Tess Jolliffe is the first woman who has ever walked out on me. I’m struggling to comprehend what is happening. She’s striking me out! It’s like I’ve fallen through a wormhole and landed in upside-down land.
She moves closer to me, brushes her lips against my cheek, and gives my upper arm a squeeze with one hand. “Thank you for depositing that money into my account so I got to buy such nice shoes and purse, Roscoe. I might see you at work on Monday.”
And just like that, she’s gone.
CHAPTER8
TESS
I haven’t actually called a cab yet. I want to look around Roscoe’s NoHo neighborhood first before heading on back to Washington Heights. He’s constructed a high-rise, not a skyscraper, and when the elevator reaches the lobby, I can’t believe I didn’t make more of a fuss about the divine architecture that’s been created in this space. Then my stomach contracts when I remember the reason why not: we had both been pretty drunk when Roscoe’s town car pulled up outside the entrance. Is that what led to him believing I must be just another one of his indiscreet girlfriends, careless of my reputation?
My mind is turning in circles. Why had I allowed him to kiss me in the car? But he had been so understanding when I told him I wanted to sleep alone at the penthouse, it gives me a warm feeling in my heart whenever I remember it.
I wander around the lobby looking at the artwork, after I give the concierge a shy smile. I don’t care if the man on night duty told the day duty guy about me, because he will forget about me a few minutes after I leave. Like Roscoe inadvertently said, I’m one out of dozens and dozens of women, coming and going out of that apartment suite with startling regularity.
Damn! When he was so cavalier with my reputation just now, it made me realize what a hard-hearted son of a bitch he is. If it had been me on the phone to someone, blabbing about being in bed with Roscoe Bridges, I bet he would have written me off as a wannabe loudmouth bitch. Now everyone is going to think I am a bed-hopping, office whore. I want to curl up with embarrassment and die. And yet, I think every girl must fantasize about being in the back of a car with someone who looks like Roscoe Bridges, having him kiss her. The first time he had brushed his lips against mine, I remember I started to giggle and he was shocked I wasn’t taking it seriously, but all I could do was chuckle and say, “Are we still acting? Because if we are, I can’t see an audience.” It was all lighthearted fun until he went and ruined it all by being such a showboat this morning. He doesn’t even have the excuse of being tipsy. I might be able to forgive him if it was just a slip of the tongue, but he was so super-casual about bringing my name into the conversation with the other person he was on a call with, when they would only be able to draw one conclusion from my being there.
“Did you forget something, Ma’am?” The concierge asks me. He moves from where he’s standing behind the reception desk and walks toward me. “What?” I’m confused, “I didn’t-” The concierge points above the elevator door where the lights indicate the floor numbers. “Mr. Bridges is coming down. That’s why I thought you might have forgotten something upstairs.”
The light shows the private elevator descending from the top floor. No more lobby decor appreciation for me. I make a beeline for the street sidewalk and pelt down the road in my high-heeled strappy shoes as if the devil himself is after me. I stop suddenly, open my purse to check I have everything I need: keys, card, a folded bill, phone. I’m relieved. It would have been embarrassing to go back to collect something important. I turn around because I want to look at his building one last time. Roscoe is striding after me. He’s dressed in a thin white cotton V-neck tee-shirt and black pants, instantly recognizable, even though I’m already at the end of the block.
I carry on running all the way to the next taxi rank and don’t look back again. I try not to sound panicked when I give the driver my address; nor do I look out the rear window once we drive off.
When I get home, it's not a walk of shame. I look pretty much as I did when I left last night. I’ll tell Charlie I decided not to change into any of the old sweats I keep in my bedroom at my parents’ home because I want to alter the dress I’m wearing or something like that. I spent some of the ride back to the Heights softly rubbing my chin to get rid of the redness where his stubble grazed me. My mind is chaos, but my conscience is clear.
Charlie pulls the door open for me when she hears my key in the lock. “Where have you been?” she demands, her eyes wide with questions. “These came for you about ten minutes ago and I have no idea where to put them all!”
I smell them before I see them. The entrance passage, my bedroom, Charlie’s makeshift bedroom, and the kitchen are full of tall vases with roses. It’s as if I’ve walked into a floral kingdom and every single bloom is beautiful. “How many are there?” I’m in awe, but Charlie just shakes her head. “I dunno, Tess. The delivery van arrived outside and two men were busy carrying them in for so long I lost count. Read the card.”
“‘Courtesy of your new partner in fashion. Please call at your earliest convenience.’” I read the words out loud. Roscoe Bridges is finally learning how to be discreet.
* * *
“I’ve managed to postpone the yacht trip until Monday by suggesting it’s a great way to watch the Independence Day celebrations,” Roscoe says. “Please, can I pick you up so we can discuss an extension of our arrangement? It’s too long and complicated for a video call.”
I tell him to meet me at Highbridge Park in a couple of hours. “No more cars,” I tell him. “I need to be outside today.” I don’t trust myself in a car with Roscoe anymore. I leave Charlie at home, busily knotting the roses into bunches with string so she can turn them into potpourri when they start to wilt. I’ve told her my father introduced me to a backer last night and we are in discussions about launching a new line.
Today, I’m wearing someone else’s label. Casual dark gray sweats and white sneakers. My hair’s pulled back into a ponytail and I feel whole again with my mascara on. I jog-trot to the park and find him waiting for me already. He looks cool and I look hot. The sweaty kind, not the sexy kind. It’s a warm summer’s day with a light breeze picking up across the Hudson River. Should be perfect sailing weather for him on Monday.
“I had you down as more of a yoga person, Tess,” Roscoe says when I come close enough to hear him. I see some moms pushing prams and escorting small kids to the playground checking him out, and I smile. “I needed to get some of that sake out of my system,” I tell him, pointing to a park bench. He sits down next to me, angling his body to watch me as I drink from my water bottle. I wipe my mouth and look back at him. “Okay, shoot.”
“I think we can both agree that it’s going to be impossible for me to magic a girlfriend out of thin air.” Roscoe doesn’t beat around the bush. “And I think we can both agree that you are perfect for me.” I open my mouth to say something, but he holds up a hand. “Whoa! I mean you are perfect in the way you can hold your own in a business conversation, and your confidence levels in the environment in which I work are off the charts. You’re the ideal balance of brains and beauty, and that indefinable little something the nice people in Europe like to call ‘class.’ Now, I know you think I’m a jerk, but I didn’t get to where I am now by turning down a good opportunity when I see it. And nor should you, Tess.” He takes a deep breath. “I want you to be my permanent fiancée until I have the Ishida Holdings deal locked down. It shouldn’t take more than three or four months, six tops. Our relationship doesn’t have to be known outside of business circles; I’m not a media whore and I pay thousands of dollars to keep it that way. Our arrangement will be private and mutually beneficial until we no longer need it to be. Then we dissolve the partnership and everything goes back to the way it was before. Only, you don’t have to return to Bridges to create brochures. I’ll set you up in your own design studio and pay the lease for the next ten years.”
I turn the water bottle around and around in my hands. I’m thinking hard and can feel waves of tension emanating from him while he’s waiting for my answer. “So…it’ll be like a normal relationship?” I want to know, because I’m not stupid. I’m intelligent enough to understand that if a relationship walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and fucks like a duck, it’s going to feel like a duck inside a woman’s heart, which means I could get hurt if my brain can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality after six months of living together.
“No, no,” Roscoe reaches for my hand to reassure me. “The floor underneath my apartment is for guests. You can move in there and I won’t come near you without an invite, I promise. It’ll be business as usual until I need you to act as my fiancée. You can think of a backstory if you want to tell someone, but I don’t mind if you keep it secret-” he pauses, still holding my hand as he stands up, walking with me down the path, “-it’s just that I don’t want you to act erratic and irrational if I do or say something that you find offensive. When it comes to that, you have to confront me about the issue as if we truly are affianced and want to work things out.”
I finish his sentence for him, “And not storm off without listening to your logical explanation?”
He removes his sunglasses and squints at me when the sunlight hits him, but it doesn’t slow down his long stride. “I was careless, Tess, but I didn’t say your name in a notches on the bedpost kind of way, I promise you.”
“Why did you choose to send over roses? Do you always do that?” I want to know. My question takes him a bit leftfield. Roscoe gives it some thought. “Tess, I don’t know why I chose to send you one thousand roses in all the colors of the rainbow. Red seemed too trite, pink seemed too cliché; I loved the idea of orange and yellow, but white roses were also appealing. So, I sent them all.” He puts his arm over my shoulders and pulls me closer. An elderly couple smiles at us as we walk past them. Roscoe continues, “I’ve never sent a woman flowers before. I’ve only ever dated ones who ask for jewelry as a memento. I’ve also never had to apologize. Breaking things off with someone after they’ve committed their third infraction means I know what it feels like when someone else is saying sorry, but not myself.”
So, Roscoe’s feeling his way in the dark here with me. That has to be good for him. Perhaps he can learn from hanging out with me a bit and I can show him how grumpy that three strikes rule of his makes him appear to other people. Maybe he will suspend that stupid game of his long enough for him to find a nice partner, and then he won’t have to do this again. Someone must have told Roscoe to settle down by now. I wonder why he didn’t listen to them? I have to admit, I’m curious and intrigued.
“Let me consider your proposal, Roscoe. After all, it’s my reputation on the line. People will think I’m a gold digger and say all sorts of nasty things about me behind my back. It’s not something that I can just jump in and do without thinking long and hard-”
“Is that a hard or soft consideration?” he wants to know. “Or are you trying to let me down gently?”