Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“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.