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Roger
Space. Space. Give her space.Deep breath. And…Space, space, give her space.
That’s the mantra I repeat over and over as I sit in my office looking through some files.
Usually, that mantra is followed by something like —Don’t eventhinkabout her, Roger, think about something else.
But that’s like the old, ‘Try not to think of an elephant’ thing. You end up thinking about the elephant.
So, all I do is end up thinking about Natalie.
Normally, when I’ve got a girl on my mind this much, I would do a full-court press. You know the drill; you’ve seen it in movies. Fill her office with flowers, send jewelry to her home, have her place redone while she’s out. I mean, I’ve done all that for women I was alotless interested in.
Thing is, I know none of that’s going to work with Natalie. It’ll just piss her off which is awesome. I mean, I love that she doesn’t want all that stuff.
It also means I’m at a loss on how to pursue her.
Or if I evenshould.
A man could go crazy, bouncing back and forth in his brain like this.
Instead of playing mental ping-pong with myself, I try for about the hundredth time this morning to put my focus back on work. Since the 755 deal fell through, and since I doubt even Gerald will be able to fix that fuck-up with Jared Barron, I need to find a new building to go after.
Sitting on my desk are about a half dozen briefs covering the best bits of city architecture up for grabs. None of them excites me, which is crazy. The scent of a deal has always been what I live for. I’m like a dog after an ambulance when it comes to chasing deals.
I hit a button on the desk phone and buzz my secretary. “Theresa, has Gerald dropped off any more building portfolios?”
“No, Mr. Zane,” she replies.
“Cool,” I say back into the intercom for no reason, other than to try and pretend I’m not disappointed.
It obviously doesn’t work because Theresa buzzes back, “Mr. Harris seems to think there were some promising locations in the files hediddrop off.”
“Oh, I’m sure there are.”
“Mr. Zane…” Her voice is cautious. She pauses.
“Yes, Theresa?”
I can sense her weighing what she wants to say. I’m relieved when she just settles with, “Can I bring you anything?”
Natalie, I think.
“I’m good, Theresa, thanks,” I say.
I stand up from my desk, pushing the thought of work out of my mind. I stare at the city around and below me.
For the first time in five years, I let my eyes wander East, all the way to the river. There’s a particular building that way I make a concerted effort never to look at. Now I do. I take in the high rise’s spiraling glass architecture. I look at the two-story penthouse, connected to its own greenhouse and heated infinity pool.
Where Tabitha Lawson and I were going to live after our wedding.
Tabitha was long and lean, with pale blond hair she often pulled into a tight bun to show off her high cheekbones. An upper East-Sider born and bred. You remember her. She started modeling at six and never stopped until her late twenties when she flipped to the other side of the camera. It was how I met her.
She was doing a cover shoot of me forFortune.I thought it was love at first sight. I thought she thought so, too. Six months after that shoot, we were engaged. We set a wedding for three months after that. Nothing could stop us from spending the rest of our lives together.
Those nine months with her were incredible. Tabitha was smart, sexy, connected. She spoke three languages fluently. Our nights were filled with outrageous dinners, movie premieres, theatre and ballet openings, parties in the Hamptons with celebrities, politicians and the intelligentsia.
It was a fairytale.
