An Evening with Samantha Bowenger

(1)

Harold stood up and stretched. He walked over to the window to get a view of the streetlights below. From the 32nd floor, he could see the tops of umbrellas appear and disappear as city folk scrambled in and out of taxicabs. It was a late night, one of many since he moved out to the city a year ago.

Progress on the work assignment had been slow. Tired and lonely, he decided to call it a day. He walked through the empty halls to the empty elevator, which took him to the lobby of the building. As he stepped out into the drizzle to call a cab, he noticed a bright red umbrella. Beneath it was a beautiful, dark haired woman smoking a cigarette.

She noticed his stare. Suddenly, she flicked the cigarette into the street. She rushed over towards him.

“Can I help you?”

She was much older than he thought. She wore a fashionable dark trench coat with high heeled boots. The bright lipstick and dark eye makeup gave the appearance of youth from far away, but up close, had quite the opposite effect. Still, she was striking.

“Would you be interested in attending a party tonight?” she asked.

He pondered for a moment. He was unsure if there was some illicit service being offered or solicited.

“I’m sorry.” He started to walk away from the strange woman.

Very quickly, she said, from behind, “Would you like to meet Samatha Bowenger?”

“I’m sorry --”

“Samatha Bowenger. You know, the actress.”

“Yes, I know who she is. But I don’t think --”

“I’m her sister,” she said, as if this fact would erase all doubt. “Would you come to a party with Samantha Bowenger?” she asked again, with growing impatience.

He inspected her face. There was a resemblance, he decided. But Samantha Bowenger was one of the world’s most highly regarded actresses. Why would this complete stranger be inviting him to spend an evening with such a celebrity? Numerous tragic scenarios unfolded in his head.

The decision, it seemed, had already been made on his behalf. A taxi was swerving towards them. She looked at him as she opened the door. “Well, are you coming or not?”

(2)

They stopped somewhere uptown, in front of a tall brick apartment building. A doorman bowed to the woman who claimed to be Samantha Bowenger’s sister, and glanced warily at Harold.

She hurried to the elevator, which took them to the eighth floor. She knocked on one of two doors.

“It’s me.”

They waited for over a minute. Just when he thought no one would answer, the door flung open.

He heard an exasperated but familiar husky voice: “Jesus Christ, Kate. I was joking about needing a date.”

Kate Bowenger pushed the door in and Harold with it. The room was large and luxurious, unlike anything he had seen before. It was simply but tastefully furnished, but felt more like a hotel room than someone’s home. He turned to face his host, who sat down on a large beige loveseat to put on a pair of high-heeled shoes.

Samantha Bowenger was as stunning in real life as she was in her movies. She wore a loose-fitting maroon cocktail dress that hung delicately on her slender frame. Her thick, dark hair was tied in a neat bun. She had the mystique of an Old Hollywood actress, and yet, Harold could imagine her in a pair of jeans, reading a book in a coffee shop.

Kate cleared her throat and looked at him. “Okay, here’s the deal. We’re going to go to a party. Your name is Robert Copeland. You’re the youngest son of billionaire real-estate developer Thomas Copeland, and recently took over a large portion of his father’s business. Think Jared Kushner, with better taste in women.”

Harold could not fully understand what he was being told to do. He was vaguely aware that the movie star was dating a much younger man. Something happened, he surmised. Perhaps someone’s reputation needed to be protected. He looked at Kate, then at Samantha, with questions in his eyes.

But Kate said nothing more, and Samantha disappeared to retrieve her coat. Moments later, the three were greeted by a black limousine that had appeared outside of the building.

(3)

Harold concluded that all parties were the same.

The smell of marijuana and spilled alcohol filled the air. Guests wandered in and out of the bathroom, wiping their noses and screaming at each other. He observed that the people were older and better looking, and the venue was much nicer. Otherwise, this was no different than the college parties he had attended only a few years prior.

Samantha had walked in with him, but quickly disappeared into a small crowd of people she had recognized, leaving him to walk around aimlessly on his own. The large apartment had an open layout; the living area, kitchen, and dining area blending into one big space. There were at least 50 people present, all at least moderately intoxicated. Harold had no idea which of them, if any, was the host. He reached the large refrigerator and helped himself to a beer.

A cheerful looking man in his 50s approached Harold and introduced himself as Peter. A waifish young woman, no older than 20, stood silently next to him.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Rob. I think I knew your father when he was just getting started out here. Irina, this is the guy I was telling you about earlier.”

Harold shook his hand, and they engaged in a vague conversation about hedge funds and commercial real estate. Irina continued to stare off into the distance. After an awkward lull, Peter finally broached the topic that had been on his mind the entire time.

“Ah, how do I say this? I’m looking for a new money guy. Been hearing so much about the Copeland Fund. Apparently, you guys are like magicians with money.”

Harold shifted uneasily. “Uh, unfortunately, our money management business is on a referral basis. And we aren’t taking any new clients at the moment.”

Peter looked genuinely disappointed. Irina rolled her eyes. “That’s what I figured. Any chance you could make an exception for me? I know I’m not like your big-time billionaire customers, but this will be good for both of us. In fact, I’ll write you a check right now. Like right now.”

A checkbook and pen materialized out of nowhere. Irina turned and walked away, but Peter appeared not to notice. Harold found himself taking the check and shaking Peter’s hand.

“Rob Copeland. It’s been a pleasure. Definitely should meet up again next time I’m in the city.”

Upon realizing that his date had vanished, Peter abruptly turned and shuffled towards a crowd of people. Harold sighed. The whole evening had been bizarre and exhausting. He put his beer down and slowly made his way towards the entrance, looking for Samantha.

At the front of the apartment, he found a staircase that he had not noticed before. At the top was a large bedroom, with a beautifully crafted wooden canopy bed. At the far end of the room, an open glass door was letting in a comfortably cool breeze from outside.

Harold stepped out onto a large balcony. The ground was still wet, but the rain had stopped. Samantha was smoking a cigarette alone. She offered one to him.

“Miss Bowenger --”

“Sam.”

“Samantha --”

“Sam. No one calls me Samantha. No one I care about.”

He took the cigarette.

“Isn’t it a beautiful night, Harold?”

He was shocked that she knew his name. Introductions at her apartment had been quick and hurried. She smiled, and looked out into the darkness. She finished her cigarette and started to light another, but stopped to study his face.

“Harold. Robert’s not --”

“I know.” He instinctively knew what she was about to say.

And then, as if a great weight had been lifted, Samantha started talking. She recounted her unhappy childhood, her accidental rise to fame. She spoke of the pressures of her career and the relentlessness of the press around her personal life. She revealed her dreams of writing and helping refugee women.

Lighting her last cigarette, she looked at Harold.

“You remind me of someone. Someone who was very dear to me.”

He looked at her. He waited for her to continue, but she said nothing. Finally, he asked, “What happened?”

“He died.” She paused. He started to offer his condolences, when she continued. “Well, no, he didn’t die. He decided he wanted a normal life with a normal wife and normal children, and I couldn’t give him that. So he found someone who could. The end.” She giggled, as if this were a funny joke. So infectious was her laugh that he was tempted to join in, when suddenly, there was a large thud behind them. The shattering of glass followed, and then laughter. Harold stepped back into the bedroom. Peter, his shirt unbuttoned, was entangled with a young woman who was not Irina, and stumbling over the bed.

Samantha appeared beside Harold. “Let’s go,” she whispered.

(4)

It was almost 4 a.m. by the time the car reached Harold’s apartment.

“Wait,” she said, as he slid his legs out onto the street. She pulled a small black notebook out of her purse. She scribbled something quickly and thrust it in his hand. The door shut, and the car disappeared. He stood for a moment on the empty street.

He stepped inside his studio apartment. He threw his suit jacket on the small kitchen counter before pouring himself a glass of water. He sat down on the small sofa and closed his eyes. The hum of cheap appliances felt oddly comforting as the events of the night played back in his head. He could still see her next to him on the balcony, smoking, talking, laughing.

Not long after, he was woken by the morning sun. The stench of nightlife from his day-old suit jolted his memory, and he held his breath as he opened his wallet. The check from Peter was still there.

The payee was a completely illegible scrawl. “Two million” was written out, misspelled, in all caps. In the box were only five numbers: 2 0 0 0 0.

A few weeks later, Harold learned from the tabloids that Samantha Bowenger and Robert Copeland had broken up. According to sources, the age difference, combined with Robert’s move to London to manage the European division of his family’s business, was the cause of the split.