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Her heart is heavy as she watches her daughter glide down the aisle. She is beautiful, big blue eyes brimming with tears as she marries the love of her life. Gerri fidgets with her own wedding ring the entire ceremony, the empty seat for the father of the bride glaringly empty next to her. Her heart ached watching Frank walk Emily down the aisle, always promising he would do it for Baird, when the time came.
She is alone at the event, like she always seems to be these days. Dating felt so claustrophobic. Alone was mostly better. She had yet succumbed to getting a cat, it’s the small victories.
Her new son-in-law was a little dim but charming enough. Baird would have hated him, hated the goofy smile and lack of handiness. Baird wasn’t the type to call in a man, never respected a husband who couldn’t fix a drain and change a tyre. She laughs imagining the little comments he would be saying about his sister’s botox, about Auntie Petula’s satellite dish masquerading as a hat and their daughter Alison’s boyfriend’s nose stud.
The sun sets over Bali, a slice of paradise she was happy to help pay for. She is too old for late-night discos, hangovers, and dancing with family members she barely remembered the name of. She will go to bed knowing all the important things in her life were happy and safe. There was life after Waystar, nights like this proved it.
She takes a walk along the beach to process the long day. The morning spent in rollers praying her blowout wouldn’t make her look like a Real Housewife, praying the rings would be remembered and the guests stayed away from the rum just long enough for the vows to be spoken.
She takes one last look at her daughters, full of love and gratitude. She is happy she worked hard to give them this, to give them the happiness they deserved. She bids her farewell and disappears under the night sky of paradise to find a good gin.
She remembered a little bar that she saw on the way there, a little cliché hut but it was a good location on the beach. It’s after 11, so she doubts it will be open but the walk along the beach is a welcome distraction. It felt like mere minutes ago her little girls were running around the Brownstone, Baird shouting from his study and the nanny begging them to take off their muddy boots. Now they were successful young women who no longer needed their mother.
She bar is open and busy. She struggles across the sand, sandals in one hand, her knees not what they used to be. She orders a gin and tonic and welcomes the stool. The island is serenely beautiful although inauthentic. This resort was a slice of luxury for the wealthy to pretend they had slummed it with Indonesian locals.
She takes off her wedding ring and clutches it between her thumbs. It was just an overpriced piece of jewellery. It had been replaced after her second pregnancy. Upgraded to something showier that could fit her swollen postpartum fingers. “Oh darling, you’d hate this, but you’d love to see the girls so happy. I wish you were sitting next to me. I miss you, you old fool.”
She hears a laugh like it’s an echo of the past. It’s a shrill hyena laugh. It’s an ugly yet authentic sound. It reminds her of late-night paperwork, of shallow work conferences and 2am whiskeys in Tokyo.
Her head snaps towards the noise that had made her heart jump out of her chest. He’s playing football on the beach like it’s a mirage, open shirt flapping in the sea breeze. She slides on her ring again, feeling silly for feeling so sentimental.
“Roman!” she calls, even though she knows the likelihood of it being him is miniscule. Of all the gin joints and all that…
“So you’re the dastardly rich Americans ruining paradise with your Americanness,” he says with a grin. The smile, the sharpness of the jaw, the fine, messy hair, the hazel eyes, the short proportions. It was Roman Roy. Her Roman Roy walking towards her in his cloth shorts, white tee and open shirt.
She stands still on the spot, her stool creaking behind her. It has been too long since he had been more than a story told over Thanksgiving dinner. “How you been, old gal.”
“Old gal is about right,” she snorts.
“You look good on it, always did,” he says with a confidence she had never quite seen from him. “What brings the U.S of A to these waters? Suppose it’s not quite been bastardized yet. No Mcdonald's or Chipotle yet. You don’t get unseasoned guacamole and chips here with your slice of paradise.”
“My daughter got married today.”
“Alison or the uptight one?”
“Emily,” she scoffs. He starts to talk to the barman in their native tongue, impressive for a man who never even learnt French from his Swiss au pair. “And you? What brings you here?”
“Their Martinis will hardly rival Bemelmans Bar, but they fill a hole.”
“Roman, how are you doing?” she asks, gently placing her hand over his. “Are you doing okay?”
“It’s good here, peaceful, no one cares about your surname or the label in your boxers.” His hazel eyes are at peace, fine lines now framing them, but the sadness is still there.
She had heard he had moved away, somewhere distant, after his father died. He exited the Roy legacy, stopped going to events, stopped appearing at family dinners, stopped existing in their universe.
She takes a sip from the Martini in front of her, it’s nowhere near as good as the ones back home but that doesn’t really matter right now. “It’s good to see you looking so well, it really is Rome.”
“Fuck, how long has it been, five, six years.”
“I don’t think we ever really spoke after Logan,” she pauses to try to find the best word.
“Croaked it? Yeah, things were never quite the same after all that shit.” It got too much for him, the brutal fighting between siblings, the lawsuits, the allegations, the press. He left a half-full apartment and an overpacked life. They thought he would return, she thought he would be back, but he never came. There were large donations to charities, cards and gifts sent haphazardly throughout the year, but Roman Roy had disappeared.
“I’m sorry about Kendall,” she adds, not knowing if the topic should be breached or not. “Tragic really.”
“Tragic, sure, a surprise, perhaps not. That kid has always been cursed. His brain was a ticking time bomb ready to explode,” She winces at the words he has chosen; she supposes he knows about the bullet to the temple on Valentine’s Day. “How was the funeral? How big was mother’s hat?”
“She kept calling him Logan’s son and made some borderline anti-Semitic comments about Rava. She also made Karl cry,” she adds.
“Sounds like one of the better Roy shin-digs. You still haunting those corridors, keeping the Swedish youth in check? Jerking off some blonde Aerian god in the lower floor bathroom?”
“I, uh, retired, earlier this year. Frank, Hugo, Laird, Karolina, all gone. You wouldn’t recognize it these days.”
“And are you happy? Taken up knitting and bridge yet?”
“God no, I still work, I just don’t have the sleepless nights anymore.”
“Well, you look good on it, Ger,” he says with a grin. “You want to go for a little walk, can the old knees take it?”
“You’re no Spring chicken yourself,” she says with a sly grin. The stubble and temples with speckled with gray, the corner of his eyes crinkled with life. e looked good on it. “A walk would be lovely.”
It takes her knees some getting used to the sand, but she slowly follows him along the sandy beach. “What made you choose here?”
He jolts his head towards her, lost in his own thoughts. He holds him arm and she interlinks her own for leverage. “Came here for some asshole college friend’s wedding years ago. Always wanted to come back. It was just for a few weeks, you know, sort that old noggin out and then I stayed. It’s peaceful here. I had no reason to come back anyway, it was all just death and lawsuits.”
For some reason that hurts, there was no reason for him to come back, not even for her. He stops to turn at her, his jaw extra angular in the clear moonlight. “And you, Ger?”
“What about me?” she says, tucking a strand of shoulder-length hair behind her ear.
“Any second or third husband? Any new boy toys to disgust the women at brunch?”
“No,” she laughs coyly. “No one. I’m a bit old for all that frivolity.”
“Some old, retired DA would be lucky to have you. You’re still beautiful,” he says.
“Thank you, Roman,” she responds, swallowing a smile. He was confident in his words, no hiding behind crude allegories. “Did you ever find love?”
They are dancing around the topic, dancing around their ghosts, staring out over paradise.
“Love? What was I going to do with love?” he snorts.
“Roman,” she starts, not knowing where the sentence is going.
“I still love you, Ger,” he interrupts. He takes her left hand and grips it tightly. She leans in and kisses him softly, their lips barely touching. She smiles gently at him, their faces inches apart. He leans in again, cupping her jaw and kissing her more forcefully. “I have wanted to do that for a really fucking long time. I let you go too many times. I’d hate myself if I didn’t try to give it a shot.”
“I missed you,” she says, leaning into his palm. She falls into his chest, her cheek on his shoulder. They stand entwined on the beach for some time. She misses his smell, the cologne has changed but his natural musk hadn’t. She feels his hand on her back, rubbing through the thin material of her dress.
“You want to see the new pad?” She nods gently.
They walk, their arms interlinked, along the beach in near silence. It’s so peaceful there, much easier to process your loud thoughts than in New York. She sees why it’s good for him, why he needed this, as much as him walking away hurt her.
He lives in a villa on the top of the hill that was practically poverty to a Roy. With just two floors and four bedrooms of 600m2, it felt nothing like the hollowness of his New York penthouse. They cross by the sky-blue pool to enter the property. It has thatched roofs, timer columns, warm wooden floors, messy cushions, and ragged mats. It has been lived in. New York penthouses aren’t supposed to be lived in.
“I thought Kendall and the kids would come and fill it up, but you know, it never worked out,” he shrugs.
“It’s a beautiful home,” she tells him.
It is a beautiful home, all open plan and minimalist. Every door opens up to the serene garden and pool at the heart of the home. But it feels too big for one little man. Gerri wonders if he ever gets lonely on the hill looking over the island.
“It’s okay here,” he says, like he was reading her mind. “I like it, rattling around here by myself. I go out a lot, I’m not sitting here turning into Howard Hughes. It’s peaceful, I appreciate it. I can choose when to be social and when to not be.”
“It’s beautiful,” she repeats. “I can see the appeal.” In some ways she can, but in many ways she can’t imagine living so far away from creature comforts. She enjoyed her launderette, the restaurants on speed dial, the wine bars, and the weekends in the Hamptons too much.
“It looks better now you’re here. Fuck that was such a shitty line. You deserve better than that Gerri. I’ll just see myself out,” he laughs. They are stood in his lounge, looking lost and wondering where this night is now going.
“You have anything to drink?”
“Yes, drink is great. I can do drink. Yes, let’s drink!” She watches him go to the little bar and rummage in the cupboard underneath the bar top. She slides off her wedding ring and mentally apologizes to Baird. He would think her the fool to be doing this with Roman of all people. All the years avoiding wandering Roy hands to fall for him. She leans on the bar top and watches him rush about. “If I knew it was you here, I would have stocked up, tidied up. I should have some for you. Gin, I think I have gin.”
“Rome,” she softly says, making him look up at her. “Come here.” They kiss again, her arms entwined around his neck. It feels like a bottlecap has been removed, the years of bubbling energy finally released. Her hands are on the top of her ass, splayed across the cotton. The kiss is long, their tongue investigating each other liberally.
“I miss you,” he says before they kiss again, their bodies pressed up against each other. He stops the kiss to look at her, drinks her in. “This feels right, doesn’t it?” She kisses him again, not quite sure how to put the feeling in the of her stomach into words. He kisses her neck, caressing her ass and rubbing himself gently against her.
“Maybe, I can see your bedroom.”
“You sure, Ger,” he says. She nods and interlinks their feelings. It is only when he is leading her upstairs does she wonder if he could do it, physically. All those rumors, those nasty after-dinner stories, those snide comments from the women in his life. She had always wondered about it, with her he had seemed eager, quick, but eager.
His bedroom is simple but minimalist. The walls are plain white, some local art on the walls, and a laptop laid out on the wooden desk. His sheets are white, folded in the way only a maid could, blue floral pillows fluffed up. “This okay for you?”
“Okay? This is fucking brilliant,” he smiles. They kiss again and she can feel his tension ease in her arms. They explore each other, the curves of the body and the curls of hair, the scars and moles, the bones and muscles.
She needs something more than touching. It has been so long since a man had even looked at her like this, let alone touch her like this. Perhaps no one had made her feel this way since Roman. She rips his shirt off his back, revealing his toned arms. He barely gives her a second before he is kissing her again. She just about manages to pull the thin cotton t-shirt from his body.
“You can tell me to stop at any point.” He doesn’t reply, instead, he smirks and lifts her up, forcing her legs to wrap around his waist. He carries her to the bed and delicately drops her down on it. “Fuck you’re hot, is it MILF or GILF status these days?”
“Roman,” she scolds although there is very little malice behind her words. He takes her in, led in her kaftan dress, the jewel green and purple tones masking her insecurities. He strips down in full view, enjoying the performance. His body is leaner, toned and tanned. She openly admires him, all the muscles and smattering of hair, propping her head up. She can’t help but laugh at those Calvin Kleins, the logo that nearly brought down her whole career.
“Your turn,” he says before flopping down inelegantly beside her. She tries not to gulp as he helps her remove her dress. Her underwear is too practical to be attractive. She had made the choice based on comfort, the idea of picking panties just in case you got laid were long past her.
He kisses down her body, tracing every pore. She pulls gently at his hair, trying to get him back onto the path she needed him on. He kisses back up her body, paying extra attention to her breasts, squeezed into a basic white bra. It kept it in and didn’t make her sweat, it was all the boxes she thought needed ticking that morning.
He kisses her hard, framing her face with his arms. “You’re so beautiful. It was never a one-time, summer romance thing, you were the real deal to me.”
He doesn’t let her reply, quickly shoving his hand into her panties. He’s clumsy and misses, but with some guidance, he finds her clit. He rubs enough to make her groan, to make her hips buckle and her head tilt back.
She wants to ask if he can, if he would, or if this was all she was ever going to get. But her panties are being thrown across the room, landing on his desk. He dips his head down low, nibbling at her thighs, leaving behind dents. He inelegantly removes his own pants, his dick springing into action.
She laughs at the ridiculousness of the situation. Roman above her, dick in hand, her legs open for him.
“Oh, you’re laughing at me. I have only just got it to work, don’t break my dick again.”
He pounces on her, kissing down her neck to her collarbones. He flips them over, grabbing her ass for stability. He props himself up against the headboard and looks up at her through thick eyelashes. “You’re so beautiful, and sexy and eugh,” he grunts. His eyelashes flutter as he enters her, her arms around his neck for leverage. They move together, their bodies entirely entwined. She goes slowly, her body acclimatising to the new sensation of him inside her.
“Wait, Ger,” he groans. She stops and clutches him to her naked breasts, running her fingers through his sweaty, fine hair.
“Are you okay?” she worries.
“Yeah, I am about to splooge my load right now, so like give me a second. I want to maintain some dignity. Maybe splooge is not how to do that,” he snorts. She kisses her forehead and holds him against her breasts, feeling his pants against her skin. “Sticking my head in here is not helping anything.”
She places her finger under his jaw and tilts his head up. “It’s okay,” she says, before carefully kissing him. “It’s okay, baby.” She slowly moves up and down, watching him tilt his head back in ecstasy. She laughs gently as he comes, tugging on his hair gently.
They roll apart, sticky and sweaty, but elated. “We should have done that years ago,” he laughs, stretching out beside her on the bed. She cuddles up to him, his arms wrapping around her, her cheek on his shoulder. “I wish we had more time together,” he adds.
“I am retired now; I could always come back.”
“Yeah, come and visit old Romey?”
“I can do a visit every now and then, see an old friend,” she coyly replies. She reaches up to stroke his stubble, cupping his jaw.
“I won’t go back to New York. I want to wake up every day next to you, but I can’t go back there,” she nods and strokes the stubble. “Counting the greys?”
“I can’t talk,” she snorts. “Gravity has not been kind.”
“Shut up, Gerri, you are beautiful,” he holds her tightly and kisses her forehead. “I wish we had more time,” he repeats. "You have no idea how happy you just being here makes me."
She falls asleep in his arms soon after, her cheek pressed against his ribcage, his heartbeat her lullaby.
She feels him tossing and turning beside her, feels him get up in the night. “Get some sleep,” she whispers, as he crawls back into bed.
“I don’t want a miss a moment with you,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her. “I meant, Ger, I love you, always have. You weren’t some bored summer fling. You were the real deal to me. You still are.”
She wakes up with the sun blaring into the room, the blinds left open overnight. The bed is cold, Roman nowhere to be found. She stretches as she gets up, her joints sore and her body tired. She smiles at the familiar ache she was not sure she would ever feel again. She dresses, slowly, the cotton cold against her body.
The balcony door is closed but unlocked. She can’t help but imagine them together on that balcony, eating breakfast together and sharing late-night drinks. 24 hours ago he was an echo in the back of her mind, a whisper of her past. Now she was imagining their breakfast together, imagining a life with him in it.
The big building is empty, no sign of life. There is one single coffee cup on the kitchen island, an envelope propped up against the fruit bowl, a note left to be found near the kettle.
You’re even beautiful when you sleep. Miss you, love you, Ger xx
She supposes he would be back soon. She realises she doesn’t even have a number for him. She pulls out her phone, messages clogging up the screen. She calls Alison, the perpetrator of most of the miscalls.
“Sorry, I went for a morning walk. Is everything okay?” she asks, concerned about the number of notifications logged into her phone.
“Did you walk past the crime scene on the beach? It’s literally minutes from where we were last night.”
“Crime scene? What are you talking about?”
“They found a body on the beach. You’ll never guess who it belonged to.”
She looks at the note on the counter, carefully written onto a notepad, ripped out with a shaky hand.
It feels like being gut-punched and the wind knocked out of you at the same time.