Pete arrived at two in the morning.
''What the bloody hell is going on?''. Sleep still lingered in his eyes and the way his hair sat on his head gave away that he'd just rolled out of bed. Jay shut the door behind him, gestured for him to be quiet and walked him to the office. After he'd made sure Daisy wasn't secretly hiding around the corner, Jay turned to his friend and spilled.
''It was her'', he said, his hand resting on his head.
''Who? Who are you talking about?!''.
''Rose! It was her!''.
For a few seconds, Pete looked at his friend as if he'd gone mad. Maybe this lifestyle, this toxic, pretentious dollhouse – maybe it had finally gotten to him. Something must be terribly wrong to have him seeing ghosts.
''Jack… pal, maybe you need to get some sleep''.
Jay Gatsby shook his head and pressed his index finger to his lip. ''I know it was her. It wasn't a dream!''. He looked his friend in the eyes, excitedly. ''I know it was'', he repeated. Pete noticed a careful smile on Jay's face. He really did seem certain. Confident. Calm. His friend didn't look bewildered or out of his mind at all and for a second, Pete questioned if maybe he was right – but then again, he couldn't be. It couldn't possibly have been who he thought it was – and Pete wanted his friend to know that. He couldn't allow Jay to live like this any longer, hoping for a dead person to come back to life so they could finally live the way they were supposed to. It wasn't healthy.
''Pal, she'd dead… Gone! Dissapearo. She's a goner! You know that!'' and then, more quietly: ''don't do this to yourself, man''.
''Will you just PLEASE- listen to me, Pete. Hear me out. It was her. The way she moved, the color of her hair, her voice. There's nobody like her in this world. Yes, sure – it's been a few years… but I would've been able to recognize her from miles away. Trust me. It was Rose''.
For Pete, the realization set in that his friend wasn't going to let this go. He was sure of his case and nothing or no one in this godforsaken world could make him believe otherwise. Defeated, he sat down into the moaning leather chair. Jay sat down at the edge of his desk.
''Mate'', Pete whispered, trying once more to get through to him. ''There wasn't any recollection of her. You searched for her. No Rose Dewitt Bukater made it onto the Carpathia – and they registered every single one of them''.
Jay smiled.
''Well… it couldn't have been Rose Dewitt Bukater. She never made it onto the ship. Rose Dawson did''.
''What?''.
''She used my name''.
''Well for f- why?!''.
''She's a smart girl. She really is. Cal survived. I saw him on the deck, that morning. If she'd seen him too, she would've tried anything to avoid being seen by him''.
Something clicked in Pete's head.
''She was hiding from Cal'', he whispered in absolute disbelief. As he said it, the shock of a dead person coming back to life set in. His jaw dropped.
Jay's smile widened. For a second, Pete recognized a spark of Jack Dawson in his blue eyes. He was relieved to find out that his friend hadn't actually lost his marbles, but he was now horribly worried about what this was going to mean for Jay Gatsby. Softly, Pete pressed his hands against his forehead. He had no idea what to think. How could this have happened – and why now?! Why not nine years ago? That girl could've saved Jack from this lifestyle. More importantly, she could've spared him the torment of thinking she was dead. Pete had stood by his friend, an uncountable number of times, attempting to console him, to calm him down when the anger took control… and to lend a shoulder once the pain finally set in.
''What are you going to do?''. The whisper floated through the air and landed on the great Gatsby's shoulders, trembling in fear of what the answer might be. Jay simply looked at his friend and the corners of his mouth curled upwards, just a little bit. In that moment, he looked more like Jack Dawson than he'd done in almost a decade.
''Well'', he answered, as steady as he could be – under these circumstances. ''I have to see her''. He said it as if it made perfect sense. As if he weren't married. As if he didn't have a completely strange life he'd kept hidden from everyone. ''Just to see that she's okay. I won't do anything else. I just want to know that she's all right''.
Pete never said it out loud, but in his mind, all he could think of when he looked at his friend were two outrageously truthful words. Lying bastard.
For five weeks, Jay Gatsby spent every Friday night at the theatre. Daisy believed he was closing a huge art deal that required a lot of conversation, and Jay intended to keep it that way. He felt bad, honestly, about lying to his wife – but not bad enough. He knew he couldn't tell her about this particular scenario. Not about Rose. Not yet, anyway.
The well respected man made sure he had a seat in the shadows. A place where he couldn't be seen, but where he could see everybody. Especially the actress that played Eleanora, the doctor's mistress. Every week, he watched her performance with held breath and every week, he had to drag himself away from her at the end of it all. Truth be told, he didn't want to leave. Watching her play - watching her move and laugh and hearing her voice – it brought back a lot of painful and beautiful memories. When Eleanora and the doctor kissed, he thought about how he'd helped her fly on the Titanic's bow. When they fought, he remembered how Cal had set him up – how he had attempted to make Rose believe he'd stolen her diamond. When Eleanora finally realized she would never have the doctor for herself and broke down – he remembered how her eyes had looked the day he'd pulled her into the gym to convince her that she needed to break free. He remembered the pained expression on her face as the realization hit her that if she'd stay, she'd die – but that she had no other choice. Jack had attempted to give her that other choice. He'd told her that he'd leave with her as soon as they got in New York. He'd draw to make a living. Anything was fine – as long as she'd come along. Now that Jack was Jay Gatsby, he quickly found out he was still more than willing to keep that promise. He loved her, still. Just as fiercely as he had when they were on the ship.
And because this realization hit him, Friday after Friday, he finally caved in the fifth week. No longer could he stand the memories that she brought back onto him, or the sight of her hands so close – but not on his skin. On the evening of July 28th, 1922 – Jack decided to use the prestige that Jay Gatsby had managed to collect over the years to his advantage. He'd done it a million times, of course, but this time was particularly important.
After the play had finished and the actors had made their way backstage, he waited a few more minutes. He watched the audience as they started to make their way home and once the room was half empty, he stepped from the shadows and hopped on over to the bar, where he ordered a glass of champagne.
''You don't happen to know what marvelous soul brought this play to New York, do you?''.
The bartender looked up from his pouring and smiled. The curls in his mustache moved upwards. ''That would be mister Jonathan Calvert, sir. He's a businessman from the west coast''.
Jay nodded. The bartender handed him his drink.
''It truly is a fantastic play, don't you think?''.
''Well, yes sir. I don't know much about theatre, I'm afraid – but it was fantastic indeed''.
Another nod. A sip. A nonchalant glance across the room. Jay was looking for the businessman. That would be a man in a suit. Someone who lingered as the guests made their way outside. Someone who stayed to receive compliments and answer questions in hopes of meeting someone big. Someone like Jay Gatsby. Right as another sip of champagne burned its way down Jay's throat, his eyes fell on that one particular man. He stood down by the stage, speaking to an elderly couple. He wore a luxurious, expensive looking suit. Italian, Jay suspected. He had a pocket watch that he looked at every two minutes and his polite smile seemed to be plastered to his face.
Jonathan Calvert.
Jay thanked the bartender, emptied his glass, straightened his coat and walked towards the target. Confident, but not cocky. Like he would walk into a real business meeting. He knew what he had to do. He had a plan, and he executed it perfectly. The way of the business world.
''Mister Calvert, I take it?''.
Jonathan Calvert looked up from the elderly couple in front of him, caught the eyes of Jay Gatsby and turned bright red. Everybody who was somebody in this city knew who Jay Gatsby was. A man of the arts. Somebody whose association should not be taken lightly.
''M-mr Gatsby!'', the man stammered, quickly grabbing his hand and shaking it. It was almost as if he checked that he wasn't dreaming. ''My – what a pleasure to have you here!''.
''Certainly!'', Jay answered, his perfectly polished smile out on display. ''Sir, madam – if you'll excuse us. I have some business to discuss with mister Calvert here''. He wrapped his arm around Calvert's shoulders and gently guided him away from the elderly couple, leaving them behind with mixed feelings of disdain and admiration.
''Business, you said?'', Calvert asked, shaking in his boots.
Gatsby nodded and stopped walking. He turned towards his new pal and smiled widely.
''The play, Jonathan'', he said. ''It was wonderful. Truly, amazing''.
Jonathan Calvert's head turned an even brighter red. ''Well thank you, Mr Gatsby! That means a whole lot coming from you. I've always-''.
''Thank you. Thanks. Listen, Jonathan. I don't want rush you but – I have to be home soon, before the Mrs grows cold, you see?''. He laughed, and Jonathan laughed along. Jay prided himself on his ability to break ice. He was a talkative man, someone who led the conversation and dominated it, without the person he was speaking to ever thinking so. Holding a conversation truly was a talent.
''So'', Jay continued. ''Let's get down to business. I'd very much like to meet your actress. Eleanora''.
''What, now?''.
Jay nodded. ''You see – I think there's more for her. I think I might be able to expand her horizons. You and I, and her – we can make some wonderful plays come to live. Here, on Broadway, yes. But in the city of angels too… we can take her to Europe. To the highlands. People will love her!''.
''W-why'', the man stammered. He was taken aback. Jay Gatsby, possibly the most important man in the world of arts, wanted to do business with him. He wanted to make plays with him. This could make him a fortune! It could make him famous across the globe!
''Well, old sport? What do you say?''. Jay reached out his hand. Calvert looked, stared for a second, then grabbed it and shook it furiously. ''Most certainly!'', he exclaimed, a smile on his face from ear to ear.
''Wonderful'', Jay agreed. He patted his new associate on the shoulder. ''Absolutely wonderful indeed''.
Of Jonathan Calvert, you could only say that he'd been flabbergasted by the turn his life had just taken. He was an already wealthy and well respected man – but working with Jay Gatsby… now that would be a life changer. Maybe he'd finally be able to invest in horse racing, like he'd always wanted. He could buy a new car for his garage.. maybe buy a home in West Egg. Maybe even close to Jay Gatsby! Maybe they'd become friends!
He was snapped from his daydream by Jay's inquiry.
''Now, where is she?''.
''Huh?''.
''Your actress''.
''Ah, yes. She's backstage. I'll introduce you!''.
''No, thank you – thank you. You have a well-deserved rest, old sport. I think it's best if I meet her alone'', Jay answered, walking towards the stage. He gave his friend a soothing, reassuring smile. Calvert agreed that it'd be right to have some rest. Maybe get a drink, too.
''This way?''.
''Yes, that's right. Right through those doors''.
Jay nodded, gave Jonathan Calvert a wink and moved along through a set of heavy, hard wooden doors. As soon as he disappeared from Calvert's sight, his cool, calm exterior collapsed. Sweat stained his forehead. His heart raced about a hundred miles an hour – he could almost hear it pounding. Around the corner, he heard voices too. He saw lights. Two or three voices wished another goodnight. A breeze came in. A door shut. Jay calmed himself. He forced breath into his lungs and counted. Five seconds. His heart rate slowed down. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, took another breath and started to force his feet forward.
He couldn't remember a time where he'd been so nervous. Both Jack Dawson and Jay Gatsby were calm, collected men. Men who knew what they wanted and knew how to get it. For them, there was no reason to fret about things. But then again, neither of them had ever met a living ghost.