Chapter 10
The hours mesh into each other, a blur of meetings, conferences, studio visits, and sex.
Sex with a condom, I’ve since discovered, is Mason’s most hated thing of all.
He’d rather gouge his eyes out with a teaspoon, he told me while rolling the latex down his impressively veined, heavy shaft.
The man fucks like everything else I assume is demanded of him.
Perfection. I never expected him to kiss me or pull me to him after our bodies were covered in a thin film of sweat.
He told me it’s not Pretty Woman; he’d kiss me on the mouth if he wanted to, and by God, I had better kiss him back.
Kissing is an art form in itself. Sometimes, it can be more intimate than sex.
Only with everything else Mason Mercer does, every act has a function, a neat box to be categorized into, and a benefit for him.
Kissing me is part of necessary foreplay to get me wet enough to take all of him.
He didn’t want to kiss me; he needed to.
Emboldened by Mason’s dreamy, post-coital stupor, and my family’s pressing fiscal need, I decided to ask Trystan later for a potential salary advance, if possible.
He said he’d speak to Mason about it, and that’s all I could ask for.
Arriving home after day one, I’d called Mom to tell her a sanitized version of my new job, so sanitized it was dripping in Clorox and half-truths.
I’d been put forward for an executive position at a media firm (true) and had landed the position (also true).
The role came with a hefty salary and bonuses (again, factual), and could she please contact the specialist to get Cait an urgent appointment, because I know how long the wait can be, regardless of insurance cover.
Then I told her I wanted to be listed as the person responsible for account payments, or, if that was an issue, I’d transfer the bulk of my earnings into their joint account, allowing her to be billed.
“What is this new job?”
“It’s an executive position. I work under the CEO (again, truthful and in parts, literal) and the money is more than double what I made in publishing.”
“Are you qualified for this, Bubble?” Absolutely not.
The elevator stops at one of the lower levels that house one of the many studios inside the building.
Trystan is busy on his cell, so I follow Mason out across the expansive floor where rowed seating is stacked to the side.
When I look up, the roof is a trellis of tracks with directional lighting peeking out from barn door frames in a mismatch of focal points.
Several yards away is a giant Christmas tree, adorned with the most gorgeous glittery glass baubles, each one boasting its own shine thanks to the myriad of lights.
The base of the tree is obscured by a mass of bulky gifts, all wrapped up as prettily as the tree, in shiny papers of red and gold and trimmed in metal finishes and voluminous bows.
As I study the scene closer, a functional hearth complete with mantle, floor rug, and sash windows hangs on a set wall that must be foam.
The view through each sash window looks like a snow-covered garden beyond.
In early September, in a New York high-rise.
“A beautiful illusion, don’t you think?” A studio hand gestures to the wholesome scene just waiting for family, revelry, and festivities to begin. Or illusions of such familial activities.
“A load of bullshit,” Mason murmurs none too quietly. He’s trailing a makeup artist who directs him to sit in a chair next to a makeup table rimmed in glowing Edison bulbs, and next to two other people with similar assistants fussing with hair and cosmetic application.
“What is this?” I ask, dumbstruck at the scene unfolding.
“This, dear Bri, is the first take of the Mercer family Christmas card.”
“In September?” I inquire, my tone unsure.
“Of course. Some years it is earlier still. Alice Mercer demands perfection. She will have this scene retouched to within an inch of its life. Take note of what you’re looking at now, because when we send those cards out, they will look markedly different.”
My eyes are drawn to the middle chair, the one occupied by an older woman, rail-thin with high cheekbones and a severe pout.
One elegant wrist waves erratically around her head, as if she is unhappy somehow with her hair, the silvery-blonde strands curled and quaffed, pinned in place with a shimmering hair clip.
“That’s vintage Fabergé,” Trystan admits almost sourly.
“It’s so beautiful, she’s so beautiful,” I whisper, my words drawn out on a breath so soft and secret.
“The clip, yes, the wearer, well, let Mason introduce you. Then you can decide.” The corner of his lips curl.
Is that… derision? The woman is incredibly beautiful.
My internet searching has revealed she is Alice Catherine Mercer, nee Quince.
She’s fifty-nine years old, mother of Mitchel, Monica, and Mason Mercer, wife of Michael, the man whose desk I thought I would be bent over.
Presently, his cold eyes stare back at me from the mirror’s reflection, twin jellybeans of licorice and aniseed. Eerie and revolting.
A melodic laugh rings out over the entire set when an assistant says something for Alice’s ears only, and she beams at him in return.
An older couple sits in the center of the plush, claret-red sofa, talking to another woman and young girl who looks to be around five years old.
The child clings to the leg of the standing woman, burying her short head of pixie-cut hair into the leg of her chic, cigarette pants in the most stunning deep bronze color.
“That’s Marin and Magnus on the couch, talking to Monica, Mason’s sister, and the little girl is Ava,” Trystan explains from over my shoulder. “Frazer and Ramsey will be here somewhere; that’s Monica’s husband and son.”
As if on cue, a man strolls in with a toddler in his arms. The cherubic boy must be around a year old, wriggling to escape his father’s clutches and explore a set full of gleam and shine.
He’s just spotted the train set circumnavigating the base of the tree, peeking out from between the boxes and bows. He wants that train.
One by one, the Mercer family float over to take up positions around the older couple on the couch.
Their expensive cashmere knits look out of place on an early September day, but the illusion of a snowcapped wonderland just waiting to be explored beyond the windows adds to the homely feel. Festive fakery at its finest.
“If you’re fine here for a moment, I’m just going to run up to print and grab a report I’ll need for tomorrow,” Trys says, nodding to the burly security guard standing only feet away.
“Don’t move from here unless directed to by a Mercer, or these two brutes if the place catches on fire. Otherwise, I’ll be back in a moment.”
I watch with rapt fascination as a photographer ducks behind an expensive camera mounted on a tripod.
An assistant surveys each image on a laptop as they are taken, one after the other.
Tones of lighting are changed with the press of a remote, and an entire wardrobe change is called for about sixty photos later.
As Alice Mercer dashes off to a dressing room, Monica, Ava and her boys make their way to a catering table to the side of the shoot where I’ve been lurking. I’d snared a few grapes when I thought no one was looking.
“How are the grapes?” Well, someone was looking.
“Very good. Sweet but not overpowering,” I reply to Monica’s husband. He’s busy selecting pieces of fruit for his children to snack on when his wife saunters over to join them.
“Oh, hello,” she beams. “I’m Nic Mercer-Klein. This is my family: Frazer, Ava, and Ramsey. I don’t believe we’ve met?”
“Hello. I work for Mason as an assistant. My name is Sabrina; most people call me Bri.”
“Ah,” she beams. “I shortened Monica to Nic, so it wasn’t as pretentious. I’m assuming you did the same?”
Before I can answer, Frazer jumps in. “Just because you hate the connotations of those M names, Sabrina might adore her name. Your assumption could be way off base. Or she might have a penchant for soft cheese?”
“If she loved Sabrina, wouldn’t she request everyone call her that?”
“I’m happy with either,” I add breezily, watching as the children inhale little triangles of watermelon and the largest blueberries I’ve ever seen. One rolls out of the fingers of the little girl and lands near the pointed toe of my Louboutin heels.
“Uh oh,” she says in the sweetest voice.
Bending to pick it up, I deposit it into the concealed trash and move the entire bowl closer to her. Her tiny smile is all the thanks I need.
“Ah, you have a friend for life now, Bri,” Frazer says with a chuckle. “Miss Ava would eat her entire body weight in berries if she could. Isn’t that right, princess?” The little girl squeals in delight as her father tickles her. It’s the sound of unbridled joy.
Mason throws off the Christmas sweater, opting to pick up the tie I’m still holding and reclaim his corporate uniform.
“Cool your jets there, bro. I doubt she’s finished with you yet.”
“Well, some of us have jobs and work that won’t do itself. She can add me digitally later if she is so inclined. Nic, have you met my new EPA, Sabrina?”
“Bri? Yes, we have. She’s lovely. Are you going to introduce her to the rest of the family?” The tone is playful, with a bullish curve.
“Fuck no,” Mason snaps, pinching the knot on his tie as he wrestles it into place.
There’s something sinfully sexy about watching a man dress.
For me, it eclipses the art of undressing in most situations.
The adornment of clothing over a honed physique to complete the polish.
I notice the little girl looking up as the adults speak.
Mason has paid her no mind for the entire shoot, other than to lean over and pass her a small, wrapped gift when instructed to by the photographer, only to reclaim the gift and repeat the process.
Instinctively, I bend down to meet her eye level and ask her what she wants for Christmas, even though it’s still months away.
“No more hospital,” she whispers. My heart is cleaving.
This tiny slip of a girl, who was born into a family where money is no object and no doubt has a bedroom and playroom overflowing with toys, wants something money can’t buy: health.
Overhearing the exchange, Nic places a protective hand over her daughter’s fine strands.
“She’s in remission from juvenile myelomonocytic leukemia.
This is the first family Christmas shoot she’s been well enough to take part in since she was two. ”
Oh, my poor, cleaved heart. She was two when she first became unwell. That’s still a baby. At least Caitlin has some handle on what is happening to her and understands when the doctors discuss treatment and prognosis, no matter how gruesome.
“I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better. Could it be the blueberries?”
“Maybe!” Nic laughs and caresses her daughter’s tiny cheek with her thumb. The adoration and devotion are clear in the mirrored gaze until a shrill voice splits the air in two like a stock whip.
“Next phase. Bring the festive energy! Places, everyone.”