid of his apartment immediately. That he wouldn’t be able to afford it. He was too hungover to argue. He watched her through the slits in his eyes as she packed up the rest, as she arranged for a storage unit for the bigger items. Then, she announced to him her plan.
He would return with her to France. She would graduate, and they would move to the south—where their parents had grown up. It would be a fresh start for both of them, without memories of Peter Bramwell. He could become whatever rich scoundrel he wanted to be, in New York. Europe would be theirs.
“It’ll give us the kick we need,” Charlotte said, snipping a piece of tape and spreading it across the top of a box. “Peter Bramwell will be nothing but a distant memory, when you start your new company back at home. Trust me on this, Manu. This is the best decision for both of us.”
But even as she spoke, she recognized the hollowness in her own words. How could she press forward, when the very concept of love, of friendship, seemed so hollow?
Peter, 28 years old
Peter Bramwell’s entrance to Montpellier had gone almost entirely to plan thus far. According to several sources, he’d known that Charlotte would be holding a private meeting with a potential client at a restaurant she couldn’t quite afford, before assuredly pissing the client off and ridding herself of the job before she’d even gotten it. He’d known that when he would see her—for the first time in, what, five years?—she would be riled up, electric, fiery. It was very much her “brand.” At least, that’s what he’d heard.
It wasn’t exactly who she’d been when he’d known her, growing up. But people changed. He knew that better than anyone. And now, according to these sources (men who’d described a spit-fire half-French, half-American architect in the south of France), she was a take-no-shits kind of woman, a woman who put you in your place before you said an off-color comment. Something about this made Peter’s heart burn with intrigue. It had been a long time since he’d met a woman that was his equal.
Of course, he’d once had her. But back then, she’d been a 21 year old know-nothing, weepy-eyed and eager to please.
Perhaps, he thought—with an arrogant jolt—it was because of him that she’d become this kind of woman. He’d given her the necessary kick in the ass. Or so the saying goes.
Peter had rented a penthouse apartment at a nearby hotel, just outside of the city centre of the Mediterranean city. He stood on the balcony, shirtless, as the sun beamed down on him. Down below, French people skirted down the road, baguettes in-hand, their hats shimmering on their heads. He marvelled that it had been maybe ten years since he’d been to Montpellier, that last summer before college, when he’d tagged up with Manu and Charlotte and spent an electric summer between lunches of fine cheeses and the ocean waves.
Now, he was back.
His assistant, Tyler, knocked at the door of the bedroom. Peter called for him to enter, then swirled toward him, tilting his head. “What’s up?”
“I have Japan on the line,” Tyler said. He was a little five-foot-nothing guy, with a flat head and curly hair. But he was whip-smart and never missed a deadline, and didn’t allow Peter to skip a meeting. He’d become an essential part of Peter’s business, which had grown from simple stock exchanges to a social media internet company. He had reached over a billion users the previous month, which was cause for celebration. At least, if he’d been a bit younger, a bit more electric, he would have celebrated.
But these days, he felt a bit too empty for such things.
Peter hunkered over the desk, pressing his finger on a button that would unite him with his Japanese branch of his social media company. The manager, Ichiro, responded with a “Hello, Peter?” before diving into the various stats for the week. “We’ve got numbers through the roof this week. Traffic doubled, tripled, almost, since May. People are buying stock like crazy,” he announced, his voice giddy.
“Ha. That’s great news, Ichiro,” Peter said. His eyes returned to the window, gazing toward the northern mountains. Why didn’t he feel that once-familiar jolt of arrogance at this announcement? It seemed like everyone who worked beneath him was able to reap the rewards of his company, announcing their involvement and getting endless rewards and compliments from the world. But he’d been successful for too long, perhaps. It now tasted so sour in his mouth, knowing this.
“So we’d love to arrange for you to come out in the next few months. Japan, for a month or two. The office would love to have you,” Ichiro continued, sounding almost meek as he asked it. “It’s good for morale, you know? And plus, I can show you around Tokyo.”
But Peter had been to Tokyo. He’d spent half a year dating a Japanese girl, who hadn’t smiled or made a single joke. She was a top earner in the field of advertising, and he’d marvelled at her ability to be endlessly cold when it came to money. When they’d broken up, he’d told her he’d never feared anyone more than her. Not even his father, or himself.
“We’ll have to look into that,” Peter said. “I’ll keep in touch, if you do.”
He got off the phone as quickly as he could, standing up and addressing Tyler at the door. He gave Tyler a small shrug, pointing toward the window. “I think I want to drive out to the villa, if you don’t mind.”
“But sir, you have a call this afternoon with Canada,” Tyler said, tapping his pen against his notebook.
“Reschedule,” Peter said, a word he only reserved for emergencies. “I can’t fucking take it today.” He paused, watching as Tyler’s jaw grew slack. “And can you do me a favor?”
“What?” Tyler asked, almost aghast.
“I need you to send flowers, chocolates, and a card to Miss Charlotte Montague, that architect I told you about. The one I want to redesign the villa,” Peter said. He lifted his half-drunk coffee, tipping the cold liquid to his lips.
“Um. Do you happen to know where she’s, um. Located?” Tyler asked, tilting his head. Peter wasn’t i
n the habit of sending cards, flowers, and chocolates to anyone but models—and he hadn’t even done something like that in perhaps a year, maybe two.
He was acting strangely, and they both knew it.
“Do you have a preference for the sort of flowers?” Tyler asked, almost coughing as he spoke.
“Lilies,” Peter said, remembering Charlotte and Manu’s mother’s garden in Montpellier, the sunlight beaming down on an endless array of lilies, of all colours. He hadn’t given a second thought to those lilies when he’d first seen them. Yet now, he was reminded of the image of them—of the scent that poured over him like a wave, upon entering the garden. He’d once been a snot-nosed seventeen year old kid. And now…
“And the card?” Tyler asked.
Peter ripped a pen from his desk, scrawling on a pad of paper. “Charlotte. Consider it a result of my kindness, that I’m still incredibly eager to discuss the potential salary offered to you for restructuring my French villa.”
The words had enough hard-hitting arrogance to ensure that he still felt above her, in every regard. Yet he stared at them for a long moment, then brought the page up into the air and crumpled it. Why the hell would she listen to something like that? He rewrote it, with Tyler watching him from a few feet away. Peter sensed that this was the first time Tyler was sensing his lack of confidence—albeit, just a momentary lapse. But he resented being seen in this light.
“Charlotte. I would like to continue to discuss a potential partnership. Restructuring my French villa is an incredible opportunity for an architect such as yourself.” After another long pause, he added, “And I know you’re the best for the job. Don’t hesitate to call me.” He included his personal phone number, something he rarely did for anyone outside of his very intimate circle. It was a circle that seemed to become smaller and smaller all the time.
Again, he stared down at the words, and then passed the paper to Tyler. Tyler accepted it, giving Peter a firm nod. He was nothing if not completely professional, and wouldn’t possibly allow Peter to see his personal emotions. In fact, Peter knew very little about Tyler’s personal life. Did he have a girlfriend, a boyfriend? Did he have a family back at home, waiting? He realized, with a jolt, that he’d never asked. But it felt like the wrong time.
“Please be sure that the flower comes with a card that says this, exactly,” Peter said. “And now, I’ll head out to the villa.”
“Good on you, sir. I’ll let you know the moment I’ve ordered it,” Tyler said.
Within twenty minutes, Peter bucked himself into the front seat of his European convertible. He whipped himself from the interior of the city, out to the outskirts, toward the town of Sete and the glittering Mediterranean. In his sunglasses and his white button-up, he looked like a portrait of a very rich man on vacation—his black curls stirring behind him with the wind.
As he drove, he replayed the conversation he’d had with Charlotte the previous day. wondering if she’d spoken of him to Manu at all when she’d arrived home. “You’ll never believe who I ran into at the restaurant,” he imagined her spewing, upon her entrance. He felt sure that they hated him more than they hated anyone on earth: more than any one political leader, more than any single ex-boyfriend or girlfriend. For he, Peter Bramwell, had done something beyond horrific: he’d ended a life-long friendship, for the pursuit of money.
At this thought, his smile faltered. Although he’d done an endless array of semi-horrible things, in the name of money—taking out companies, ending professional ties, breaking up with girlfriends—the fact of what he’d done to Manu, and, in effect, to Charlotte, was never far from his mind. Once, he’d mentioned this fact to a therapist, who’d expressed a bit too much interest in his feelings about it. “It sounds like this is really clouding your brain,” she’d said, sliding her glasses further up her nose. “Why don’t you want to address this a bit more?”
Of course, this had led Peter to dismiss this therapist, even stop going to therapy altogether since. How dare she see into his inner psyche? Wasn’t he just going to therapy for someone to talk to—not for someone to know his darkest secrets?
Peter spotted the villa from the winding, gravel road, about a half-mile away from the gated entrance. His heart quickened as he approached. He hadn’t seen the villa without his real estate agent; in fact, he’d only just received the keys himself, and he marveled at the fact that he would be completely alone on this property: the grounds, the gardens, the fountains that no longer worked, the grand ballroom and the circular staircases. It was all his. And it wasn’t a glittering, top-notch apartment in New York City, or Tokyo, or Singapore, or London. It was edged with history, crackling at the seams.
Time herself had stamped all over it, just as she’d busted all over his heart. Recently, he’d recognized just how alone he was. At twenty-eight years old, he’d begun to wonder if he really would spend the rest of his life alone.
Not that it fucking mattered, he reminded himself. He hopped from the car and snuck the key into the gate, unlatching it and cranking it all the way open. Since he’d kicked Manu from the company, taking all their clients for himself, he hadn’t needed another living soul. Everyone else had been superfluous, easily expendable. Everyone was, in the end. That was the point of life: that he had to do it alone.
After opening the gate, he drove the convertible up to the front entrance, parking it alongside the debunked fountain. The villa had a busted-out roof, a deep tan color, and had been painted a turquoise, which was now sun-tired. The entrance’s door was nearly twice the height of his six-foot tall frame. As he pressed it open it nearly rattled from its frame. The hinges were rusty and clearly unused. He remembered that the real estate agent had said that no one had lived in the villa for the previous fifty years.
As he walked through the foyer, his feet echoing against the marble, he thought back to all the most beautiful mansions and villas he’d been inside since he’d become a millionaire-turned-billionaire. There’d been the one in the south of Italy, with the girls in the slinky bikinis by the poolside, and the five-hundred dollar cocktails. There’d been the one tucked away in the mountains in Japan, with the view of the sea. Always, each of these mansions and estates had a kind of regal quality to them. A peacefulness, which none of his apartments ever had. He wanted to instate that feeling in this French villa.
And he knew, based on what he’d seen of Charlotte’s work, that she was the one to do it.
When Charlotte had been 25 years old, just a year before, she’d been featured in an “up and coming” issue of an architecture magazine. When Peter had seen her photograph, he’d nearly spat out his breakfast (a spinach smoothie, thick with mix-in protein). She’d been wearing this nearly-sheer yellow dress, her nipples popping from the fabric, her eyes alluring and angry. In the interview, she’d stated that she never wanted to work with anyone who didn’t want to uphold the cultural integrity of a given building. “Everyone wants new, flashy, money,” she’d explained. “And I think it’s disgusting. Growing up in Manhattan, I knew people like that. People who would toss away the old, to replace it with the new. What’s the fucking point, if we don’t want to remember the past? Are we just supposed to move forward, pretending?”
This had stuck to his bones. Reminded him of what he’d done to Manu and Charlotte. He’d marveled at the anger in her words. It seemed to him that it was all his fault.
As he stood in the foyer, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He lifted it, pausing to see that the number wasn’t recognized. His heart shivered in his chest.
“Hello, this is Peter,” he said. His voice was that familiar, proud and brash tone. He would never be seen as weak.
“Well. If it isn’t the devil.”
It was her. Charlotte.
“I didn’t think you’d call,” Peter said. He suppressed a smile, pressing his hand against his abdomen. He was conscious that his cock had grown thick in his pants, pressing against the fabric. Just the sound of her voice brought back memorie
s of the past. Memories that, he realized, he longed for.
“How could I not call you, after this pathetic display?” she asked. “Flowers? A card? Chocolate? I mean, I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am.”
“A woman who doesn’t appreciate the finer things in life, I suppose?” Peter asked. His eyes traced the stairway, the rickety railing. It looked trepidatious.
“It’s rather clear that you don’t respect me,” Charlotte said. “Although, I suppose I should have assumed that. I’ve always known that you don’t respect anyone.”
“Only my mother,” Peter said, chuckling. “You know that.”
“I know for a fact that you gave your mother a heart attack almost every day of your childhood. If that’s respect…”
“Come out to dinner with me,” Peter said, speaking over her.
“Not if you interrupt me like that,” Charlotte responded. There was a small tweak in her voice, showing her fear. She wasn’t as brash as she was pretending. That much was clear.
“Come on, now,” Peter said. “I know you want the job. It’s exactly on brand with what you’ve done. I saw that spread in the magazine last year, you know.”
“Fuck that magazine. I didn’t need a marketing campaign,” Charlotte scoffed.
“Just come out for dinner with me. Tonight. Let me tell you more about the villa,” Peter said. “I’m actually standing in it right now. It’s decrepit and falling apart. It has all the old bones to it. You’d die to see it, Charlotte.”
Charlotte didn’t speak for a long moment. Peter sensed that he’d pierced her heart, at its emotional core. This was something she cared about, even as she pretended not to give a shit about anything involving him.
“Where do you want to meet?” she finally asked.