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Kier

Devon, July 2018

Zeph told me about Romy a few months after we got together, but truth be told, I’d already googled her.

It’s funny what you can find out when someone’s a little bit famous. If he’d been a regular person, socials set to private, the most I’d have discovered was either what he’d told me, or the gossip I’d been able to prise from any mutual friends.

As it was, I could find out quite a lot. It was just idle curiosity at first, the whole, borderline insecure who did he date before me , because odds suggested that he’d have dated someone with a profile, but it turned out she was more than a little bit famous too.

In fact, a whole lot more famous than him.

I knew of her, of course, everyone did, but I’d missed the fact that they were together. I was out of the country when it all played out, and by the time I got back, they’d split, and it was no longer in the news. One of the fallouts of travel. You go away and your cultural references remain fixed at the point you left .

The first time I saw a photo of them together I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

Romy.

You know someone’s really famous when they only go by their first name. Classically trained in ballet, she’d gone rogue a few years before, Sergei Polunin style – tattoos, temper tantrums, the works.

Persona non grata until she starred in an advert for a perfume brand that went viral. It showed her performing a dance off the top of a building to a haunting song that until that point was fairly unknown.

As she fell, time seemed to slow. She managed to keep dancing, making beautiful shapes in the air, before landing on her feet.

At the beginning, the advert caught some flack. Opinion pieces asking if the dance encouraged the idea that whether under extreme pressure, women are expected to perform, keep dancing. Keyboard warriors got involved – a pile-on.

Yet, after a high-profile interview, the tide turned, a critic commenting that there was strength in the performance, Romy’s dance defying not only the laws of gravity, but something more profound – life and death itself.

Was she, in fact, a symbol of hope ?

Very quickly, Romy became one of those fleeting cultural icons. She was everywhere, in everything. Newspapers, magazines, video clips.

My interest in them as a couple started off with a quick search or two, where I found some paparazzi shots of them.

Photos taken one night in New York, leaving some underground club. Despite the obvious interest in Zeph, my eyes were drawn to her – the red dress, battered high-tops, oversize necklaces draped around her neck.

Striding down the steps, dark curls springing across her face, she looked so fucking vital, strong. Like nothing and no one could stand in her way.

Another, taken that same night, suckered me in the gut. A passionate kiss on Zeph’s doorstep. I was jealous. Not only of her beauty, but her presence .

It was around then that Zeph’s sleep talking started. Romy’s name, shouted out, either just as he was drifting off or in the middle of the night. A violent cry that would wake me. Sometimes I’d catch only the end syllable, but it was enough to set my mind spiralling.

Was he still in love with her? Was I enough?

More searches ensued. One image fascinated me – not of the two of them, but a feature showcasing Zeph’s flat in an edition of Architectural Digest. A headline full of admiration:

Zeph Dosen’s brownstone went from unloved to a forever home. A deeply personal twist on old-school style

I pored over the images, an artful blend of antiques, contemporary classics, bespoke shelving for vinyl and books.

The consummate bachelor pad, bar one detail: a necklace on the bedside table.

Romy’s. It was a work of art; a triple strand of gold, studded with emeralds. I’m not sure why it captured me like it did – it wasn’t the expense, although it was clearly expensive, more how bold it was. I couldn’t get over how she’d feel comfortable carrying something like that off. Something that would make people stop, stare.

I became plagued by the thought: How could he go from someone like that – someone so out there – to me?

My foray into detective work also pulled up the fact that Romy had gone missing. Another fact that had passed me by while travelling. Well, missing with caveats. Missing from public life, but apparently no ongoing investigation – her apartment, also in Brooklyn, is still being paid for, money going in and out of her accounts.

‘Sources’ speculated that she’d left town. Rumours abounded that she’s holed up in the desert somewhere or that she’s still recovering from plastic surgery.

When I asked Zeph about her disappearance, he didn’t appear surprised. He described her as ‘tortured’. Said she’d struggled with her mental health and had been on a cocktail of meds, rebounded into an unhappy relationship.

‘It happens, more than you think,’ he said, his expression serious. ‘People just … go. Put it this way, when she comes back, I’m pretty certain her star won’t have waned.’

I’m still holding the broken necklace when Zeph stirs in his sleep.

Clocking me standing there, he smiles, a dopey, sleepy smile that slips away as his eyes drop to my hand.