MERRY 39

When I left my parents’ place on the Upper East Side to go independent, I ended up getting a house in Chelsea because I fell for a real estate agent’s sales pitch. Exuding reliability in his stylish suit, he used every flowery word in the book to lure in a rich kid who didn’t know the ways of the world, all to move a mediocre apartment listing.

“An artist should live where art lives and breathes.”

That line, more than anything else, was the clincher. At the time, I had just started working as a fashion model after a huge fight with my mother, and I wanted to rebel against her orders to learn professional asset management. Sitting at a desk obsessing over money calculations or playing the hypocrite in high society with a “ha-ha, ho-ho” laugh just didn’t suit my constitution.

Back then and even now, I hate being bored and I despise phoniness.

Soon, a dignified luxury sedan pulled up in front of me. Before the chauffeur could get out to open the door, I hopped in on my own.

The woman who greeted me in the rear seat—as spacious as a limousine—was perfectly put together again today. Her voluminous hair had a glossy sheen, and even the smile on her almost wrinkle-free face was refined.

While her appearance looked quite young, a sense of experience emanated from her mature demeanor and attire, making her age feel anywhere from her early thirties to her mid-forties. In reality, she was older than that, and she had a grown son.

“Hey, Mom.”

I raised a hand in greeting, took off my sunglasses, and tucked them into my jacket pocket. Mom swept her eyes over me from head to toe and gave a small shake of her head.

“Put your shoes on properly.”

“These were made so you can fold the heels down.”

“You can also wear them without folding them. A gentleman should remain composed at all times, unless it’s an emergency like protecting a lady. Surely my son knows the basics of the basics.”

“I guess I have no intention of being a gentleman.”

I grumbled like it was someone else’s business and pulled the heels up. I conceded because I didn’t want to waste energy on bickering. Mom’s etiquette lessons always had a way of being tedious.

“Did your meeting with Mr. Beaufort go well?”

“I only heard word that he had stopped by New York. There’s no reason for me to spare my time for that man if it’s not for you.”

“That’s true. Oh, I’m late with my greeting. Jonas, it’s been a while. How have you been?”

The secretary sitting in the passenger seat, Jonas Lee, turned around and accepted the greeting with a faint smile. Having known him since I was a kid, he felt like an old friend or a neighborhood uncle. Even Mom, who kept her distance from the staff, was particularly close with Jonas.

“Well, it’s been so long that Jonas might have forgotten your face.”

“Mom, is this your roundabout way of saying you missed me?”

“Don’t misinterpret; just take it as you heard it.”

“I figured. Jonas, I’ll send you some photos so you don’t forget my handsome face. I have some pictorials that came out amazing. Use them as your phone wallpaper.”

Jonas winked and gave a silent refusal. I wasn’t being serious anyway.

“Don’t bother Jonas.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“When are you going to fix that habit of talking like a child?”

“You didn’t call me out today just to nag, did you?”

When I made a show of covering my ears, Mom gave Jonas a look that said, Look at this boy. She told me not to talk like a child, yet she treated me like one.

I changed the subject to avoid further nagging. After explaining the exhibition hall where I was in charge of space design, I asked:

“Do you want to come see it?”

Of course, Mom’s answer was exactly as expected.

“I suspect it would be less valuable than browsing through my own storage. I don’t understand why someone would collect items that haven’t even been appraised, and I can’t trust the collection of someone with that kind of judgment…”

“I was just mentioning it. It wasn’t a formal invitation, so pretend you didn’t hear it.”

She disapproved of everything I did. Her reason was always that it wouldn’t bring in big money.

“How about you, Jonas? Come if you’re interested.”

Coldly rejected, I switched my target to Jonas. When I told him the location of the exhibition, he said he would visit if he had time. Since Mom’s schedule was essentially his schedule, he likely only said that out of politeness.

I even invited the chauffeur, whom I was meeting for the first time. After being introduced to him as Derek Kane, we carried on a smooth conversation. Mom chimed in during a quiet lull after the three of us had been chatting about various topics.

“Somerset Quinn. When you’re having a conversation, you should focus on the other person.”

“I am focusing.”

“Your eyes keep wandering out the window for that to be true.”

I couldn’t really deny it, as I had unconsciously turned my head again. I was looking for Ethan’s car in the passing scenery. I didn’t see him in front of the apartment, and he wasn’t following us either.

Is it because of yesterday after all? He must be feeling awkward about meeting me because he wiretapped my masturbation. He is, after all, a man who hasn’t had sex once since he left me. I knew his immunity to that kind of thing would be low, but I guess it was even more than I imagined.

While part of me wondered if I’d gone too far, the hardliner in me argued that a stalker who goes as far as illegal wiretapping deserves that much punishment. It made sense. Just not reporting him to the police was being very lenient.

“The weather is just so nice. It’s sunny.”

Since I couldn’t reveal that I had a stalker and was curious about his whereabouts, I deflected. Mom’s gaze was sharp as she looked for something else to point out, so I laid low for a while. It would be troublesome if she pointed out, “I need to know the reason for your restless attitude,” because then I’d have to make up a story.

Soon, the car entered Madison Avenue and stopped in front of Mom’s favorite store. I escorted her in Jonas’s stead. I laughed seeing Mom get out of the car as gracefully and nobely as an actress posing for reporters on a red carpet, only to get scolded again.

“When you laugh, exercise restraint so your inner thoughts aren’t completely exposed.”

“And what were my inner thoughts?”

“You were probably thinking, ‘Mom will still be acting like that even when she’s a hundred.'”

“Oh, mind reading? I’m cancelling the tedious etiquette classes and signing up for mind reading lessons instead.”

Our quiet bickering would look like an intimate mother-son chat to an outsider. Ethan must be watching from somewhere. By the way, where on earth is he? I looked back, but because the bodyguards were standing in a line like a wall, I could only see their massive frames.

Refusing to be outdone, I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin to flaunt my masculinity, but Mom tugged at my jacket hem. It was pressure to stop the nonsense and escort her already. I reluctantly moved my feet.

“Yes, yes. Let’s go.”

As soon as we entered the store, a manager with a pleasant impression rushed over, mentioning that he had changed the display to products suiting a special customer’s taste, and began to guide us.

While his excellent speaking skills captured Mom’s attention, I wandered around with another staff member. After about half a lap, Mom gestured for me to come over. It was much like calling a puppy, and though I protested that it was unfair treatment for a gentleman, I was lightheartedly ignored.

“Did you find anything you liked?”

“Just, you know, I was looking.”

Keeping my unenthusiastic self by her side, Mom gestured to Jonas. She only flicked a finger, but Jonas miraculously understood the meaning and followed the instruction.

“What did you just say?”

“It meant to send the clothes to Tribeca and the bags to the house.”

“Did you learn sign language without me knowing? Or did Jonas teach you mind reading?”

“You’re talking nonsense again.”

The conversation Mom led wasn’t exactly substantial either. Brushing off my mind-reading talk, she brought up the townhouse in Tribeca, an affluent neighborhood in Lower Manhattan. It was where Mom had been staying for a while, claiming it was because her artist friends were close by.

She says she discovered the charm and value of art, but she clearly had other motives. She’ll return to the Upper East Side mansion eventually. After she’s sucked up all the insider info on what art is hot and which artists are promising, and bought up everything that looks like it’ll make money later.

When I showed a skeptical attitude toward her money-centric view of art, Mom snorted.

“Somerset Quinn. You claim you cultivated your eye for taste yourself, but I am the one who laid that foundation. Who do you think is responsible for you growing up seeing only the finest things since you were a child?”