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It was astounding. I’d been feeling down in the dumps when my doorman called upstairs to inform me that something had arrived. “Yes, just send it up please,” I’d said weakly.
“No,” said Herberto. “This requires your signature, they won’t take mine.”
“Alright,” I said with a sigh. I rolled off the couch, looking my worst. I’d had no jobs today and had spent hours alone in a dark apartment, feeling miserable, re-running the sensual times I’d had with Rafe over and over in my head. My bedhead was disgusting and I probably smelled, I was wearing last night’s sweats with a very visible tomato stain on the knee.
But I didn’t care. Since Rafe ghosted me, I was a mess psychologically. I couldn’t focus on anything and had become the type of model that designers look for – a clotheshanger with no personality, a sullen expression, caved in cheeks and a penchant for moodiness. It was nothing like the public persona I’d built for myself, sparkling, bouncy, healthy, a real California girl.
So I schlepped downstairs in my slippers. Who cares if my neighbors saw? There were other celebrities in this building too, they could stalk Taylor Swift or Blake Lively instead.
And when I got downstairs, the delivery man gawked a bit. I use the moniker Angela Adams, so I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to see top model Jenna Walsh appear, even in a disheveled state.
But Herberto hurried it along.
“Pen, Ms. Walsh,” he said. And I signed, taking the package into my arms. It was small and flat, covered in brown paper with no indication of the sender.
But once I got back to my apartment, I scrutinized the package suspiciously. As a public figure, I need to be protective of my identity, but it’s actually pretty easy to figure out where famous people live in New York. There are celebrities walking around all the time and it doesn’t take much effort to trail someone back to their home. In fact, some of the male actors I knew were pretty careless, never wearing wigs or disguises, going about their business like they were regular people.
But dammit, if this was a bomb, I was kind of okay with it at this point, life was so painful. The gray pallor that had taken over was stifling, like I was being drowned in a deep sea of murky water, unable to breathe, unable to lift my head even and open my eyes.
With resigned fingers, I opened the seal to the brown paper, listlessly pulling out the box within. With uncurious eyes, I noted that it was from Harry Winston. Again, in my past life I would have jumped with joy because Harry Winston only meant one thing, and that was money, money, money.
As I opened the beautiful plush purple velvet box, I saw how bony my fingers were, how my nails were ridged from malnutrition and dehydration, only partially obscured by my fancy manicure. God, I needed to take care of myself better.
The box snapped open, and there it was. A beautiful diamond tennis bracelet, probably thirty carats total of perfect, emerald-cut stones. I lifted it to the light, and the bracelet flashed with fire and life, each diamond a perfect gem in and of itself, priceless in value.
I reached listlessly for the card. There was no note, just a card with the word “Rafe” written in a cursive hand. Of course that wasn’t his handwriting, it was probably his secretary or worse, some nameless peon who worked at the jewelry store. Feeling sick, I hunched over, my shoulders heaving up and down as I took quick gasps of air.
I should have felt happy. I should have felt elated, lucky even, for receiving a six-figure piece of jewelry, even if the relationship was now over. But instead I felt miserable, the sadness overwhelming. I hated the jewelry on sight, letting it slip through my fingers to clatter to the floor, uncaring where it landed.
Rafe couldn’t even bother to talk to me, to end our relationship in person. I was the recipient of a pay-off, intended to silence me, some poor consolation prize. And I still had no idea what had ticked him off. One day we’d been fucking three times a day, enjoying each other’s bodies and company, and the next he was gone with the wind, a mystery of the ages. Was I so unlovable? Did I deserve this somehow?
Like a bad memory, my mom’s voice rang in my head.
“Jenna, look inside yourself,” she’d urged. “The world won’t do what you want just because you’re pretty so don’t take it for granted. Be nice, be kind to people, you never know what will happen.”
I’d scoffed then, throwing my hair over my shoulders, disdaining her advice. The world had been at my fingertips thus far, I only had to smile at men and they did my every bidding. Who wasn’t to say that it wouldn’t last forever? Okay, maybe not forever, but a good twenty years more at least.
