This chapter? Idk. I just dk. There are some nice tender spots, some nice moments, but in retrospect, I've spent a lot of time on scarves, and no matter how I cut it, these characters just won't stop being awkward goobers, so there you have it.
Upon my own assessment (and I could be wrong), it seems that the first season of Succession goes from around October (Logan's bday—he's a scorpio? That's my headcanon.) to Shiv/Tom's wedding, which is in March. This chapter is one that actually takes place between "Austerlitz" and "Prague" (which is, what, February?) Just for anyone keeping track.
After her binge of the first season of Luke Cage, but before her binge of the latest season of The Great British Bake Off and before submitting for fourteen jobs and after having a mini existential crisis in the shower, Jess saw that familiar phone number pop up on her phone homescreen.
Frank.
She knew he'd call because she'd been carefully avoiding Kendall's texts (silently wishing he'd call her instead), and she had already been preparing her response. Except her response to his inevitable question would change from day to day, hour to hour.
The push of the call when she finally chose to answer was obvious from the start because Frank knew Kendall needed Jess desperately, and he wouldn't go into any business dealings with Kendall without her. He was not about to butter Jess up with small talk.
"We need you," he said plainly, "I need you. Kendall needs you."
There was a pause. Frank tried to lighten things.
"'In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty'," he recited.
"You're quoting—what, Henry V?—to get me to come back?"
"Henry VI, but yes," Frank chuckled, "you're his boots-on-the-ground, as it were."
"Then the Saint Crispin's Day speech would be more appropriate, no?"
Frank drew a breath and scoffed in a congenial way; this might be harder than he initially thought. No wonder she always seemed to keep Ken afloat.
"Kendall needs you," he repeated.
"Yes, I am aware," Jess' tone stayed even and low, "it's a matter of boundaries for me right now."
"Of course," Frank obliged, "you've had a lot to deal with…but he's in a good place right now. He's um—he's handling himself."
Jess sighed at the euphemism.
"I'm going to have to think about it."
"Sure, sure," he said, "take your time. But we will need an answer by Friday…though I'm sure this time of year—makes your decision easier."
Jess knew what Frank meant: the holidays were a time of downsizing rather than a time of new hires. Despite her experience, the field was sparse; her exit from Waystar Royco could be very easily misconstrued by hiring professionals—and Frank knew it.
"I'll need to speak with Kendall," Jess said, gazing out her window. It got dark at 4:30 this time of year. It was 4:25. Flurries. Apparently, there were two major storms forecast in the following week and a half. Storms of the century, ATN called it. The network was planning for wall-to-wall coverage.
"Um—right," Frank hesitated, "listen, Jess, he's… I know he feels…"
"He needs to call me if he wants me. He was the one who vowed to shield me. And he didn't hold true to that. This is my livelihood."
"Sure—"
"And it's not fair that you've been made to be the go-between."
"I'll—I'll talk to him."
"Thank you."
"Is there—"
"I'd like to take a look at the contract," she said, "and have someone review it."
"Oh—um, OK," Frank sounded surprised—which meant Kendall would not have anticipated this, "yeah, I think we can arrange that."
"Fantastic," Jess concluded, "I'll be in touch."
"Great—Thanks, Jess."
Frank ended the call.
"So?" Kendall sat before Frank in his living room, clutching the arms of the velvet chair with a look of panic in his eyes.
"She seems willing," Frank began gingerly, "but…she has a condition."
"Oh."
"Two, really."
"Two?"
"She wants to see the contract for review."
"…OK."
"And she wants to talk to you."
Kendall was silent.
"Neither should really be a big deal, Ken," Frank furrowed his brow, "You would need to talk to her in order to work with her. Jess has been your EA for, what? Four? Five years?"
"Yeah," Kendall said with a hitch in his voice, "we—I mean, she knows everything about me. Or—mostly."
"Hesitate a bit more," Frank chuckled, "and you'll make me think you're afraid of her."
When she'd been hired by Waystar Royco to work for one Kendall Roy four years prior, Jess had acknowledged not only the NDA but that there had been a non-compete clause in her employment contract. Coupled with the holiday season, as Frank had mentioned, Jess' prospects were tight. And while her mother scoffed at the capitalist orgy that was the modern American holiday season, she always did enjoy some nice skeins of mohair for her loom.
But aside from gifts, there would be rent.
Jess didn't have much of a choice. But at least she had some leverage. And Kendall, swallowing his pride, his fear, and his aching shame, called Jess for an interview. The call, she noticed right before she hung up, was 35 seconds long. Just enough to set up a day and time for the meeting, but nevertheless, he did call. The contract was being emailed to her.
After Kendall ended the call, he felt like screaming. He set the screams aside, like so many others, for another time. At least Jess was willing to return to him.
As for the contract, Jess consulted with Amy, her friend who was working at a law firm in Midtown. For the price of a few martinis on a Thursday night, Amy reviewed the document and suggested changes. The more martinis, the more changes.
The next day, Jess chose to forgo the powersuit. Instead, she slipped into impossibly high heels, a black pencil skirt, and a cream silk blouse, leaving the top three buttons undone. Jess swiped on a bit more mascara and, in a last-minute decision, she threw on that magenta lip color. With her hair pulled back, Jess opted for her grandmother's cameo earrings. Throwing out some mixed messaging, she knew exactly what made Kendall weak.
When she appeared at the door of Kendall's townhouse, his breath left him. He cursed at himself for immediately being on the back foot. Thank god he'd at least worn a suit. He'd toyed with the idea of having Frank sit in on their meeting. Now he was glad he didn't invite him.
"Wow, it's fucking freezing out here," he commented as he stepped aside, "what—22 degrees today? And the storm next week? Brutal, right?"
Kendall ushered her into his home office. She'd only been there a handful of times before. Kendall had purchased it in a burst of family fidelity two years before, not too long after they'd returned from Shanghai, with the idea that Rava might return to him; he even convinced her to work with the designer to decorate.
Jess had dropped off a tailored suit, a document here and there, but Kendall had kept his house to himself, and their storied relationship playing out in other locales. As he led her through the house, Jess wondered where they would be doing the majority of the work: would it be at his kitchen table? The space was impeccably kept and designed, reflecting none of Kendall's personality and all of the West 70s mid-2010s design aesthetic. Six bedrooms, four floors, a fully landscaped yard, and a finished basement with a custom home theater, Jess recalled from the Sotheby's listing. The office was located in the back of the home and the early afternoon light streamed through the large French doors that led to the yard. Jess took a seat comfortably across from him and crossed one leg over the other to convey some expert level of ease and control. Her heart raced, and it seemed as though her skirt would split; perhaps it was too tight.
She took a breath.
Kendall, on the other hand, was falling for her game. He was ready to give her whatever she asked—but not without pretending to put up a fight for a bit so that he could preserve a remnant of dignity.
"So," he laughed, almost to himself, "is this history repeating? Your conditions for Shanghai? Remember?"
"I remember," Jess nodded, "but no, history is not repeating."
Kendall's smile disappeared; Jess had not come to play. "Oh? And why is that?"
"This time," she said as she produced the contract from her case, "I'm requesting a 15% raise, three weeks paid vacation days, full insurance, options for shareholding if you ever decide to go public in the future, and a separate fee for PR consulting."
"PR?"
"Yes. It's my safeguard. I have to hone as many skills as possible if I get laid off again. And I can't agree to a non-compete."
"…OK." Kendall said slowly. A jab. It was fair—he hadn't protected her at all after saying he would, after all she'd done for him. He deserved everything she threw at him. He expected it. He wanted it.
"I'd also like to discuss hiring Lance and Fiona."
"OK—um—"
"I've sent you an electronic copy of my revisions as well," Jess slid the paper contract across the desk toward him.
"OK," Kendall reviewed the contract in front of him. All added up, what Jess was actually asking for was a drop in the bucket to him. She'd already proved to be invaluable to him. Jess watched, unblinking, as Kendall reviewed the changes. After a few minutes he finally spoke.
"I think we can work things out," he said.
Jess successfully prevented any show of emotion; she thought this conversation would somehow be much harder. Of course, they didn't talk about the hard things. Not yet, at least.
He felt like, even after everything, he should offer his hand to her. Kendall went so far as to attempt to extend it, but Jess' manner stopped him.
"And one more thing," she said—could he detect a quaver in her voice?
"OK." He quickly retracted his hand into his lap.
"If I agree," she said, her eyes trained on his, her head cocked slightly, "to come on board, how can I be certain that you will remain…focused?"
Her meaning was duly noted. Fuck—this is humiliating. Kendall chuckled a little and broke her steadfast gaze.
"Um—right—well—"
"Because," she cut in suddenly with a deep breath, "I'm not sure I'd be able to sign if you're… not committed to staying on track."
And in her eyes, Kendall saw, possibly for the first time, the impact their time together had had on her. And he saw the pain and grief she harbored, still fresh, for her brother. The pain she harbored for him.
It was in that moment, as he watched her lip quiver ever so slightly and her jaw tighten, that Kendall realized he'd have to start lying to her.
Really lying.
Jess signed the contract in Kendall's house that afternoon.
"We haven't discussed a start date," she said as the ink dried.
"Tomorrow?" Kendall asked without thinking.
"Tomorrow is Saturday."
"Um—Monday?"
"Monday is Christmas Eve…"
"Oh—shit—right," Kendall muttered as he rubbed his eye, "the 26th, then. What are you doing for Christmas?"
Jess paused, thinking about the boundaries she'd so diligently laid out to herself before she had signed the contract. Seemed they were evaporating before her as soon as he said "Christmas."
Could he see the flashback to Shanghai written across her face?
He could.
"Sushi delivery with college friends on Christmas Eve," she commented as she rose from the desk.
"Oh, nice, uh-huh."
"And then I'm watching entire seasons of cinematic TV on Christmas Day."
"Ha," he commented in a small voice, "same."
A small part of Jess' previous duties were gifts. Gifts for his family, friends, colleagues—keeping track of the kids' gifts that Rava had purchased and then had written Kendall's name on the tag. Jess kept a log of everything, organized and color-coded. An excel sheet of gift history. He hadn't personally purchased—let alone had chosen—a gift in over five years.
It was 5 p.m. on Christmas Eve that Kendall found himself untethered and just slightly overwhelmed in Hermès on Madison Avenue.
Next year, he would be a better person, he told himself. Set some resolutions, try to actually get clean again, see his kids, build his own business independent of his father. Make peace with Rava. Just the basics.
But first, he'd finally buy a present for the person whose loyalty had happened to make him briefly sob into his pillow the night before.
He'd woken up that morning with nothing to do and no one to call. Frank had jetted off to Palm Beach for the holiday, and Rava had taken Sophie and Iverson up to Fairfield to see her parents. She made the decision, however drastic, to not have the kids see Kendall this year on Christmas.
It was probably for the best, he estimated. Rava had grown to anticipate his missteps and shielded their kids from him. This was only another instance in a long litany of his errors. He did not deserve to see them, he told himself.
So, there he sat, alone, upright in bed at 6 a.m. on Christmas Eve. He tried to plan in his head what would happen when Jess reported on Wednesday. There was almost nothing for her to do because there was nothing for him to do—at least not yet.
He kept sitting until he'd lost track of time. Did he fall back asleep? Dip into a black hole? It was now late afternoon, and Kendall was unsure of where the time had gone. He got up, went to the bathroom mirror, saw a bit of powder on the tip of his nose, and brushed it away, unable to make eye contact with his own reflection. He dressed, walked across the park and that's when he had ended up amongst the bright scarves of Hermès. So many silken chains, surrounded by what looked like Babar characters on acid. Was "trippy vestiges of imperialistic material culture" really the right gift aesthetic for Jess?
The shrewd salesperson steered him around the displays, suggesting scarves, each one more insane than the last. He was only being shown items that were over a thousand dollars. Leopards, toucans, scarves one could wear as a dress.
After an hour, he still didn't know what to get, and that hour had been fraught. The clerk asked who the gift was for—Kendall supplied the answer: a friend. The clerk asked what Jess liked; Kendall couldn't say. From what she wore at work, it seemed that her favorite color was gray. Why, then, had he gone to Hermès?
"I have no idea what she likes," he admitted to the salesperson, who continued to hum and haw over the most expensive items.
"What gifts have you gotten your friend before? What's their style?"
Kendall thought for a moment. No gifts. He didn't even know when her birthday was.
He was shown a silk scarf that only could be interpreted as a horse on 'shrooms and then another of equestrians on acid, ensconced in belt buckles…?
Or maybe not. Maybe he just needed to get high again. Psychedelics were not usually his thing, but perhaps these French scarves would end up convincing him.
After much deliberation—because what else was he going to do that day?—he chose what the clerk proclaimed as the "Brandebourgs Point Giant Scarf." 130 hours of work with hand embroidery, and—dear god!—look at the sequins! The sequins. Sixty-two hundred dollars later, Kendall emerged from the store, giant orange bag in hand, and as he slipped into his car, that specific brand of winter wind that would course through the concrete canyons of Manhattan—bitter, wet, and stinging—whipped against his face. Next year, he said again to himself, he would be better.
Jess held fast over the weekend and into the holiday, in spite of Kendall finding excuses to text her throughout the day. She'd been consistently peppered with not-so-subtle hints about meals and driving up to Storm King on Christmas Day.
But she wasn't taking the bait, in spite of the fact that it shattered her heart knowing he was completely and utterly by himself—at an outdoor art installation upstate at the end of December, no less.
But as agreed, Jess was at his door at 8 a.m. on Wednesday morning. The day was spent getting situated, boring stuff: getting a new work phone and laptop, creating databases from scratch, reaching out to Fiona and Lance, who would be coming on (but working from home, Kendall insisted), reconnecting with some industry contacts that hadn't shunned him (and the addition of a new contact named Nick, who Kendall said was a finance guy at work in the Caymans). Jess was mentally exhausted from building a company's administration from the ground up.
At the end of her day—seven p.m.—Jess got to work straightening up the dining room (or, what was now her office? Should she scout an office space? She'd have to talk to Kendall). When she'd packed up all of her things, Kendall appeared before her, and she jumped with a start. He was holding something behind his back. She waited for a moment until he presented an orange box before her and set it on the table.
"Merry Christmas," he said in a small voice, "belated."
Jess stared at him and allowed herself a laugh. Sometimes, in very specific moments, Kendall was dangerously adorable. She took a large breath and sat back down at the table.
"I didn't—know—I didn't get—" she murmured as she dared to touch the orange box and trace her fingertips over the lettering.
"Open it."
Jess glanced at Kendall briefly before pulling the ribbon and lifting the lid. He watched as her fingers parted the tissue paper with great care. Jess sat, looking at the item before her. She was silent, and Kendall grew afraid.
"Is—is it—" he asked.
"It's incredible," she exclaimed under her breath, "but this is too much. Kendall, you didn't have to do this."
"No," he emitted a bittersweet laugh, "no, I think I did."
Jess pulled the scarf from the box and held it out in front of her.
"It's impossibly beautiful."
Well, that's fitting for you, he thought as he watched her fingers caress the beadwork.
"Thank you," Jess was breathless, "I'm sorry—I don't—I didn't think to—"
"Believe me," Kendall huffed, "this is just a token—"
"—a token, OK—"
"—of my gratitude," he finished and sat down at the table perpendicular to her, "I fucking—throw so much shit at you—and—"
"Nice visual—"
"—And you just—" Kendall exhaled as he scrambled for words that always seemed so hard to reach in these moments, "you're there. And I can depend on you to be there. You're…"
Jess gripped the scarf in her hands, and her eyes were wide as she waited for him to finish.
"…you're the only person I trust," he said, "and I've—been really selfish—and shitty—repeatedly—and—"
Jess couldn't tell if this speech was entirely for her or meant for someone else in Kendall's life. It could apply to so many people. Still, she listened. The words, however stilted, were appreciated...and frankly surprising.
"—you're there," he said again, "you're just… with no judgment—just there. So, yeah. But you like it? I did OK?"
Jess gazed at the scarf and then looked at Kendall and smiled, almost mortified, "Yes. This is more than OK."
Kendall leaned back in the chair, satisfied with himself and relieved to secure a shot of pride. Jess' smile faded, and she found that Kendall was giving her that look.
That look that first night in the desert.
That look in the penthouse in Shanghai.
That look when he met her for the first time during her second-round interview.
That look.
She wondered, in that moment: why do I put so much energy into resisting that look? Oh right, idiot, I do not want my life to explode beyond all recognition as a result of entering into a legitimate, tangible relationship with Kendall Roy. God forbid I confront my actual feelings. Self-preservation, she reminded herself as her resolve began to crystallize. How long would it hold for this time?
"How does one don a Hermès scarf?" Jess wondered lightly, jolting him as she slipped away to the hall mirror—any excuse to put some distance between them.
Kendall trailed her and, as he watched her in the mirror while she draped it across her shoulders, he exhaled.
"I have no fucking clue."