For readers of Luster, All Fours, and Vladimir: a provocative, sexy, and unflinchingly candid novel about a white-hot relationship and the two complicated people who emerge from it transformed.
Noa Simon is a thirty-six-year-old filmmaker who knows what she wants, and when she meets Teddy Rosenfeld, an antagonistic, older CEO, she goes for the jugular. An electrifying encounter in a bathroom stall after their first meeting only serves to whet Noa’s appetite, and despite Teddy’s subsequent rejections, she is exhilarated by the challenge—and by her own insatiability. In her first power play, she takes a job at his office, setting up a battle of wills that Teddy proves unable to resist. Their ravenous, volatile romance will ultimately unearth difficult secrets from both of their pasts and finally force Noa to reckon with her deepest desires and most destructive impulses.
Written with visceral intensity and voyeuristic precision, Rosenfeld is an unputdownable story of sexual abandon that titillates and interrogates in equal measure.
For readers of Luster, All Fours, and Vladimir: a provocative, sexy, and unflinchingly candid novel about a white-hot relationship and the two complicated people who emerge from it transformed.
Noa Simon is a thirty-six-year-old filmmaker who knows what she wants, and when she meets Teddy Rosenfeld, an antagonistic, older CEO, she goes for the jugular. An electrifying encounter in a bathroom stall after their first meeting only serves to whet Noa’s appetite, and despite Teddy’s subsequent rejections, she is exhilarated by the challenge—and by her own insatiability. In her first power play, she takes a job at his office, setting up a battle of wills that Teddy proves unable to resist. Their ravenous, volatile romance will ultimately unearth difficult secrets from both of their pasts and finally force Noa to reckon with her deepest desires and most destructive impulses.
Written with visceral intensity and voyeuristic precision, Rosenfeld is an unputdownable story of sexual abandon that titillates and interrogates in equal measure.
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Overview
For readers of Luster, All Fours, and Vladimir: a provocative, sexy, and unflinchingly candid novel about a white-hot relationship and the two complicated people who emerge from it transformed.
Noa Simon is a thirty-six-year-old filmmaker who knows what she wants, and when she meets Teddy Rosenfeld, an antagonistic, older CEO, she goes for the jugular. An electrifying encounter in a bathroom stall after their first meeting only serves to whet Noa’s appetite, and despite Teddy’s subsequent rejections, she is exhilarated by the challenge—and by her own insatiability. In her first power play, she takes a job at his office, setting up a battle of wills that Teddy proves unable to resist. Their ravenous, volatile romance will ultimately unearth difficult secrets from both of their pasts and finally force Noa to reckon with her deepest desires and most destructive impulses.
Written with visceral intensity and voyeuristic precision, Rosenfeld is an unputdownable story of sexual abandon that titillates and interrogates in equal measure.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781668053454 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Avid Reader Press / Simon & Schuster |
| Publication date: | 11/19/2024 |
| Pages: | 400 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.10(w) x 9.20(h) x 1.50(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1: Get Out of My Sight 1 Get Out of My Sight
››
He’s sitting by one of the white tables on the lawn, talking to his business partner. They laugh at something, but stop when everyone’s asked to quiet down. The lighting dims and he watches the movie projected on the screen by the stage. Up until that moment, he has no idea that there’s such a thing as me. Up until that moment, I have no idea that there’s such a thing as him. But we’re soon to find out.
It’s mid-September and I’m in the middle of a rough patch. I feel stuck and I don’t know what to do to change that, so I’m pissed off at everyone and everything. There are still some joyful moments, such as this wedding of my two friends, Tom and Alison. They’re now sitting in front of the screen, roaring with laughter as they watch my movie along with the other guests. Once it’s over, everyone applauds and we go straight back to the dance floor, but then Tom tugs at me and says, “Come, they want to meet the director.”
“Come where? Who’s they?”
“My mom’s friends.”
“No, no, too drunk for introductions!”
He clears a path through the crowd and the scattered tables across the lawn and I trudge behind him.
“They’re in biotech. Marine biotech.”
“Biotech? What does that have to do with me?”
But Tom doesn’t reply since we’ve already reached the table where the “distinguished owners of Delmar Bio Solutions” are seated—at least that’s what he announces as he stands behind me, gently placing his hands on my shoulders and shoving me toward them. “This is our girl, Noa Simon.”
“Pleased to meet you.” A handsome bearded man with short gray hair and a confident handshake grins at me, examining me with glimmering eyes. “Richard Harrington.”
The other one is clean-shaven, his full head of hair combed back, a big, fat man dressed in a white shirt—or, on second glance, pink—one button excessively undone, exposing a hint of his tanned chest. He looks at me and gives a polite smile, leans in heavily and shakes my hand—“Teddy Rosenfeld”—then leans back again.
Richard says that my movie was really something special, that he’s seen numerous wedding videos, but this one “had a different kind of flare.”
“So, you’re a filmmaker?” Richard inquires while Teddy lights a cigarette.
I tell them that I’m in the industry, but I haven’t made my own film yet. Richard pulls up a chair and invites me to sit. Teddy stays silent, surveying me with brown eyes and a serene smile that makes me want to pick up the folding chair and smash it over his head.
I take a seat, and Richard asks me what I’d like to drink, as though we’re at a restaurant rather than a wedding. He asks if I’ve ever made corporate films, then briefly tells me about Delmar and the work they require. I’m working on a daytime television show and I don’t have time for another job, but I hear him out and ask the right questions. I’m trying to understand what they’re offering, even as I doubt it matches up with my own aspirations. Richard is hearty and charming. Teddy’s no longer involved in the conversation, so much so that he faces the stage the way people do at the beach, pivoting to make sure their direction faces the coming sunset.
Richard, on the other hand, is still engaged. “To be honest, we’re already in talks with an agency. But you’ve got something going on, I can tell you that!”
“Thank you so much.”
“So not only can you make films—now we know you’re also charming!” I like Richard’s smile.
“As are you both! Well, mostly you. Teddy is obviously the less charming between the two of you.”
Teddy turns his head toward us at the sound of his name, looks directly at me and says, “What’s that?”
“About seventy percent less, give or take,” I add.
Richard bursts out laughing. “She’s razor-sharp this one. Had you figured out in no time.”
Teddy looks at me. “What did you say?”
“I said you’re not as charming as Richard.”
“Richard is incredibly charming, not exactly fair competition.”
“True, you never stood a chance. Why’d you even sign up?”
Something changes in his expression. Maybe I pissed him off? I offer a mischievous smile. He gives me a weird look, but then finally turns to face me.
“Noa.” I remind him of my name, in case he’d forgotten it.
“I know,” he says quietly.
The music suddenly stops, and the new silence is accompanied by the deafening shriek of microphone feedback. The newlyweds’ siblings have prepared some entertaining content: a song-and-dance routine. The guests stay in their seats but listen enthusiastically. A sudden interruption midconversation—is this even interesting? The three of us form a unified front. I stay put and listen, the moment enabling me to somewhat process the situation. I now realize just how much I’ve had to drink. I sense a kind of slight, uncontrollable tremble through my body, which then turns into a shiver. Teddy notices it. The siblings have reached the chorus again. His eyes remain on me until he sharply turns them elsewhere. I feel a little overexposed, but I’m still enjoying sitting at the table with him, as though we’re just two people who happened to stand next to each other during a moment of silence. I watch him: while the table blocks my view of his shoes, I see his legs spread apart, the extravagant wristwatch, palm serenely placed over his knee, ringless fingers.
The song comes to an end and everyone applauds.
“So, how come you haven’t made your own film yet?” He was listening after all.
“Because I haven’t managed to write it yet.”
“Haven’t managed? What’s it about?”
“It’s not something I can explain in a minute.”
“How can you write something you can’t even pitch?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Do you know what you want? You need to know precisely what you want.”
“Absolutely disagree. If you know precisely what you want at the start, you will ruin the creative process.”
“I don’t know anything about the creative process.”
“I can tell.”
“You married?”
“No.”
This exchange is happening very swiftly and our eyes are locked throughout.
Richard hasn’t kept up with us. He tries to resume the lighthearted chat, gesturing to me: “All right, well, come by the office and we’ll have a chat, maybe we’ll manage to get something going.”
“Sure, I’ll give you a call and we’ll set a time,” I hear myself saying.
“Here you go.” Richard hands me his business card. Old school!
Tom’s mother then appears, draping her arms around Richard’s neck. “I see you’ve met our Noa. What a great movie! Totally brilliant! This is what I call talent!”
Richard beams with joy. “Yes, we’ve just met! And we’re trying to steal her away to make films for us at Delmar. What do you say about that?” Richard and Tom’s mother start talking, and I lean over the table, reaching for Teddy’s pack of cigarettes.
“Pass me one.” My hand doesn’t reach.
“For you, anything.”
I look at him and say in absolute seriousness, “Careful now.”
He hands me a cigarette and places his hand on his heart, smiling. I bring the cigarette to my mouth and place it between my lips with care. My heart’s pounding. We’ve hardly uttered a word, and I already feel like I’m going to pounce on this man and pull him over to me and I won’t loosen my grip, I won’t let go, until I swallow him whole, until there’s nothing left. In my mind’s eye, hyenas leap, their teeth tearing through the exposed flesh of a carcass. His eyes are still fixed on me, and the smile is still there. He tilts his head to the right, gesturing for me to come sit next to him. I get up, circle the table, and take a seat.
“Noa.” He says my name.
“Yes.” I grab his lighter and light my cigarette.
“The meeting’s over. You’re free to leave.”
“Then why did you call me over here?”
“What’s that?” He genuinely didn’t hear me, but he then adds, “To part company quietly.”
“I don’t feel like parting company just yet.”
“All right.” He allows me to remain by his side and glances around. “How are you finding the wedding so far?”
“I find it delightful and moving. And you?”
“I find it delightful and moving too,” he says dryly.
“Can’t wait to see how you look when you’re not delighted and moved.”
He looks at me and laughs. “You’re sweet. You are.” He retains his smile, displaying a disorganized set of teeth, canines slightly pointing inward, somewhat obscuring the other teeth. I find that mouth so beautiful.
“Well?” I’m impatient.
“Well what?”
“Well, what are you saying?”
“What am I saying?” He pauses and I tense up. “Don’t listen to Richard.”
“Richard said lots of things. Which part shouldn’t I listen to?”
“Don’t come to work for me.”
“Really? That’s what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“Then who’s going to make all your marine biotech blockbusters?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“Okay.” I pull the ashtray closer. “What makes you say that?”
“Sorry?” He leans in a bit, to hear better.
“I’m asking why would you say that?”
“Why do you think?”
“Well, I guess you have something against me. Or for me.”
His eyes are on me. “That’s right.”
“You only met me three minutes ago.”
“Which was enough.”
“You’re despicable.”
“You have no idea.” He smiles.
One of the waiters interrupts our conversation but I’m stuck formulating my reply. By the time his eyes return to me, I’m quick to attack, my face close to his. “No, you have no idea. You have no idea who I am and how despicable I can be. Sitting here as if you’ve claimed ownership over being a dick.”
He doesn’t bat an eyelash. “You should listen to me.”
“Don’t want to.”
“What do you want, then?”
“I want you to tell me what you have against me or for me.”
He smiles again. “I’m all for you.”
“So?”
“What?”
“Tell me what you want.”
He looks at me, his face lacking any and all emotion, and speaks quietly. “I told you what I want.”
“Then say it again, because I didn’t get it. Be explicit.”
“I want you to get up right now and get out of my sight because I’m dying to fuck you.”
Yes. There it is, that’s what I was after. “That’s more like it.”
My friends call me from afar to join them on the dance floor.
“It’s okay. Go on,” he says.
“Okay, I’m going, but I’ll be back,” I place my hand on his knee, crossing yet another border, passportless. “And Teddy, don’t you dare leave this wedding without telling me.”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
“I mean it.”
“Okay.” He means it too.
“Good. See you.” He watches me as I walk away.
We’re dancing. Laughing. And he’s there, a colossal weight of a man, right on the other side of the lawn. I occasionally glance in his direction. I can’t tell if he sees me, but I sense him watching the whole time. Or maybe not? I drink some more and need to pee, but I’m not sure I can risk it. I don’t want to waste another second. And how do I even look? It’s been hours since I last checked myself in the mirror—typical that everything would have smeared by now. And what if he goes home while I’m in the restroom? I can’t bear the thought. I confidently walk across to their table. Teddy’s in the same position, just like he’d promised. Richard isn’t there; maybe he went to stand in line for the chocolate fondue.
“Did I miss anything?” I sit beside him, sweating from the dancing.
“No.”
“Did you miss me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I have to pee.”
“Oh yeah? So do I.”
“Lovely. Shall we both go then?”
“Yes.”
He rises from the chair and stands tall. He looks at me from above and we walk toward the restrooms. I’m a little too drunk; I keep missing fragments of seconds, tiny skips of time. Once we reach the restrooms, he opens a door to one of the stalls. We walk in, and he glances outside before he shuts the door. We’re together, alone. Top secret.
“Free at last!” I call out and hug him. He holds me and it feels so natural that I press myself into him, my head leaning against him as I shove my hand through his shirt and momentarily stroke his bare chest and neck. “Need to pee.”
I pull down my pants and underwear and sit on the not-so-clean toilet, but I don’t care right now. The stall’s really small; he leans on the door and doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“Nothing’s coming out. It’s the excitement. Happens to women too, difficulty peeing in certain situations.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do.”
The trickle begins and we both fall silent and listen to it, looking at each other and smiling. Done. Still sitting down, I take his hand and place my face in his palm. Something happens in that moment, I can sense it. He raises my chin, runs a finger across my jawline, then my lips, and my tongue gently glides over his thumb.
“My turn.” His voice is deep and cracked.
I rise, wipe and put my pants back on. We swap places: he stands with his back to me, unzips his pants and takes his cock out. I stand behind him. “You’re blocking my view!”
“Nothing to see here, ma’am, go on home.”
His arm is leaning against the wall and I peer from under it. I speak to his cock in a hushed shout, as one does when talking to someone at a loud party.
“Pleasure to meet you, I’m Noa!”
“Forget it, he can’t hear a thing.” Teddy pees and I’m satisfied.
“Very nice. Next time, I’m doing the holding.”
“We’ll see about that.” He zips up his pants. “All right, let’s go.”
“What? No. Not yet. No way.”
“Yes way. Let’s go.”
“No, no, no! There’s a whole world out there.”
“Same as here. Out.”
“But you said you wanted to. You told me.”
“And I also told you to get out of my sight. Come on.”
I look at him and feel sorry for being too drunk to persuade him. I attempt it nevertheless. “Nobody knows you’re here.”
“You and I know, which is plenty.”
“Teddy... you know this doesn’t happen every day.”
“I know that. Now forget about it and go back out to the dance floor, find yourself a nice guy and marry him.”
“What? Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do I need to get married?”
“That’s usually how it goes.”
“Not for me.”
“Is that right? How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
He nods his head, then points at the door. “You go look for him, and then I’ll come to your wedding and we’ll go pee together again, deal?”
I realize that I’m not going to win this one. “Fine. But then I’m doing the holding.”
“Fine.”
He stands there, motionless. I do too. He runs his eyes over my body, all the way up until he reaches my eyes and stops.
“I can’t. I wish I could, but it’s not the right time.” He’s talking as though he’s at a business meeting. I extract his use of the word ‘wish’ and smile seductively.
“Behave yourself.” He means it.
“Okay. But let me tell you, you’re making the wrong call here, and there’s no woman in this world, in your entire lifetime, who’s wanted you as much as I want you.”
He suddenly turns serious, leans toward me, his face right above mine. “Enough. Out.”
He opens the door, and we exit without anyone noticing. I glance at the mirror to see what he’s been looking at. I go over to the bar and ask for some water. I drink and watch as Teddy returns to his table. He’s talking to Richard, still standing. They chuckle, and then he picks up his cigarettes and keys and says goodbye. No, this is not happening! The entire sum of my joy vanishes at once, everything is consumed into a great black hole gaping within me and there’s no point in anything anymore. How can he just stand there and talk to Richard when I’m still here, when we’re still here and we can steal away to a stall or a car or an empty street without anyone ever knowing? How can he leave without making sure he can reach me if he wants to? I suddenly feel very tired.
›
The following morning my head hurts. I can’t stop thinking about him, repeatedly recalling our glorious, all-too-short encounter. Teddy-Teddy-Teddy. I make coffee. Teddy Rosenfeld. Google—there he is. The Delmar Bio Solutions website. Oceanography. I read and learn that the company develops underwater monitoring systems, something about multispectral cameras, something about measuring bodies of water, something biomolecular. I don’t get any of it. It seems to be a serious, global corporation, very active, with offices abroad. Here’s a photo of him. My heart pounds. He’s really something. Smart, quick, beautiful, fat, sexy, despicable, not mine, somewhat mine, enough. The way he said ‘enough,’ as though I were a child who didn’t know when to stop. Well, if he doesn’t let me in, then he’s better off dead. Oh no, what if he dies? And how old is he? Who does he have? A wife, kids? How do I find out? He’s got me, but he won’t let me in.
Even though he saw. He saw who I am, he loved me immediately, he understood everything. He knows I understand too. I hate him for knowing we both understand, yet still letting me go. How dare he not call me this morning—he can easily get my number—leaving me on my own with the weight of our meeting. Is he thinking about all this? Does he even remember? Of course he does. My entire existence is reduced to the need for being the object of his desire, and all other components of life become redundant.
Later on, during my Friday coffee date with friends, I’m still wrapped up in it. I anxiously wait for Sharon, my best friend in the whole wide world, to be done with her errands and join us, and then I wait for her to finish her casual conversations with everyone and become mine and mine alone, sitting right next to me. Now I can be with Teddy again as I tell her about him, about how he said ‘Yes’ when I asked if he missed me, how he said ‘I wish’ and ‘Behave yourself.’ She likes him. My heart skips a beat when I quietly repeat those words, ‘Get out of my sight because I’m dying to fuck you.’
›
My joy turns into severe distress during Friday night dinner at my dad’s house.
Whenever I’m here, at this house in the suburbs, I feel the need to confirm that I’m just momentarily passing through and I’ll soon resume my own life—a life that is the complete opposite of the vast emptiness filling these rooms. My dad’s had a wife for years now—Mina. A quiet, desolate type, fair features and faded hair, not a color in sight. Even her eyes are hueless. Mina’s actually harmless and nice enough; she and my dad get along well, and I have a good, drama-free relationship with her.
My brother, Roy, lives with them. He’s three years younger than me. He occasionally babysits dogs or plants for people who go away on vacation, or he sleeps over at a friend’s place, but I guess living here suits him. For someone who left home at a young age, I find it a bizarre choice to live at your dad’s place at the age of thirty-three, but that’s just how Roy is.
The clearest advantage of coming over here is that Roy gives me weed. That is, I give him money—usually a bit extra, since he’s forever broke—and he takes care of the purchase.
I’m sitting in the kitchen under the fluorescent lights, sipping some water after having refused the juice Mina had offered. Even though I’d lived in this house for years, I still insist on feeling uncomfortable whenever I come over.
I’m holding my phone. It’s gone from simmering to boiling, and I have to find a way to write Teddy, talk to him, see him. Explain that I need him to acknowledge me immediately, otherwise something bad might happen. I mean, he’s currently somewhere, sitting or standing or lying down. Teddy. All it takes is to think of his name for my heart to start racing, for me to willingly give up everything I have, just to know that he’s mine. Especially when I’m here. But I have none of him, and I have to leave it be.
I can’t drink booze after yesterday but I shouldn’t stay sound of mind, so at least I can get my delivery and get a little high. I go down to the basement—home to my man-child brother, who came out like a pro when he was only sixteen, and maybe since he was so mature for his age back then he remained stuck in perpetual adolescence.
We light up, I mix in tobacco and he doesn’t. He tells me about some Austrian he’s about to meet tonight, who isn’t the guy he’d been with last week, of course, and most likely won’t be the guy he’ll meet next week. And despite the nature of his love life, in a strange and even logical way, maybe even more than I do, Roy dreams of a family life—2.4 children and a pink picket fence.
Banal conversation, awful food, same tiring dynamic at these meals. At least Roy’s making me laugh. My dad—or more like the neurotic cloud through which one could spot the man who used to be my dad—is ceaselessly offering up discussion topics, as though even the briefest moment of silence would testify to the lack of connection among the four unfortunate people sitting here together, around the chicken in instant chicken broth. Mina comes to the rescue and tells us about a Gloria Estefan concert. The central narrative involves a mix-up concerning seat numbers.
But who am I to say anything? It’s not like I got married and had a family and now they can come over to my place for a nice Friday night dinner, under a warm light.
›
It’s only in the middle of the night that I suddenly get it.
I wake up on the couch at my place, certain that I should quickly eat something sweet and follow it up with something salty. Then, while smoking the remainder of a joint, I come up with the notion of emailing him. It’s not that I don’t have ways of getting his number, but that seems like an invasion of his privacy, while a mere email is clearly fine. And anyway, Richard had invited me to their office, so I can set up a meeting and just show up there during the week. But it’s Friday night, and twenty-four hours ago we were standing together in a tiny stall, and I want a sign of life right now.
Their website doesn’t have any personal email addresses, so I find Richard’s business card. His email address comprises his initial, then last name, then at sign, company name dot com. If that’s the case then Teddy’s email must have the same structure. Give it a try. It’s 2:13 a.m., a fine hour.
In the subject line I write: Urgent Matter
My heart accelerates. I type:
Present resolution has not been found acceptable by both parties|
I then revise:
One of the parties has found the present resolution to be unacceptable.
For your immediate action. Best, Noa
Another sip of water. Another drag. Send.
That’s it, it’s sent. Done, over, behind me. Actually ahead of me.
Shit. What have I done? How can I fall asleep when I’m waiting for a reply? And what if he never replies? What if he’s asleep? And why am I like this? Why wasn’t I granted the kind of personality that can just let go? I freeze, staring blankly. The immaculate silence of late-night hours. What a stupid thing to do.
And then that sweet sound, and the phone’s light, and the notification on the screen about a new email, with his name. My knees are trembling. Open it, quick.
party’s demands are
Not even a question mark. But he replied! What are my demands? I answer quickly without overthinking.
Must hold meeting at earliest convenience
Silence. I’m fired up, don’t know what to do with myself. I go out to the terrace. He replied! It’s cold outside. Walk back in, put the phone down, can’t keep holding on to it, sprawl on the couch. Ping.
Okay
Followed by:
Where are you?
I can’t believe it. What madness is this? He’s my kind! And with a question mark! Took the trouble. Is he actually going to come over now? This can’t be real. Maybe I should tell him to meet me at a bar? But it’s the middle of the night, where can we even go? I send him my address. I’ll go downstairs, we’ll have a chat in his car. What’s my actual plan?
Coming
I can barely contain the excitement of my success. I look around, the apartment’s a little messy. Where do I start? Sip of ouzo straight from the bottle. What will he drink? I have nothing worthy of him here. Pick up scattered socks, empty the ashtray, quickly do the dishes, pause to look in the mirror, clean off makeup smeared under my eyes, put on some lipstick. Go to the bedroom. Straighten the blanket, tidy around. Start to fold the pile of clothes. Take off my shirt, deliberate between two bras.
The quiet knock on the door makes my pulse rush. How is he already here? Forget the bra, quickly back into the T-shirt. Fuck. I can’t believe I’m going to open the door and here, there he is, standing tall, well-dressed, in the entryway to my home. Teddy Rosenfeld.
“You beautiful thing,” he says, almost gloomily.
I shift to the side a little and he comes in. I shut the door behind him and mumble, “It’s all right if I lock the door and throw away the key, right? You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
“Nice place, got a terrace too, huh? Very nice. It’s pretty, you have good taste. You own it?” He talks fast, I forgot about that.
“No, rented. And I’m a bit tired of it.”
He stands in front of me. I’m grinning, pleased. He grins too, must be infectious. We’re now both standing, smiling in the middle of the living room. There they are, those teeth I missed so much.
“I can’t believe you’re here. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water. Just walked up a lot of stairs. You don’t have an elevator.”
“It’s three flights.”
“Felt like five.”
“Right.”
Teddy wanders around my apartment, inspecting each and every item. A glorious creature has suddenly invaded my home at 3:00 a.m. He scans the book titles on the shelves, looks at a photo of me and Roy as kids, his hands held behind his back for some reason. What animal does he resemble? None. I hand him a glass of water. He drinks and his eyes shift to me, glancing at my bare nipples under the T-shirt. After a look at the bedroom—it’s small, so he doesn’t even go in—and a quick tour of the terrace, we’re back in the living room again. He sits down on the couch with surprising, wonderful ease. I sit down too, cautiously.
“Okay, I’m ready,” he says.
“Me too.”
“Then go ahead. You said that one of the parties has found the resolution unacceptable.”
“That’s right, and by the way, the fact that you find it acceptable is also unacceptable.”
“So what are you proposing?”
“That the parties negotiate.”
“Yes, I got that part. You’ll need to specify what your party would find acceptable,” he continues, amused.
I feel like a fencer who wants to take off their helmet, put down their sword and tell their opponent, You know what, let’s just fuck.
“First of all, it’s unacceptable that you tell me not to come work for you.”
“Okay, what else?”
“Second, it’s impossible that I react to you the way I did and then you just walk away from it. And your reaction to me too.”
“Eloquently put.”
“I’m tired and confused.”
“And what’s the reason for that?”
“You are.”
“Exactly. So as the one representing my side, I feel the need—and don’t get upset now—to guard your interests, so that you don’t wind up tired and confused in the best case or in a continuous nightmare in the most probable case.”
“Of course I’ll get upset.”
He laughs, leans on his elbow and looks for a lighter to light the cigarette already in his mouth. I get up to fetch one and continue talking. “Your assumption that you guard my interests by withholding yourself from me is misguided and simply wrong, as it makes me miserable.”
“You’re miserable already?”
“Yes.”
“You’re fast.”
“Yes.”
“Had a rough twenty-four hours, Noa?”
“Yes,” I say proudly. “And you?”
“See, that’s exactly what I mean.” He takes a drag and looks at me.
I’m crazy about him and his straightforwardness. “Have the last twenty-four hours been rough on you?” I’m pushing my luck.
“No.”
“Of course.” I deserved that but I won’t give in. “But you did think about me. Say you did or I’ll destroy you.”
“Yes.”
“Yeah?” I’m not yet satisfied.
He looks at me. “Yes, I thought about you.”
I smile a victorious smile, and then turn serious. “Let’s talk for real for a minute.”
“Okay.”
“Where are you at?”
“How do you mean?”
“Family? Relationship?”
“I’m not available.” Shit, shit, shit.
“Married?”
“Not quite. Long story.” There’s hope yet.
“Then tell me.”
“What do you need to know?” He ashes.
“Can’t you just speak frankly?”
“I am. I’m not going to unload my entire history right now.”
“Okay, but you do need to tell me things. Like, some things.”
“I have two boys.” He looks me straight in the eye. “Well, they’re not boys anymore. Two sons.”
“How old? What are their names?”
“Adrian’s twenty-six, Milo’s twenty-one.”
“So really not boys anymore! Show me pictures.”
“You want to see them? Really?” Something in his face changes when he mentions his boys.
“Yes.”
“Hang on.”
He pulls out his phone and then the glasses in his breast pocket, searches for photos. I watch him as he transforms in front of my eyes. I take the cigarette from his hand. He looks through his phone. In the meantime, I examine the elongated strands of hair slightly curving over the back of his neck. I want to touch it. He finds a photo and shows me.
“That’s Milo, my sweet boy. With his dog, Xerox.” His sweet boy Milo really is sweet, and he’s got Teddy’s eyes. Same smile, same dimensions.
“He does look sweet. Looks like you. And Adrian?”
“A photo of Adrian...” he mumbles to himself. “Not an easy task. Wait.”
He searches through his phone, and I take the opportunity to inspect every inch of this man’s beautiful face.
“Here, that’s Adrian.” The photo shows a young, skinny guy with a serious gaze. “Adrian’s brilliant, a true talent.”
“It’s nice for me to see them.”
“Is it?” He’s not entirely certain for some reason.
“Yes. And your wife?”
“Which one?”
I just look at him and wait for him to continue. He puts the phone down, takes a breath and answers, speaking quickly. “My first wife, Alice, Adrian’s mother. Then there’s Monique, Milo’s mother, who wasn’t my wife, we never married. Then there’s Lara, my second wife, soon to be ex.”
“Oh.”
“You asked.”
“That’s right, I did.” I try to gather my thoughts. “So what’s the deal with Lara?”
“It’s over, we’re over.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Finished.”
“When?”
“Not too long ago.”
I’m flooded by a sense of alienation. Up until that moment, I hadn’t really accounted for his past, all the women who ever loved him, whom he loved. The fifty-five years he’s already lived. And who am I? I stub out the cigarette, slightly extending the act in order to hide from him for a moment. He notices.
“You ask too many questions.”
“What else is there for me to do?”
“Don’t know.”
“Is that why you said ‘I wish’ and ‘it’s not the right time’ at the wedding? Because of Lara?”
“It’s not the right time for a number of reasons, I won’t get into that now.”
“Why should I care about now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m looking at the bigger picture.”
“Oh yeah? Is that what you’re doing?” Him and his smile.
“What, so there’s no room for me in your life?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. And you’re gorgeous. You are.”
“Then... let’s be something else.”
“I don’t know anything else.”
“We can be friends.”
He smiles and closes his eyes, leans his head back and rubs his forehead. “I’m beat.”
“You’re here, at my place. Is this an illusion?” I glide my bare foot up, lightly nudging his thigh, as though checking whether he’s real. He places his warm hand on my foot, caressing it. Shivers run through my entire body.
“God, your skin,” he says quietly.
I sit up and lean into him. His scent. It’s a wonderful, enthralling scent. I get closer to his neck, run my lips over it, tasting him. “What is it about you? Why am I so attracted to you?” I ask.
He turns to face me and we’re very close. His mouth is an inch away from mine. He casually runs his hand up my spine, holding the back of my neck for a moment, before sliding it all the way back down to the exposed gap between my shirt and waistband.
“So what do we do?” I ask quietly.
“Nothing. I’m leaving.” He pulls his hand away.
“We’re not going to fuck?”
“No.” He’s way too resolute.
“You come over in the middle of the night and there’s no fucking?”
“Can you believe it?”
“No, I can’t.”
He leans over, about to get up. I rush to stand first. “No, you can’t be leaving now. It’s tragic and it makes zero sense.”
“Tragic!” He gets up. “Remind me how tragedies end?”
He walks toward the door, I follow him. “Then I’m coming over to your office. I’ll set up a meeting with Richard.”
He gets to the door and turns to me. I stare at him, awaiting approval.
“Do whatever you want.” He keeps his eyes on me. “Just do me a favor, will you? If you do come, wear a bra, because I won’t be able to do this again. Good night.”
He opens the door and steps into the hallway.
“Teddy, c’mon.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I won’t be able to fall asleep now.”
“Then stay up.”
He shuts the door behind him. I turn and look at the living room. He forgot his cigarettes.
›
It’s noon on Saturday and his cigarette pack is the only evidence he was here. I go out to the terrace and light one. I’m Teddy, a very important man, smoking a cigarette. What’s so important about me? Unclear.
I want to remember everything, what he said and what I replied, don’t want to lose a single detail. Why does that even matter to me? I can recall his scent, how his skin felt.
Am I really going to his office? Because then I’ll get to see him. Do I even want to work there? What have I got to do with a job at some office?
It’s afternoon and I decide to leave the house so as not to lose my mind. Ever since my childhood I always found these hours to be unbearable. Mornings are good because there’s hope, noon is pleasant because there’s still potential for something incredible to happen, evenings are calm because you can already let go of all that exhausting hope and also be glad that nothing terrible happened, and nighttime is immaculate freedom. But afternoons—a disgusting time of day. It’s even worse during weekdays, that time when everyone leaves work and goes back to their families, traveling that same familiar route, and if they don’t do drugs then I really have no idea what incentive they could possibly have.
I go downstairs and walk toward the movie theater. This is a thing I do. Once I arrive, I stand there and inspect the movie posters—not in an attempt to choose what movie to watch, heaven forbid, but rather to remind myself that people make movies and that I don’t. Then I take the long way back home.
During my first year at university I made a short, a drama which came out so bad that it paralyzed me, and I then spent the following two years only working on other people’s productions. Then I wrote a script during the summer between my third and fourth year. A comedy. We shot it, I produced. It was my final project and it worked. It opened doors to festivals around the world and even won first prize for a student film at the Toronto International Film Festival. There was great joy. Naturally followed by a huge crash.
It’s hard to believe that ten years have passed since then and I’m still just walking potential aiming at a singular, all-too-rare scenario. I sometimes think that I’ve attached myself to chronic failure and am still refusing to let go. One might call it megalomanic depression: there’s a voice in my head telling me I’m good, and there’s another saying that I’m not worthy. Both are strong; both are correct. Which one do I trust more? But, in the meantime, still on my way back home, one of the movie posters sticks in my head, and I tell myself the story I’d like that movie to tell, fully aware that I’d have enjoyed the real movie far less.
In the evening, I feel proud of myself for having managed to keep from writing him during the day. Before I go to sleep, I decide to call Richard in the morning and set up a meeting.
›
But the following day I postpone my phone call to Delmar. It’s the first day of the workweek, and who am I to bug them now? My visit is surely in the dampest basement of their priority list.
“Who do you think you are?!” the actress roars with demonstrated intensity as the soundman pulls the headphones away from his head, still maintaining his frozen expression. I peer into the director’s monitor through the little gap between him and his assistant.
“Should we ask for a less exaggerated take?” she whispers to him, rightly so. There’s no way he thinks that this is usable—who talks like that?
“No, it’s great.” The director stands up. “Cut!”
The first assistant director appears out of nowhere as usual. “Cut! So we have it?” She then looks at me. “Noa, why aren’t you on the crew monitor, how many times do I need to tell you?”
“Sorry, you’re right, you’re right.” I quickly walk away and head for the prop warehouse to organize the items for the following scene. Maybe it really is time for me to leave this place.
›
The next morning I take a short break, put my sunglasses on and leave the studio. I light a cigarette and call Richard.
“Delmar Bio Solutions, how can I help you today?” The voice of a young woman who sounds like she couldn’t help anyone, not today and not ever.
“Hi, this is Noa Simon, I’m looking for Richard Harrington.”
“Richard? What’s your name again?”
“Noa Simon.”
“Okay, regarding what?”
“He asked me to set up a meeting with him.”
“Regarding what?” she repeats with the exact same intonation. Bitch!
“Regarding film work. Can you please put me through or have him call me when he’s free?”
“Yes, one sec, I’ll write it down. Hold on.” What is she doing there? Going to get a pen and paper? “Hello? Okay, yeah, what was the name again?”
“Noa Simon,” I mutter icily.
“What’s the number?”
I give her all the details, hang up and cuss. I glance at the business card and regret not having called Richard’s cell phone. I don’t feel like joining that company if this is the kind of person they hire to man their desks.
The rest of the day is strange and upsetting. I feel like I want to leave my job, this show, and at the same time I’m filled with horrific unwillingness to start something new, at my age, at some desolate company with fluorescent lights and mean-girl gossip and lunch breaks with depressing, uninspiring chitchat. I’m better off staying here; at least the people are more like me. Almost all of them fantasize about making their own movie or series someday. Maybe a presence like Teddy’s could help me advance in life, or at least not stay stuck in one place. I get tired and go for a nap on the bedroom set during lunch. I fall asleep despite the ruckus around me. A moment before the lunch break ends, my phone rings, waking me up.
“Hello?” I answer, disoriented.
“Miss Noa Simon! How are you? It’s Richard Harrington speaking!”
My heart is racing because I just woke up from a nap but also from the thought that Teddy might know about Richard calling me, maybe he’s involved, maybe he’s even sitting right next to him with his amused smile.
“Hi, Richard. I’m good, thanks, how are you?”
“Not bad at all! I was glad to see you called. When are you coming to visit us?”
“That’s just it, I wanted to set a time. When works for you?”
The first AD calls everyone back from lunch and I want to get away from the noise, so I walk in the opposite direction as the rest of the crew. I leave the dark studio and come out into the bright noon light without my sunglasses, having left them on the fake bed.
“Whenever you want! We’re here. Come by today, tomorrow, whatever works.”
‘We.’ My thoughts ping-pong between today and tomorrow, trying to figure out what’s best for me. I obviously want to go there right this minute. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow, get ready and try to look pretty and then show up and Teddy won’t even be there. And maybe it’s better if he’s not there. Though I really feel like seeing him right now.
“Well, what time are you there till? I’m at the studios till five. Your offices are in the city center, right?”
He gives me the address and tells me he’ll be staying at the office late today, so he’ll wait for me. So I guess it’ll just be him? I go back in and am met with a scolding from the first AD.
“Where’s Noa, for the love of God?!” And then once she spots me: “Seriously, sweetie, are you insane? We were back three minutes ago!”
Traffic jam. Of course. Now I’m really antsy about getting there. I am assessing various offices in my mind’s eye, picturing hideousness illuminated by green fluorescents. Horrifying. The cars drag by slowly, it’s 5:45 p.m. Now I’m envisioning a beautifully designed office, expensive furniture and rare artwork on the walls. Light a smoke.
›
The building’s tall and its exterior makes it hard to guess which of my imagined options is the right one. 26th floor. Elevator with a mirror, put some lipstick on. I look like I’ve come from a full day’s work, and something about my beaten appearance makes me happy.
The office isn’t all that bad, leaning more toward the nicely decorated look, though lacking any rare artwork. Most important: the lighting’s pleasant. Is he here? He isn’t? I swiftly survey the place. A thoroughly kempt young woman is sitting behind a curved table at the entrance. I walk over to her. She lifts her head and smiles courteously.
“Hi! Are you Noa?” She’s nice and I nod my head with relief. “Richard is expecting you. He’s in his office, follow me.” She gets up and leads the way in her impressive high heels, and I no longer feel pleased with my appearance, I now feel more like a dirty kid after a Girl Scout meeting hurrying after her elegant mother.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Just water, thanks.” I wonder where Teddy’s office is. I think I can pick up his scent.
“Here we are, this is Richard.” She lightly knocks on the door. I walk in and he gets up, comes around his big black desk, reaches me and gives me a warm hug.
“Noa! It’s great to see you again! Did you have trouble getting here? Any traffic?”
He has two plain armchairs at the side of the room. We sit down. The view from the window is gorgeous, and it’s almost completely dark outside. The young woman from reception returns with water and a jug of iced tea. They have glass cups, not paper or plastic.
The conversation with Richard flows pleasantly. We talk about the type of work they require and how to get me involved. I try to figure out if they really need someone for this position, and Richard tells me about the media department he wants to set up for the company. I feel good and I like the way he treats me with respect. It’s insane that this is all based on a wedding video. After half an hour’s chat I allow myself to bring up Teddy’s name.
“What about Teddy, does he know about all this?”
“Teddy? Oh yeah, sure, of course he knows. He doesn’t really deal with the media aspects and all that. But he’ll obviously weigh in, and he’ll have thoughts on the rate.”
I don’t have all that much oxygen right now. I look at the door. “Is he here? In the office?”
“No, he’s out.”
He’s out. I’m jealous of wherever he is right now and I would kill to know if he knew that I was coming, but I keep myself from asking. I feel a little bit calmer knowing he’s not here, alongside the disappointment of not getting to see him, of him not getting to see me.
Richard and I decide that he’ll talk to Teddy and they’ll try to define the role and come back to me with an offer. He walks me out and we pass by another big room. The door’s open and I can see only a bit of it, but I know it’s Teddy’s office, and I feel bad that I can’t go inside and just be there for a while, go through his things, search for secrets, examine his handwriting, sit in his chair.
When I get downstairs to the lobby I locate the company sign among the various names on the board. I take a photo of the name “Delmar Bio Solutions,” and without overthinking it, I email it to Teddy.
I come out to the parking lot, light a cigarette and head to my car.
›
Back at my place, even after a long shower, there’s still no reply. What does this mean? I already know he’s the type of guy who checks his emails the moment he gets them. I roll myself a joint, call Sharon, and tell her about the last few days’ events. Afterward I watch two episodes of a series and nearly fall asleep. Brush my teeth, plug my phone in to charge in the living room, and get into bed. The second I close my eyes, I hear the ping. I know it’s him. I get up and go to the phone. I was right.
How was it
Immediately reply:
It was good. Sounds really interesting and I was treated nicely. And you weren’t there.
I sit down on the couch; the apartment’s dark. He replies straightaway.
Good
He’s giving off the feeling that he approves. I don’t fully get it. I need clear validation. I take the fleeting opportunity for a dialogue, think up some sort of phrasing that won’t push his back against the wall.
Would you rather not have me working for you? |
I type it but I don’t hit send. It’s too risky. Not that I don’t have some serious misgivings regarding this job. But I don’t want to present him with all these emotions. Enough. I’ll go to sleep and won’t reply this time. Good night, Teddy, I reply in my mind.
I get back into bed, but sleep is now a distant thing. Maybe he’s angry at me because I disregarded what he’d said. Maybe ‘Good’ was said in a dismissive tone and I’d just misread it. After twenty minutes of anxiety, I return to the couch.
Are you angry?
I ask in a simple, direct manner, aware of the fact that I might come across as somewhat childish.
He answers immediately.
No . Everythfing’s fine go to sleep
I smile and start crying, because he understands what I’m going through and chooses to calm me down and even writes me something intimate like ‘go to sleep.’
Okay
I get into bed and cry until it’s hard to breathe, so I force myself to stop and really go to sleep.
+
My dreams have a repeating motif of movement: it’s a sensation I hate, like trying to walk in the ocean, the great pressure of water compressing against my body and I can hardly move forward, just very slowly and with effort, so I desperately search for bodies to grab on to in order to pull myself ahead. The problem is that not everything in my path is steady enough. Everything that looks anchored, a rock or some furniture, dislocates the moment I grab on to it, so I stay in the same place.
›
At around 11:00 a.m., while carrying a pile of props through one of the studio hallways, my phone rings. Unknown caller. My heart skips a beat. I put everything down on the floor at once and answer as fast as I can.
“Hello.”
“Noa, it’s Teddy.”
“Hey.” No oxygen.
“You busy? Where are you?”
“At work, filming.”
“Very industrious. What do they pay you there?”
“Teddy...” I interrupt his fast way of talking. “This is our first phone call.”
He laughs. “That’s right. Write it down so we’ll remember to celebrate it.”
“Tattooing everything, don’t worry. All the dates of our important moments, right here on my thigh.”
“I don’t want to talk about your thigh.”
“You want to talk about how much they’re paying me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I make... something like 45K.”
“And how much of that do you clear?”
“Don’t know. A lot less?”
“You’re really something. Well, listen, come work for us for 100K. Settle everything else with Richard. You’ll be in charge of your own schedule, you report to Richard, and to me, of course, which is the same thing. And do me a favor, don’t talk to other people about how much you make, keep it between us. You get budgets approved by me, and you’ll have an expense account for travel, equipment, whatever you need.” He pauses and I’m breathless. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Good, best of luck. Happy to have you.”
“Thanks... happy to be had.” Am I?
There’s a silence and I realize I’m the one who’s supposed to fill it with words, but I can’t. I never imagined that this is how it would be. It’s too good, something doesn’t add up. I hear him taking a deep breath.
“Okay, well, talk to me if you need anything. When can you start?”
“I’ll have to give my notice here and see how quickly I can leave.”
“Okay, do what you need to do.”
“I’ll talk to them and let you know.”
“No problem.”
I want to say more things, but I can’t get beyond the only words in my head:
DAMN
I
LOVE
YOU
I’m standing in the dark hallway all wide-eyed, and I feel as though the hand of God has suddenly appeared from above and chosen me. “I just want to say,” I start, but am suddenly unsure about the phrasing, “that if after a few months we see that it’s not working out for some reason, then I’ll understand and, I don’t know... You shouldn’t feel obligated, if it doesn’t work out.”
He keeps quiet for a moment and then says, “Okay.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. We’ll be in touch. Bye, Noa.”
“Bye.”
What was that? We spoke on the phone: he called; he doubled what I make; it’s happening.
After a moment of astonishment and excitement, I’m suddenly overtaken by a dreadful sensation. All the joy dissipates, and instead I feel a huge loss. I walk into the prop warehouse, put the stuff down and sit on a dusty chair, trying to gather my thoughts.
Of course. How have I only just figured this out? There’s no more Teddy and me. There’s no more something that never existed, even though it did, a little bit. Now I’m not allowed to tread in that direction at all; now he’ll be my boss and I’m supposed to behave and respect boundaries and he’ll be close to me without being mine. He’ll be in front of me, falling in love with women who heeded him and didn’t come to work for him. Now all of a sudden I think the reason he didn’t want me to work for him to begin with is that maybe he did intend to sleep with me and be with me for a bit, but not if I’m his employee. He said that so explicitly, how did I not get it? I’m such an idiot.