“Juliette,” she offers proudly.
“If she lost twelve pounds, she’d be dead, Julia,” Trystan adds, ignoring her outstretched hand, but her attention has moved on with deadly precision to the reason we are all in attendance.
“Mason Mercer.” It's a salacious slur from her slutty mouth. Yeah, I went there. She was a slut and a bully. My bully.
“Hello,” is all he offers her, ready to move on with the evening as efficiently as he moved on with our journey here. Aydra appears at my side while we are guided to the table, her gown swishing as she moves like a gazelle. Meanwhile, I’ve morphed from Cinderella to Gloria from Madagascar.
“You know her?” Aydra inquires, slowing to allow my much shorter stride time to catch up with hers.
“She and I attended school together. We didn’t move in the same circles. She was…”
“A cunt?” Her eyebrow rises. Yes, Aydra. Although a word like that escaping from her perfect mouth has my mouth hanging open.
To ensure the humiliation was far from over, Juliette Nesta-Vrees was seated two diagonal tables away, in the direct line of sight of both Mason and me. She made a point of coming to our table repeatedly throughout the evening, pouting like a petulant toddler when Mason’s attention wavered, which it did often.
“I work with the Fenkel’s, Mason. Perhaps you and I will work more closely together in the future.”
To his credit, he didn’t engage, opting to sip on scotch and discuss an upcoming deal with Trystan and other table guests. Juliette was not our only table visitor, however. Throughout much of the evening, men and women alike came to speak with him, shake his hand, or pester Trystan for “some face time with the great man.” Aside from an early conversation with Aydra, and a pat on the shoulder from Trystan on his way to flag down some Japanese vodka he had a hankering for, I was, for want of a better word, mute. My plates were cleared, still laden with food.
“Are you done, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you.” I couldn’t stomach the sumptuous creations arranged like art forms on geometric plates; whenever a fork was near my lips, my gaze caught on Juliette’s cheeks puffed out as if she were blowing up a balloon. Over ten years later, she is still mocking my food intake, only the stakes are higher now. We had evolved from a middle school cafeteria to a Winston Abercoombe Grand Hall gala fundraiser. Only she hadn’t moved on at all. My starched linen napkin wasn’t required to blot any food from the corner of my mouth. Instead, it blotted threatening tears from the corner of my eyes. I wouldn’t let them fall here. I’d wait until I was home, the deadbolt dragged into place behind the front door, and then I’d let them loose. A river of tears to flood the floor with the liquid salt of my despair, and let it carry me far, far away.
“To clarify, it’s a yes to the Coeliac Children’s Charity golf day, no to the Warner Music and Modern Movement dinner, and yes to the Kruger wedding in the Bahamas that Trystan isn’t going to?” Helen asks, looking up from her laptop.
Wait, what? “You’re not going to the wedding? I can’t change your mind. Trys?”
“I’m not going. They sent me an invitation only as a courtesy. Fuck them.” His surly tone does not go unnoticed.
I expected Trystan to be shaken, but this reaction is mildly surprising. It would be painfully difficult to watch an ex-lover tie the knot with someone else when you would move a mountain to be the one reciting vows. He may have a well-earned reputation as a cad who gets around more than most. Deep down, he feels with an intensity and longing foreign in modern relationships.
“Alright, Helen, please respond in kind that I will be in attendance, with Ms. Sabrina Broe as my date. For that, and the premiere of Trouble in Troy.” Helen dips her chin and runs a manicured finger over her mouse on the laptop. “Will that be all, Mr. Mercer?”
“Yes, thank you, Helen. Please hold my calls until this meeting wraps up.”
“Yes, sir, of course. And did you confirm the leave I requested? It’s a few days off after your return from Harbour.”
“Of course, Helen.” I make my way around the front of the custom mahogany desk and recline most of my weight, the rosy wood in the vice of my grip. His eyes burn like twin lasers into my derelict soul. If you’ve got something to say, then say it.
As if emboldened by my countenance, he explodes. “Why the fuck would you suggest a collaborative team for the Grenfer project? Why put Sabrina in a position where she’s subjected to that crap?” Hostile Trystan is a thundercloud of rage.
“Because I said so. It’s called life. Bri, at some point, we have to do things we may not want to do, and with people we don’t want to do them with. Perhaps you need to work on your resilience and not focus on petty childishness about something that upset you when you were twelve.”
“It wasn’t petty childishness; it was bullying. And as you can tell from last night, it’s still going.” Trystan vibrates with rage. He despises bullying.
“Ignore it. You’re a grown fucking woman.” It’s the best I can offer her.
“Mr. Mercer, please.”
Her aquamarine eyes beg me for a change of mind that will not be forthcoming. Pulling at a small piece of lint on my waistcoat, I deliver what I know she will not want to hear. “No. You, Trystan, and Juliette will work together as a collaborative unit for the upcoming buyout. Mercer and Fenkel will be joint owners. What better way to cement an alliance than to bring her onboard for the preparations?”
Trystan’s arms interlaced across his torso. His defensive posture is guarded, unlike Sabrina’s outright hostility. When I first floated the idea of the three of them overseeing the research on the Grenfer deal, I thought she was going to be sick.
“You do realize you want this little task force to include the bully of one of your executive staff?”
“For fuck's sake, why is everyone acting like children.”
Sabrina sits rigid, Trystan to her left. If I hadn’t demanded her attention, I’m sure she’d be gazing out the window, willing this conversation to be over.
