Naomi & Bradley, It All Comes Down… (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 1) (7 page)

NAOMI

Sunday, February 7th

My philosophy has always been, if they want to run, open the gate if they don’t want to be with you, so be it.  If I was going to stick with this life decree, this boisterous blabber, then I had to let Bradley go and move on alone.  He’s happy and free now, without me, experimenting with new women, trying out extreme bedroom positions, perhaps dabbling in the dominate/submissive world, I just don’t know Bradley anymore.  After our strange and hurtful conversation, I only understand that he’s hyping up his life a giant notch with deviant excitement, and there’s no room left for me.

I’m the boring vanilla to Molly’s spice.  The gloomy pale light to his new redhead’s radiant heat.  As my mother always told me, my legs are too long, my hair is too thick and unruly, and my sense of humor much too snarky.  I’m destined to be one of those women, clever, with a pile of cynical stacked on her shoulders, someone who can be enjoyed as a friend, interesting at first, until I grow stale like week old bread.  Then my thick crust will crunch too loudly, my white flour offering only the bland, and men will leave me and seek someone, different, hotter.  Italian rye, Bavarian swirl, French with cinnamon, someone exotic and interesting, fun and upbeat, women so different from me. 

For the first time in my life, I’m willing to consider a complete overhaul.  God knows my mother pleaded with me for years to let her stylist friends remake me.  I fought against it on principle.  Perhaps I should have accepted the offer, and ignored the insult.

I’m a big enough person to admit I need a drastic change.  Everything must be resurrected.

Myself.

My career.

My ability to finance this loft.

My doom and gloom attitude, my distrust.

The entire essence of everything me.

I would like to sell my parents’ loft, with all the terrible memories buried in every white wall.  My parents Dan and Beverly screaming at each other while I held my ears shut in the bathroom.  A childhood filled with emotional drama from hell.  I could hear my mom’s shrill voice shouting, “Go back to your whore then.  You can’t stay away.  You want her?  Well, leave, but if you do, remember this, I control the money!  I built this real estate empire; I am the CEO.  You’re nothing but an errand boy, a lackey.  If you don’t stay with me, I’ll see you penniless.  And don’t forget about Jean, he’ll know everything.”

Mother wouldn’t let go.  Boisterous Beverly would clutch on to my dad’s ankles and cry.  She’d wail accusations, and search his pockets for clues.  She’d even sink so low, she’d force me to watch him outside sometimes to see if he was meeting this other woman.  “Thin and blonde, that frickin’ whore, watch and see if your father meets her, and if he does, follow them.  You come right back afterwards and tell me every detail, you understand?”

Father stayed.

Mother paid for it. 

Father lived with us in this bleached, empty loft, but he hated her for it.  He made every day a misery and ruined my young life with it.  That’s when I knew I’d never do that to a man.  Make him stay, or feel guilty for not loving me anymore.  I’d open the door and wave goodbye with a smile.

That’s what I need to do now.

Let Bradley be happy…and free.

And I’ll do more than that.  I will change my clothing, and my hair, I’ll up my game and become exciting too.  I’ll model myself after Father’s girlfriends and Bradley’s new love interests.

Old Naomi, out the door.

A Rebirth of a New Naomi.  And I’ll run wild, hot, and free, until I can forget that I ever loved a beautiful Russian model who didn’t love me.

First problem to address, Finances.  I inherited the loft, a few thousand in cash, and a heavy IRA account I can’t touch without a giant tax penalty.  The maintenance on this place, the monthly fees, with no financial help from Bradley, has bled me dry.  When Carl Swartz hears about my drunken bout of careless guzzling, I’ll be out of work without a reference.

What to do?  A roommate?  I have over 3,000 square feet after all; maybe I should run an ad for two.  A pair of men.  Not models, I was finished with pretty boys.  Maybe up and coming attorneys, or stockbrokers, actors or reporters.  Young men starting out in their careers who have money for rent.  Not another woman, I can’t handle the drama.

I recall Darren’s vague remark, a hint of my working for him, but I took it as drunken kindness.  Hadn’t he helped me finish all those bottles of wine?  Like when someone says, “We should get together sometime,” and you know it’s an insincere load of crap.  I probably won’t be seeing him again. 

I’m also finished talking to Chase.  If I have to hear one more word about Molly’s sexual experiments and imagine Bradley recreating those scenes with an eighteen-year-old, I’ll puke.

Job or no job, I need at least one roomie and fast.

Second problem, my washed out appearance.  I decide to dye my hair black as an Eskimo.  Darken the brows; go more exotic.  I’ll go to Orchard Street and buy vintage clothes.  Stop in SoHo and pick up a few accessories, and balance it with the sale rack at Urban Outfitters.  I’ll invent my own bohemian.  I will become Naomi the free spirited hip girl that men want.  Carefree, unattainable, reckless, and full of life.

If my mother was right, and I am too unattractive to hold a man, I can change that.  I’ll be a new person, not only in appearance, but also in my frame of mind.

Naomi the doormat, the people pleaser, the yes sir and yes ma’am of Wall Street is gone.

Snappy and lighthearted Naomi is whelped and she is going to raise her head high and howl.

BRADLEY

Monday, February 8th

I wake up long after Manny has gone to…wherever Manny goes during the day.  Alone in his apartment, I think about my situation.  Maybe I should just let her go.  She seems determined to always see the negative, always believe the worst.  My God, what her parents did to her was criminal.  But who am I to talk?  My parents were never around, just those poor, beaten down nannies.  I couldn’t blame them, they came here on promises of a better life, but all they got was the life of an indentured servant.  I don’t know where they went after trudging out of our house, one by one, penniless and still not very good at English.  I would guess they became housecleaners or worse.  None of them were lookers.  Except Sabina of course.  That morning she gave me herself as my fifteenth birthday present was the best and worst of my life.  I showered and dressed after she left, buoyed up after our encounter.  As I neared the kitchen, I heard my mother speaking to her.

“Good work, Sabina.  Now Bradley can relax and concentrate on his studies instead of always chasing the girls.  How is he supposed to become doctor when all he does is think about making the sex?”  I blushed hot, wondering if the stiff tube socks in the laundry tipped her off.

“He is good boy, handsome boy.  He will do well whatever he chooses.  You should not worry so much.”  I heard Sabina’s voice and despite my embarrassment, I felt myself getting hard again.  But I had to see.  Had to see them together, these two women who were supposed to care about me instead plotting this sick plan.  I peeked around the corner, just in time to see Mother handing Sabina a thick stack of bills. 

I turned and ran for the bathroom, not making it to the toilet, soiling myself and the floor with vomit.  I kept replaying the scenes in my head.  Sabina taking me shopping, going into the dressing room with me to adjust a shirt or tug at my waistband.  Sabina teaching me how to smoke cigarettes and skip meals to get me slimmed down.  How much did Mother know?  She sure knew about Sabina in my bed.  I dry heaved a couple of times.  No one came.  I cleaned it all up myself and threw the towels and my clothes in the garbage.  After another shower, I stood looking at myself in the mirror.  “Of course no one’s going to have sex with you unless she gets paid.  You’re nothing.  Even your own parents are disappointed in you, don’t believe in you.”

By the time I emerged from my second shower, the house was quiet.  I took a cigarette outside and lit it, blowing the smoke up into the gray sky. 
Happy birthday to me.
  I thought.  I spent the rest of the day alone and I never saw Sabina again.

I think about all these things while I make some coffee, check my phone in the futile hope Naomi has called.  The only call is from my old agency.  Actually there are exactly ten calls.  I listen to the messages.

“Bradley, bubbela, it’s Ronnie.  Listen, call me.  The Times is doing a shoot and one of the photogs is a huge fan of your work.  Saw you in Milan or something.  Anyway, it starts Wednesday and they’re going to be at the Wollman Rink—you can ice skate, right?  Call me bubbela, call your Auntie Ronnie.”

I can’t ice skate, but I can sure as hell learn.  It’s time to get back to work.

NAOMI

Monday, February 8th

Bradley-less and single, only twenty-seven, I decide to move on, follow my own advice.  Let him run.  He likes variety, wants to have lots of babes, tie them up to bedposts, and whip them a little?  Then, go for it Bradley, play your new game of fifty shades of stupid.  I accept defeat.  Bradley could not have been plainer.  He admitted to cheating on me for over a month, and not only did he show no remorse, but he thought it was funny.  He’d even planned to flaunt his new girlfriend to me at the theater, to shame me in front of a Broadway crowd.  He was not only breaking up with me, but also scheming my public humiliation.  Who does that?

Damn asshat!

Anger simmers.

I fume.

My crying jags are over and I realize it’s time to act.

Yesterday was a busy and productive day.

I called Gus from downstairs, and had him take all of Bradley’s things down to our storage space in the basement of the building.  If my old boyfriend knew what was good for him, he’d move in with the new redhead and collect his things before the bugs and rats got into his designer clothes.  I don’t feel guilty in the least for moving them there.  No way am I looking at his collections, personal items, or clothes every time I turn around.

I force myself to move forward.

I color my hair, using the blackest shade in the store.  I come out looking like a Native American.  I love it.  I trim it off straight and add short pieces around my face.  I also dye my brows darker, and the deep chestnut shade brings out my blue-gray eyes and white teeth. 

Yes, better.

And different.

I look in the mirror and grin with joy.

Naomi Swanson is gone.  Her dull paleness and blonde bland are no longer present.  The old Naomi was unwanted, uncherished.  She was easy to forget and replace.  I will finally become the stronger part of myself.  I throw the old insecurities away with the scraps of my clipped hair.

I am a warrior.  A survivor.  An empty shell, someone never loved is gone now, and I build new strength out of my anger, disappointment, and hurt.

The anvil has fallen, but I’m still alive.

Bradley left me for another woman, like I knew he would.  Next time I’ll be smarter, choose more wisely, not let my heart rule my head.

A realization hits me.  I still dress like my mother coached me as an adolescent.  Matching, coordinating, professional, proper, and dull.  I’m a young woman, but I look like a schoolteacher in a rural town. 

I sort through my closet and toss away most of my things.  No more knee-length work skirts, no button-down blouses, no blazers, or plain basic heels for me anymore.  Gone are the black, the dark browns, and the cream.  Carl Swartz’s dress code and my mother’s strict combinations of womanhood ensembles now lay in the dumpster down in the alleyway.

I go online and scan all the coolest clothing stores.  Places I’ve always avoided in the past.  I watch my spending, but I find several bargains, discounts, and sales.  I place several orders.

I display my collection of radical jewelry, the only nice gifts my mother ever gave me.  I’ve never worn any of them, until now.  Overlarge earrings, bangles and bracelets, belts woven from leather straps, everything I once thought gaudy is now center stage on my dresser. 

Next, I remove her Italian scarves from a box and hang them up.  I place all my skinny jeans first and foremost in my now spacious closet, now that
his
stuff is gone, and grin.  It looks foreign, messy, exciting, and nothing like me.

This sunny, Monday morning, I call Carl Swartz’s office, his personal number, and leave a message.  I knew he will not be in this early.  I have no desire to hear his reptilian voice ever again.

“Mr. Swartz, I’m calling to let you know I’m resigning my position as your employee, effective immediately.  Thank you for all the opportunities you have so graciously offered me these past five years, all the hints, suggestions, and requests especially noted.  After careful consideration, I’ve decided I have no interest in kissing, sucking, touching, or feeling any part of your anatomy.  Please keep in mind that I have in my possession a few recordings of some of your livelier suggestions.  I expect a good reference.  Yours, sincerely, Naomi Swanson.”

It was probably professional suicide but God it felt good to say it out loud into my phone.

Now I lean back against my stainless steel countertop, take a giant sip of my coffee, and make another call.

“Mr. Darren Broderick please, Naomi Swanson calling.”

“Naomi, hi.  I was just getting ready to call you.”

“I’d like to return the favor.  May I take you to lunch today?”

“Sure.  Want to meet somewhere?”

“No, I’ll drop by your office.  Pick you up.  One o’clock okay?”

“Fine.  You intrigue me Miss Swanson, what are you planning?”

“A surprise Mr. Broderick.  Quite the surprise.”

“Now you really have me interested.  Why not pick me up earlier, say eleven?”

“I’ll be there, and Darren, can’t wait.”

I hung up before he could reply.

I’m running on a high-octane mixture of adrenaline, newly found pride, inspiration, and balls.  Whatever happens now will all be up to Darren.

I take a long shower and give myself the full body shave, lotion, spit and polish.  I take my time applying my makeup.  I go heavy on the eyes and lips, blues and reds, like a patriotic flag of womanhood and apple pie, with an edge.

I tangle my hair; fluff it full and wild.

I wrap a colorful scarf around my neck; wear a tight red top that shrunk in the dryer, and my skinniest jeans.  I climb inside the back of my closet and find brown suede half boots.  I decorate one with a gold chain; and slip them on.  They have high heels, perfect.  I add hoop earrings, and my oldest leather jacket.

Then I look in the mirror.

Wow!

I wonder if anyone I know will recognize me.

I hope not.  I am not the old Naomi anymore.  I never want to be her again.

I go downstairs with a sassy walk and go quietly up to Gus, our doorman.  I place my hands over his eyes from behind and whisper in his ear.

“Don’t be alarmed Gus, it’s me Naomi.  From now on, I’m going to look different.  And…Bradley Dobrov no longer lives in my loft.  I’m single.”

Gus slowly turns, grins wide, and winks.

“Yes Miss Swanson, and might I say, ya look hot as hell.”

“You may Gus, you may.”