Chapter Text
It had been a very long time since Roman had gone anywhere on foot. Not since that night when he thought he’d bagged Twatsson for Dad—but he didn’t want to think about that now. Or ever again.
For a week after he signed over the company he didn’t get out of bed except to eat cereal occasionally, piss and shit. And then one afternoon as he was lying in bed, he noticed that instead of just suffering agony, he was thinking about something: memories of his childhood in New York. The nanny taking him for walks to get his energy out when Logan was at home. The nannies quickly figured out that the best way to distract him was to take him to one of the old department stores. Unlike other children, Roman didn’t get excited by the idea of buying anything, since he knew he could have anything he wanted. (Well, theoretically. As long as Logan didn’t find out he wanted it, because then it might be perversely denied. There was always a game involved of pretending not to want the things he wanted and vice versa.) He just loved the atmosphere of those places. The orderly layout. The colorful displays. Even rich kids get excited by the idea of Ali Baba’s Cave, because it’s not really about possessions, it’s about infinite possibility and wonder.
Shit, he’d better not become philosophical now that he had nothing to do with his life.
But suddenly that’s where he wanted to be. He didn’t question it, just showered, cleaned his head wound up a bit, didn’t bother with shaving, and found himself some comfort clothes—sweat pants and a hoodie he didn’t think he’d ever worn before.
He wondered as he walked through Manhattan if people were looking at him, recognizing him, if someone was going to attack him again, or if they were wondering about his head injury. Fuck ‘em. He had a fucking right to live on the planet. It was ruining his fantasy of finding comfort in a department store, though. But now he was hungry—he realized he hadn’t eaten anything that day, or even had a cup of coffee. He decided to get something to eat in the nearest building, which happened to be Garden Park Place, a one-time flagship department store that had been converted into some kind of “multi-use space” long ago, before he was born. Maybe that’s what he should do with his time, take one of the big stores, that were always in trouble—Saks or Macy’s—private, push the company to go half luxury condos, and just live in a department store himself. He was like that girl in the movie, Audrey Hepburn, who lost her anxiety whenever she went to Tiffany’s, except with department stores. Yeah, why not? And then the fuckers could stare all they wanted.
He found a little bistro quickly enough, ordered a double espresso and a salad that he picked at. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself, now that he wasn’t moving. He kept thinking about getting his phone out, his hand periodically jerking toward it through sheer muscle memory, then remembering he didn’t want to see the news, or any messages.
So instead he looked at Her: the girl seated at a table a few feet across from his. Roman had an eye for beauty, which he did admire objectively, like he might an artwork (if he cared about art). But for the most part he assessed women according to whether they were the type that would convince his father that he was “normal” and “virile.” This girl, although pretty enough, beautiful even, wasn’t right for that task. There was something sort of... exotic about her appearance. Something, if he really wanted to get cheesy, soulful. Like a girl in a painting instead of a girl in an ad.
He didn’t notice that he was staring until she lowered her book and looked back at him. He looked away immediately, his face scrunching into a frown. This was fucking weird. Roman didn’t usually stare at a woman unless he was trying to hook her by (falsely) conveying that he was sexually interested in her. (Except for her... but he didn’t want to think about that, wasn’t going to think about that.)
His mood was ruined now, anyway. He waved the waiter over and reached for his phone to get his credit card out of the case.
It wasn’t there. He was absolutely sure that he’d put it in the zipper pouch on his sweatpants, but it wasn’t there and there was nowhere else he could have put it. Unbelievable. He’d forgotten his fucking phone.
“Look, you know who I am, don’t you?” He pointed to his forehead stitches. “Watch the news, ever? Election coverage?”
“No... sorry....”
“Roman Roy? Just sold the family legacy to a giant redwood named Matsson? Got enough liquid assets to buy this place you so-called work in, the whole fucking building in fact, and you?”
The man just looked at him like he was crazy. “No, sorry, I don’t know. But if you live nearby...”
“Look, can I just borrow your phone? I’ll get my PA to bring me my fuckin’ credit card.”
“Yeah, we’ve got a phone—in the back.”
“No your phone. What, you think I’m going to steal your phone?” His adrenaline was up—it shouldn’t be up, but this was so stupid, and all he needed right now....
Suddenly she was beside them, standing over him. So close he could smell her.
“How much is it? I’ll get it.”
That voice. No fucking way. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up.
The waiter named some paltry amount and the girl fished the cash out of her wallet.
“You’re welcome,” she said, when he continued to stare at her, stunned.
“Who are you?” he said at last.
“Nobody. Look, are you gonna be okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah I’m fine. No. No I’m not okay at all.”
She pressed her lips together. Her big, round blues eyes held genuine concern. He couldn’t believe it, or believe how touched he felt. “I hate to just leave you here, but I’m just on my break and I’ve got to get back to work....”
“I’m fine, Ger. Really I’m fine.”
The name had just slipped out. He wouldn’t even have noticed if he didn’t see her eyes widen, and then her brows knit in confusion. “How did you know my name?”
That was the end. He got out of his chair. “What do you mean? I didn’t say anything. Look thanks, Miss... Whoever. But this journey through the Twilight Zone is over.”
He walked out of there as fast as he could and didn’t look back.
He was back again the next day, same time, and she was there, with her book. He didn’t bother to sit down this time, just went over to her table.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I was thinking about that movie just the other day.”
She looked up at him like she wasn’t too surprised to see him, and was maybe even pleased. “Have you ever read the book? It’s better, although I love Audrey Hepburn.”
“No, I haven’t. Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Do you have your wallet today?”
He’d paid careful attention that morning when he’d zipped his phone in his pocket, but only remembered to check for it when the restaurant was in sight: gone. “I already ate.”
“You don’t look very well fed. But you do look better than yesterday.”
He took her lack of refusal as an indication that he could sit.
“What happened to your head?” she continued.
“Does nobody in this building watch the news?”
“It was on the news?”
“And all over the internet, from what I heard.”
“All over the... hmm,” she replied.
He held his hand out. “I’m Roman Roy.”
She shook it quickly. “Pleased to meet you, Roman. I’m Gerri Johnson.”
He felt a surge of relief, mingled with the confusion of touching her for the first time, at this confirmation of the theory he’d formulated the night before that this girl was Gerri’s daughter. He didn’t remember any daughter named after Gerri, and a woman naming her daughter after her wasn’t common—but Gerri was a psychopathic narcissist, so that tracked.
“But you didn’t tell me—what was all over the news? How did you hurt yourself?”
Wait a minute. Wait. Gerri’s daughter wouldn’t have her maiden name. Der. But then what—
“Roman?”
“Someone hit me.”
“Oh! That’s terrible.”
“I don’t know. I deserved it.”
He knew he was staring blatantly at her now, but he couldn’t help it. It was the eyes especially, and the voice, and just... everything, despite the brunette curls that dangled to her shoulders like bunches of ripe grapes, that couldn’t be less like His Gerri. He knew about the curls, he’d seen one of her wedding photos, but they were blonde already then. And in his background research on her he’d also come across a high school yearbook photo where she’d had the brunette curls and glasses but looked like a total nerd (he’d sent a pic of it to her with cry-laughing emojis, and an eggplant and a heart, to which she’d replied with a middle-finger emoji and an egregiously pimply pic of him... from his 20s).
Whereas this girl was...
“Where do you work?” is what he came out with.
“Should I tell you that?” Her face had a pink glow, and she was twirling a curl around her finger. Positive signs. “You might be a stalker. You seem like a stalker.”
“Historically I sort of am, but I’m directing that energy toward another woman right now, so you’re probably safe.”
Her eyes widened and she laughed. “And yet for some reason I’m not afraid of you.”
“I’m the harmless sort of stalker. More of a pest than anything.”
She hesitated for another moment. “I work at Seventh Heaven. Have you ever been there?”
“Beg pardon?”
“The bookstore in this building. On the seventh floor. You’ve never been to it?”
“It rings a faint bell... but no.” He didn’t think this was the right time to tell her he hadn’t set foot in a bookstore since college, and then only to buy his textbooks.
“Well then you have to see it. Everybody should see it!”
She paid for her food and led him down the marble corridor while he tried his best not to look at her often enough or long enough to be creepy. This was a first for him, perving on a younger woman, and it didn’t feel right. He tried to tell himself that Logan would be perfectly comfortable in this situation, his wives and girlfriends had just kept getting younger the older he got. But all that did was give him an image of Logan walking alongside this fragile, funny girl, leering at her, which he suppressed as fast and hard as he could.
In the elevator she explained to him, “Back when this place was still a department store, the seventh floor was this amazing Art Deco concert space where all the big acts played—Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand, Duke Ellington, Maria Callas. And, you know, famous pianists gave concerts. And now most of the rooms are used for private events, but the Round Room has been turned into this incredible bookstore. Every day I can’t believe I get to work here. I mean there’s just so much... beauty, and... history, you know? The owner took over another room, too, where he keeps the rare books, and he’s been teaching me about that area of the business, because I showed an interest.”
Having been surrounded by luxury his whole life, Roman tended to take architectural beauty and grandeur for granted, but Gerri’s enthusiasm was infectious. When they entered the marble-walled room, filled with dark oak bookshelves beneath the rings of a lighting fixture that took up the whole ceiling, it did feel like stepping into another world. Right under the center of the fixture, in the center of more rings on the floor, was a little lit-up fountain, contained by metal grates and glass rings, and if it weren’t for the bookshelves the place would look like a cross between a spaceship and a Greek temple.
“If it weren’t for the bookshelves this place would look like a cross between a spaceship and a Greek temple,” he said out loud, because it seemed like the kind of thought that would impress her, and from the way her eyes shone when he said it, he knew he was right.
“Omigod, yeah. Well um. I’ve got to get back to work. You’ll be... alright?”
“Oh yeah. I’m pretty scared of knowledge, but I’ve gotten through over 35 years without learning anything, I might be immune.”
She giggled, and he could feel his face light up in response, like an idiot.
“Okay um. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Okay Ger.” He winked at her as she went off.
He pretended to browse around for over an hour, stealing glances at her, over by the cash desk, whenever he could. More often than not she was already looking at him; each time she quickly looked away, but once he managed to catch her eye and wave at her, which made her smile. Every now and then he saw Her in her, just a momentary flash. The way she smiled at and laughed with that old guy, older than him, who was hovering around her (the owner, who was “teaching” her?), and touched his arm... that was pure Her. Pure whore.
Before he knew what he was doing he was walking out of there, back in the elevator, getting far away. He was probably losing his mind. Probably this girl wasn’t anything like Gerri. Probably he’d already forgotten what Gerri moved like. Sounded like. (He could never forget that voice. Two people could have the same name, whatever, but no other person in the world could have that voice, it shouldn't be legal for anyone to have it.)
His phone, inside its case, was on his bedside table. Same place he’d forgotten it the day before. He definitely was losing his mind though, because he knew he’d zipped it into his pants pocket before he left. He picked up his phone and held it in his hand a moment, feeling its solidity. Then, ignoring all the text and voice message notifications, he called his PA.
The martinis ingredients arrived in no time. He knew just how she liked them because she’d told him once, at Shiv’s wedding, when he flirted with her at the bar. “I like it a little bit dirty,” that’s what she’d said. It had been fun then, it had been silly, flirting with Gerri. He had never expected it to go where it did. If she hadn’t told him to jerk off as a joke, and he hadn’t been trying to have phone sex with Tabitha... it was just putting two ideas together. And those two ideas had led to a further idea: that she was The One. The woman that he could really, finally, properly fuck. Even now, the idea that it was never going to happen made him feel like he was going crazy. It couldn’t be true. There was no reason. He started to laugh. He sounded just like Ken when Shiv told him it couldn’t be him. But it was true. There was no reason.
Several days later he woke up surrounded by empty liquor bottles, lying in his own dried vomit on his couch. His very first thought was of the girl in that bookstore. Of the way she laughed with total abandon, which he was sure Gerri had never done in her life. But maybe she had. Maybe she had, with people who weren’t him.
He staggered over to the kitchen sink and guzzled water out of the tap. Found his phone, plugged it in to charge, and, after a second’s hesitation, turned on the sound, then got on the shower.
When he got out it was ringing. He frowned when he saw the name of his lawyer.
“What do you want?”
“Roman? How are you feeling, man?”
“I’m keen like a fucking peach.”
“Good, that’s great to hear. Listen, I’m afraid a bit of an issue has come up. I guess you heard about Gerri Kellman.”
He flinched, hearing her name, as if someone had feigned a punch at him.
“Why would I be interested in anything having to do with her?”
“Well, she’s stayed with the company. Tom Wambsgans persuaded her.”
That she would stay with Wambsgans when she wouldn’t stay when he asked her, that felt that probably the worst thing she had ever done to him, for a few seconds longer.
“You’re not explaining to me why I should care.”
“Because now she’s filing a civil lawsuit for sexual harassment against you.”