There’s an anger in me that I can’t kill. If I keep busy, I can almost forget it exists, but it’s always there in the background on a low simmer.
Through the latter half of November and early December, I work like a dog. I’m back and forth from New York City and Paris. I’m close to buttoning up the new Leclerc & Co. buyout, and I’ve had four meetings with the historical restoration team from Banks and Barclay concerning the new GHV headquarters in Boston.
I’ve also made headway with my home. Though far from being complete, it’s livable. Pierce Waterhouse has finished furnishing several of the rooms on the main floor, enough for me to move out of my suite at the Mandarin Oriental two weeks before Christmas.
As soon as I’ve finished unpacking my last box, I regret my decision.
The city was already proving lonely. The days are growing short, night creeping in earlier and earlier each day. The snow is endless, and the conditions have pushed everyone indoors. At the Mandarin Oriental, I could have a drink at the bar or eat dinner downstairs and feel as though I wasn’t quite so lonely and adrift. In my quiet house, it’s not so easy.
The holidays take over in full force. The buildings around the city get dressed with red bows and twinkle lights, and I’m a scrooge, hating every bit of it, wishing the holidays would pass quicker. Happy families seem to follow me wherever I go. I walk past children making snowmen, tourists on ice skates, a makeshift hot cocoa stand run by two sisters with dark braids capped at the ends with alternating green and red beads.
“Mister! Hey mister! You want some hot chocolate?!” the younger one asks me.
“No,” I reply grumpily, picking up my pace.
I swear her eyes well with tears on the spot. I make it only two steps further before exhaling a heavy sigh, turning back, and withdrawing a fifty-dollar bill out of my wallet to stuff into a plastic cup that up until now was only filled with loose change.
“Hey! THANKS!”
I plan to spend Christmas Day chained to my desk. It’s out of necessity, really. This is an incredibly busy season for GHV. The fourth quarter out earns all the others, and it’s also when there are the most fires to put out. Even Alexander seems to be focused on work, a rarity for him.
Beyond that, nothing has changed regarding my betrothal to Lainey.
My father hired a wedding planner after the engagement party I didn’t attend, but I blocked her email address, and when she made another one, I blocked that one too. If the wedding is moving forward, I know nothing about it.
I received a chiding phone call from Papa recently. The moment I answered, he started to berate me in rapid-fire French. Ingrat. Imbécile. Impulsif.
“You make a mockery of her by cavorting all over town with different women.”
Her being Lainey.
“I don’t care if you keep lovers, but you’ll act as if I raised you properly. You’ll behave and show the Davenports more respect than this.”
He assumed his tirade would convince me to fall in line, but I hung up and called Miranda to tell her there was a dinner I thought we should attend. Never mind where; it didn’t matter as long as it felt like a big Fuck you to my father.
All the while, through the turmoil of the holidays and my fighting with my father, I develop a habit I’ve come to rely on, a secret I admit to no one save for my driver, and him only because he’s directly involved. Tuesdays and Thursdays, in the afternoons, if I’m between meetings or otherwise free, I tell him to head to Morgan’s, and when we arrive, he parks in front of the gallery and keeps the Range Rover idling. I don’t plan to get out, and he knows that.
Instead, I sit and peer through the floor-to-ceiling windows, searching for Lainey. I don’t always get lucky, but occasionally I do. Once, she stood right near the front door, talking to an older woman. I didn’t know who she was—an artist, a collector, a dealer—but they were speaking passionately about something, and Lainey’s expressive smile felt almost palpable through the glass. I would have sat there the whole afternoon had my schedule allowed it.
Another time, I caught her as she was leaving for the day, bundled up in thick layers so that I could barely see her face. I looked up to the sky, troubled by the heavy clouds and the promise of more snow. The sidewalks were already covered with a few inches.
Surely she isn’t going to walk, I thought, already reaching for my door handle.
But she raced straight for an idling car parked right in front of mine, in no need of saving.
My plan to spend Christmas chained to my desk is interrupted by a phone call and an invitation from Alexander.
“Maman is coming to town for the holidays.”
“You’re kidding. When’s the last time you saw her?”
He mulls it over. “San Tropez, three years ago. Or was that four? She was dating that singer with the long hair.”
“That’s right. Ignacio. He was what, twenty?”
“If that. He also barely spoke English, but she didn’t seem to care.”
“Do you think they’re still together?”
“I guess we’ll see.”
The arrangements have already been made, and apparently my father is on board too. Oh joy. The last time we were all together was for Alexander’s college graduation. I have no doubt it will be a spectacle, but it’s Christmas Eve, and I’d rather spend the night with my dysfunctional family than with no one at all.
I have an armful of gifts my assistant helped me source: a rare Birkin for my mother, a snowboard made in collaboration with Jean-Michel Basquiat for Alexander, and a perfectly impractical La Dona Menagerie Fountain Pen for my father.
The wind bites at me as I hurry from my car into the Four Seasons where we’re set to have dinner. A personal concierge is waiting for me just inside the door, and beside her stands a bellman with a silver cart. My gifts are immediately offloaded by the bellman then I’m shown the way down the hall, past the noisy dining room where Bostonians are enjoying a Christmas Eve buffet, to a discreet private room hidden behind thick burgundy curtains.
“You’ve arrived just in time, Mr. Mercier,” the concierge tells me with a kind smile. “Please enjoy your evening at the Four Seasons and let us know if there’s anything we can help you with in the future.”
She gives a small bow then sweeps aside the curtain for me to enter. I walk into the room to find every seat at the dining table already filled, save for one. I’m the last to arrive. Down at the head of the table, my father sits like an emperor on his throne. Beside him, Maman, and to her left, Ignacio. Alexander sits beside Ignacio. On the other side of my father, Fay Davenport lifts a glass of red wine to her lips, surveying me with a cold gaze. On her right, with her attention pulled down to the table, sits Lainey.
“What an awful surprise.”
Lainey winces, but no one says a word. My father shoots me an aggressively disapproving glare. Maman is too self-absorbed to register what I’ve said.
“Emmett! My precious boy!”
She leaps up from her seat in a great show of motherly affection, rounding the table with her arms stretched wide. I get engulfed in a hug I don’t want, squeezed tightly by a mother I hardly consider family at all. She’s had work done since I last saw her. When she pulls back to look at me, I notice her nose is thinner, slightly out of proportion with the rest of her face. Her eyebrows are arched unnaturally high, and her lips and cheeks are overly filled. She’s still beautiful, but it’s hard to discern beneath all the fakery.
She attempts to shake me, but she doesn’t have the strength. “You naughty boy. I had no idea you’re engaged!”
“I’m not,” I reply flatly.
“Emmett.” My father’s warning slices through the air.
Alexander laughs.
Ignacio laughs too, confused about what’s going on.
Fay Davenport looks like she’d like to chop off my head, and Lainey does absolutely nothing. It’s like I’m not even here.
The only free seat at the table is beside her. I can’t stand the idea of them orchestrating the seating arrangement before my arrival as if all we need is a meal together to fall madly in love, thus resolving this entire issue.
A server hurries over to pull out the chair, but I wave him off and do it myself. It screeches ominously, and I don’t miss Lainey’s flinch.
So she is aware of me.
It’s fitting considering I’m despicably, annoyingly, desperately aware of her. She’s wearing a tight long-sleeved red velvet dress that hugs her figure. The deep V-neckline showcases a diamond choker, but her ring finger is still bare. Odd considering the ruby I gifted her would have gone perfectly with her outfit.
“Where’s your ring?” I ask once I take my seat.
She curls her left hand into a small fist then tucks it into her lap. “I’m having it resized.”
“What a shame. I’m sure it pains you not to have it on your finger to show proof of ownership.”
“Charming.”
She turns her body slightly away from me, a subtle way of telling me to fuck off, I think.
I almost smile.
“I wasn’t aware you would be here tonight. I hope you aren’t expecting a gift.”
“No need to worry,” Alexander says, interrupting our private conversation. “I brought you a little something, Lainey.”
She perks up and peers over at my brother with a curious smile.
Vines of annoyance grow up and around my neck, tightening my throat.
“What a friendly gesture, brother. When did you find the time? Are we not giving you enough to do at GHV?”
Alexander only laughs, enjoying this all a bit too much.
He retrieves three Cartier gift boxes from a bag that must have been resting at his feet. “I was going to save these until after dinner, but why wait?”
He distributes them to Maman, Fay, and Lainey. They thank him and tell him it wasn’t necessary then open them in tandem to reveal matching emerald and diamond tennis bracelets.
Lainey’s cheeks color pink with delight as she lifts it up out of the box and admires it in the warm light of the chandeliers.
“It’s stunning, Alexander. Truly. You shouldn’t have.”
Down at the other end of the table, Maman squeals with glee and immediately begs Ignacio to help her put on her bracelet.
Even Fay gives Alexander an approving smile.
Lainey leans over the table toward him, her voice low as she reveals, “I’ve never been gifted jewelry before…well, not from anyone but my grandmother.”
Her voice sounds annoyingly intimate. It’s like I’m not even sitting here.
“I gave you a ring,” I remind her, unamused.
She doesn’t even deign to look at me as she quips, “That wasn’t a gift so much as a bloody horse head.”
Alexander’s howling laugh draws the attention of the entire table just before a suite of servers walk into the room, each one halting in place behind a chair before serving from the left and presenting us with our first course in unison.
It’s crostini slathered with goat cheese, pomegranate arils, and rosemary, and we all eat while playing at polite conversation.
Fay and my father seem adept at carrying on as if they’re old friends. Ignacio and Alexander bond over discussion of the current F1 standings. My mother checks her reflection in a compact mirror, touching up her lipstick after taking precisely one bite of the appetizer and then pushing it aside to keep herself from indulging in any more.
Lainey and I seem to be on our own little island, pretending the other doesn’t exist as we tuck into our appetizer and sip our wine. Of course that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m overly aware of her. I find I can’t keep my gaze off her. The details I took for granted before these weeks we’ve been apart—the delicate curve of her wrist, the careful way she smooths a finger down the spine of her wine glass, every bite she takes—seems more interesting than anything else in the room.
She’s wearing a perfume that’s a poetic blend of amber and floral. I recognize the signature scent from our previous encounters, and with every breath, a sad sort of clarity sinks in.
I’ve pinned my loneliness on the holidays and my unfamiliar surroundings. I’ve wondered if perhaps going to Paris would assuage some of the sadness, but now I realize fleeing to another continent wouldn’t save me from this feeling. As I sit beside Lainey, trying to keep from watching and adoring her every move, I worry it’s far more complicated than that.
The second course is set down and swept up, then the third. We’ve moved on to a honey-drizzled citrus salad with pistachio-poppy seed granola when the elephant in the room is finally brought up.
“Now why aren’t we discussing the most interesting topic at hand?” my mother gushes, looking between Lainey and me. “Have the two of you decided on a date for the wedding? It won’t work for me if it’s too soon. I go to Singapore in February, not to mention I’ll need a few months to secure a dress. I think perhaps a custom Versace. Or Balmain? The options are endless, but I want to be assured I’ll have enough time for at least three fittings.”
Lainey unfolds and refolds the napkin on her lap.
“Late spring,” my father answers for us. “In Paris.”
She claps her hands together happily. “Oh wonderful! And where? I can already think of a few designers who would love to be showcased at the Opéra Garnier or the Petit Palais.”
“I think we’ve decided on the Musée de l’Orangerie,” he answers.
Having heard more than enough, I can’t help but speak up.
“Who’s we?”
My father sighs.
“I’d prefer to have a civilized dinner,” he says, acting as if I’m the problem here.
Jesus, this whole room needs therapy.
Maman, having completely missed the tension starting to brew, picks right back up where she left off. “And what about the flowers? Nothing purple, I hope. It does absolutely nothing for my complexion. No red either. I don’t want it anywhere near me. I’d prefer pale pinks. Now, will Ignacio be a groomsman or—”
Unable to listen to her drone on for one more second, I cut her off.
“There is no wedding,” I say, gruffly enunciating each word.
Silence blankets the table, and my father carefully sets his utensils down on his plate, gathering his patience before looking up at me. “What do you think you’ll gain by acting like a petulant child?”
I laugh at the absurdity of his question.
“My freedom from a tyrannical dictator.”
“Freedom?” He chuckles. “Freedom doesn’t exist in this world, Emmett. I thought you were already well aware of that, but perhaps I didn’t drill the concept home well enough while you were growing up, running amok at that boarding school.”
“You have me confused for Alexander.”
My brother throws up his hands. “Hey! Don’t pull me into this.”
My father ignores him, his blazing fury pinned solely on me. “You’re spoiled and ungrateful. If my father asked me to do something, I did it.” His snapping fingers pierce through the silence. “Like that,” he insists.
“When have I not done exactly as you asked? In school. At work. I carry the responsibility you’ve given me better than most men would and still, you demand more.”
He scoffs. “Yes. I’m hardly going to pat you on the back for enduring the hardships of growing up with a silver spoon in your mouth.”
I rise to stand. “That’s the root of it, isn’t it? You resent the fact that you were forced to become a self-made man while I was not. Your father was a lowly factory worker and your mother was a humble dressmaker and yet now you’re one of the wealthiest men in the world. Still, you’re unhappy. You see Alexander and me as ungrateful because we weren’t born beggars on the streets. You wish we’d had to claw our way up just as you did.”
His face colors red with anger.
“Tu dois montrer un peu de respect,” my father spits as he whips his napkin down on the table.
It collides with a wine bottle, knocking it over. Lainey jumps and tries to help as red wine bleeds into the white linen tablecloth. Her grandmother tugs her back down into her seat with a shake of her head.
Maman clasps a hand over her mouth, crocodile tears filling her eyes over the fact that some red wine splashed onto her dress.
Alexander holds his hands out, trying to ease tensions. “Il est inutile de discuter de l’affaire plus longtemps.”
He’s right. It’s useless.
My father and I will never see eye to eye, and though I could back down and put this issue to rest simply by cowing to his demands, I won’t. I’ve reached the end of the line letting him play puppeteer in my life. If I don’t push back now, it will never end.
I’m already on my feet. There’s no sense in staying.
They can continue this farce of a Christmas dinner without me.
