2. Helena Mercer
HELENA MERCER
The spotlights hit him just right, diffused through the softbox filter. Tonight’s backdrop is a luxury banquet hall with arched windows, crystal chandeliers, and polished marble floors.
“Come on, Lord Ferreton,” I say as I crouch behind the camera. “Just one look.”
Lord Ferreton III, a two-year-old Angora ferret and the undisputed ruler of my studio, pauses mid-crawl on the miniature sofa. It’s a custom-made prop finished sometime after midnight because inspiration has terrible timing.
The ferret lifts his head. His whole face appears, bow tie and all. “Stay there,” I say.
Click. Click. Click.
He then drapes one paw over the armrest, eyes half-lidded, body loose in a way that says he trusts the room, and me.
Click. Click.
“Oh wow,” Mr. Johnson says behind me. “He’s actually cooperating.”
“He is,” I say. “He just doesn’t like to be rushed.”
Lord Ferreton decides that’s enough. He slips off the prop sofa in a streak of cream fur, darting across the floor toward his owner.
“Thank you, Miss Mercer,” Mr. Johnson says, scooping the ferret up. “I know this is past office hours. Travel’s been chaotic.”
“Not a problem.”
He nods toward the set. “Do you think I could buy that prop sofa?”
I glance at it. It’s slightly askew now, one leg already bearing the early signs of ferret teeth. “Take it. On the house.”
“Really?”
“Just know that if it ends up within Lord Ferreton’s reach, it won’t survive long.”
He smiles. “I’ll take the risk.”
Mr. Johnson settles Lord Ferreton into his carrier, balances the sofa against his hip, shakes my hand, and leaves.
I rewind the backdrop and power down the lights.
This is the closest thing I know to working with animals that also pays real money.
Not extravagantly, but enough. I left vet school when my savings dried up and turned the lower level of my family’s Carroll Gardens townhouse into a studio to take a stab at animal photography.
I designed it around the limits of space, sound, and access.
The separate entrance was nonnegotiable.
Some animals move like freight trains. Others move like they own the freight train.
Five years later, Mercer & Paw Studio has momentum. Clients are returning, and referrals are coming in.
My phone rings. It’s Kelly Bass from Summit Tail Pet Food.
“Hey, Helen. It’s Kelly. Sorry to call so late, but I didn’t want this to wait until tomorrow.”
My pulse kicks up a notch.
“You’ve won the bid,” she says.
“I—sorry?” I say, because my brain lags behind my ears.
“You’ve got the job.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The board loved your proposal. The Macarena cat? Absolute hit. Perfect for the demographic we’re targeting. And the Travis Kelce pony?” She laughs. “They couldn’t stop talking about it. Start getting your gear ready. This is going to be a great campaign.”
“Thank you,” I say. Then, because it still doesn’t feel real, “Thank you so much.”
Summit Tail is a major all-in-one pet brand currently in the middle of a rebrand. They wanted something warmer, more human. I pitched a mix of real footage and subtle post work to make impossible poses look effortless without turning animals into cartoons.
“And depending on results,” Kelly adds, “we can talk about phase two. I’m confident this will perform.”
When the call ends, I clap a hand over my mouth and shake it out, then I spin in the middle of the studio.
This means…
New equipment. Fixing the drafty studio window.
Restarting my student loan payments without flinching every time I check the balance.
One year of vet school shouldn’t cost this much, but it does.
And if Summit Tail comes back for ongoing campaigns, if this opens doors, I could even think about going back to school. Part time, perhaps.
I lock up and head upstairs.
Alaska starts her greeting ritual. Her liver-and-white tail lashes as she drops into an enthusiastic bow, working twice as hard after being barred from the studio. She’s fine with other dogs, but when it comes to other species, I’m not willing to test that optimism.
I’m still fending her off when I step into the hallway and nearly collide with my stepmother. Anna is already in her mink coat, handbag tucked under her arm. She’s out for her usual “cultural hours”—night access to museums or galleries, fueled by expensive drinks and very little curiosity.
“Can you call a plumber tomorrow? My shower’s leaking,” she says.
“Fine,” I mutter.
“This hovel is falling apart,” she grumbles.
Before my father’s empire went under, we occupied a mansion spread across acres.
I was too young to understand exactly what went wrong.
What I remember is my father sitting alone in his office, his head in his hands.
The house was quiet, the staff gone and the hallways empty. The next day, we were packing.
When Dad died, this townhouse was the only thing he left behind.
“Then help fix it,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. She still draws an allowance from my father’s estate. Used to share it, barely. These days, what’s hers is hers.
“Is Olivia back yet?” I ask.
“No,” she says, opening the door. “She’s out with Gordon Cane.”
I stop short. “Gordon Cane? Seriously?”
Anna gives me a look. “At least your sister has better judgment than you. She’s thinking long term. You’re twenty-six and still playing with animals.”
I press my lips together and step aside. “It earns me money.”
She scoffs. “Yeah, let’s believe that. If only you’d kept Victor—”
“Here we go…” Eight long years, and she’s still stuck there.
“I’m just saying!” Anna insists. “You two looked good together.”
“Have fun, Anna.” I start to close the door.
“I’ll be late,” she calls, opening her umbrella as she heads down the stoop into the rain.