We tell each other goodbye and I'm across from The James already. When I get to my room, I quickly change and crawl into bed. This is a far cry from my air mattress. Large and soft, with expensive sheets I couldn't dream of affording, I decide to enjoy my last night in it.
It's a crazy notion to think of how much money Prescott must have. Those apartments we visited were all very nice-in high-end buildings with rent I could never afford on my own. Then I get to thinking about what kind of business he's in. Pulling my laptop out, I look up his name again. The screen lights up. When I first looked him up, I was more curious about his general financial status. I'd had no idea he was so prominent in society. One of Manhattan's wealthiest, like Vince or was it Joe said-I can't remember which. I learned from my previous Google search that he's the grandson of Samuel Whitworth, one of the founders of Whitworth Enterprises. But I didn't go much deeper then, but now, that's exactly what I want to explore.
Dozens of pictures fill the screen of Prescott with beautiful women on his arm. He certainly doesn't experience a shortage of dates and he looks like he owns the world. Every one of the women clings to him possessively, too. Interesting. They all appear to be from the higher echelons of society, wearing designer clothing. Doesn't this make me feel more confident? I should've stuck to the business section of his life. Moving on.
Whitworth Enterprises has its hands in all kinds of business holdings-real estate, hotels, restaurants, resorts, and they even own a film production company. One of their fortes is mergers and acquisitions, where they buy up or merge floundering companies and turn them into income-producing businesses.
Damn, no wonder Prescott has all that money at his disposal.
Apparently Samuel Whitworth is a gem, too. There isn't a bad thing anywhere to be found about him. Prescott's father, Jeff, is a different story. He's been around the block with a few wives and, though Prescott is right that there's nothing particularly bad out there about their relationship, I noticed the absence of one. Especially in the recent articles, they aren't ever in the same picture. Not like Prescott and his grandfather, who always seem to be together. Credit, that could mean nothing, but coupled with his "daddy issues" comment, it makes me wonder. Hmm. Maybe Prescott does have a turbulent relationship with his father. If that's true, that could be the reason for him looking rough and haggard these days.
Digging a little deeper, there's nothing on Prescott's mother. Where is she? Why isn't she in any of the pictures? Was it a nasty divorce? And how old was he when it all happened? My hand rubs a circle over my heart as it's prodded by a sudden burst of emotion. I can certainly understand the loss of a loved one. Shutting my computer down, I try to sleep but a troubled man with golden eyes keeps me awake for a very long time.
In the morning, Eric meets me at the entrance to his building. "You look hellish."
"Yeah, I didn't sleep so well."
"Hate when that happens. Well, come on up to the casbah."
Eric wasn't exaggerating when he said the space was small. It looks like a one-bedroom they threw up a wall in the middle of to make it a two-bedroom.
"Don't say I didn't warn you. That's why I require you to be neat. This place would be out of control if I had a slob for a roommate."
Holding up my hand, I say, "No, I get it. The place I'm in now is a slum. And super tiny. This is definitely an upgrade."
"Not compared to what fancy pants showed you last night, though."
"Fancy pants. I don't think he'd appreciate you calling him that."
"With the way he looked at you, he'd probably kill me for it." Then Eric laughs. "He's a serious dude, isn't he?"
That doesn't even come close. "Yeah, I guess so. This is a recent thing, though. Or at least since Crestview."
"Crestview?"
"That's where we went to school together. He was carefree back then-or he acted like it anyway."
"Hm. What's his name anyway?"
"Prescott Beckham."
"Wait, wait, wait. The Prescott Beckham-like the billionaire?"
I sigh. "Yup, that's the one."
Eric leans back and grins. "So you went to high school with the famous Prescott Beckham."
"I just said that, didn't I? And junior high, too. It was a boarding school."
"Whoa, girl, you're secretly a fancy britches bitch yourself, aren't you?"
Choosing to ignore his comment, I move past him into the tiny living room and inspect the place closely. Then I walk over the where the bedrooms are. They are of equal size and each have a tiny closet. Across the hall from them is a bathroom that has a shower stall only.
"Sorry, no big spa tub for you to take your long soaks in."
"I'm lucky to have hot water where I live now, so as long as you have that, I'm happy."
"I'm a little scared to see where you live, Viv."
"Yeah, you should be. Just wait."
"Why'd you move there?"
I explain my lack of funds and how I rented it online.
"Ew. Never ever do that again. Very unwise. And you're so smart."
"Hey, we need to get going."
On the way in to work, we talk about sharing expenses. Then Eric lets me know what his pet peeves are. It's been quite a while since I've had a roommate, since college to be precise.
"It annoys the hell out of me when I grocery shop and go to the refrigerator to find all my shit is gone. If you ever do that I'll beat your ass."
"Duly noted, but I wouldn't be that inconsiderate. On that note, do you want to do completely separate groceries or joint dinners? I realize you have your life and I have mine."
"Separate. If we decide to cook one night, we can just grab what we need then," he says.
"What about stuff like coffee, tea, and other staples?"
"We can buy those jointly. And cleaning supplies," he suggests.
I click my fingers. "Is there a laundry room in the building?"
"Yeah, on the third floor. It's really nice, too."
"Oh, that's awesome. There's one in my building, but I'm afraid to use it."
We get all our details ironed out by the time we make it to work. Before we walk in, Eric stops me. "This is your final training day and then you're on your own. You good?"
"Yeah. I need another job, though."
"A friend of mine works at this super cool club in SoHo. He said they were looking for a bartender. You interested?"
"Until I can find the real thing, I'll take any job."
"Any job?" He slaps my ass, then laughs.
"You're not funny, Eric."
"Yeah, but think of the money you could be pulling in."
The restaurant is already humming when we get inside. We don't open for another thirty minutes, but we get to work preparing the tables. Eric lets me know on Saturday the busy times can vary some. He's right. Today is like a never-ending revolving door, with people coming and going. There is barely time to breathe. When our shift finally ends, my butt is dragging.
"You ready to go?" Eric asks, his voice all cheery.
"Are you not dead?"
"No, why?"
"That about killed me."
"Aw, you'll get used to it. So what … a train or an Uber to Brooklyn?" he asks.
"The train. It's faster."
He grabs my arm and off we go. When we get to my neighborhood, he says, "Fuck me, Viv, why didn't you tell me to bring a gun?"
"Because someone would steal it from you and use it to shoot you."
"Okay, then pepper spray."
"Pepper spray doesn't work for gangs. Just shut up and hurry." We make it upstairs and he sags against the wall in relief.
"I'm having a heart attack. I don't think I can go back out there. This place is awful. How could you sleep here?"
"I got used to it."
He shudders and I laugh. "Stop it, you nerd. It's not that bad. There could be rats and stuff."
"Ack." He lets out a screech and I crack up.
"Come on." I open the closet door and pull out two suitcases, handing him one. "Fill it up."
"I didn't believe you, but you were right."
"Yeah, the only things I bought after I moved were a couple of lamps, the electric burner, and I think that's it. Living with you will be like living in the Taj Mahal."
"Good thing these suitcases are huge."
We cram them full, placing the entire contents of the apartment inside, which are mainly clothes and shoes. I have a few towels, some sheets, dishes, and glass items that we wrap the towels around, and some pictures. A couple hours later, we're dragging the suitcases downstairs, along with the lamps, into the waiting Uber. I left the old TV and space heater behind to the next poor sucker who rents this miserable shithole.
On the way to my new home, Eric says, "Glad we made it out of there alive."
"Who the hell would want my shit? It's not worth a dime."