Bob, the cameraman and photographer, leaned over Mary and muttered,
"Come on, you know I always pay you back, sooner or later."
Not wanting to embarrass him in front of Dolly, the makeup artist, who sat glued to the phone, her multi-colored hair shaking in silent disapproval, Mary kept her voice low,
"Where's 'soon'? You pay me back *later*. How much do you owe me now?"
"I *pay*, little by little, as best I can," he muttered. His slight frame, hunched shoulders, and long nose towered over the top of her head, his breath stirring her hair.
He reeked of freshly drunk vodka, and yet, for some reason, she liked the smell. Odd. Of course, she hated the smell of a hangover. But the sharp, clean smell of vodka brought something back. Childhood memories, perhaps. Of her father, slightly tipsy on New Year's Eve, carrying kilos of chocolates to his daughter.
Both Mary and Bob the cameraman knew she'd hand over the money. And that, sooner or later, he'd pay it back. True, the drunken operator believed it was because Mary had a soft heart. But that wasn't it at all. She could be tough when she needed to be.
In this case, her compliance had nothing to do with kindness. It was about Bob's height. 192 centimeters. Perfect for a camera operator. High enough to shoot her from above, even with her 175 and heels. Bob was a valuable asset—despite the booze. And he had a good eye: knew exactly which angles worked, which profile was her money shot.
Mary snapped her purse shut, counted out the requested amount, and said with firm emphasis,
"Bob, don't drink. You'll scare off all the clients."
He sniffed, flashed a surprisingly even smile, and declared with drunken confidence,
"Can't drink away talent!"
Mary snorted. Such a cliché, such a simpleton—and yet, a master at his craft. She took her seat beside Dolly the makeup artist, who beamed over her like a kaleidoscope come to life—fiery red, sunflower yellow, bubblegum pink streaks fanning from her scalp.
Mary's makeup didn't need touch-ups. But Dolly, twitching her head like a cat tracking a feather on a stick, dabbed her cheeks twice with a powder brush—more ritual than necessity—and gave a thumbs-up.
Five million followers on a major social network gave Mary a flood of interesting and profitable opportunities.
That many people on her page meant she earned not just from ads, but also landed personal offers from big brands.
Managers from famous clothing, footwear, and lifestyle brands were thrilled when she fit their products into her tight schedule. They paid *very* well if she agreed to be their ambassador.
Today, Mary was shooting a campaign for baseball caps. When Bob, getting carried away, asked her to arch her back so her butt would look sexier, she snapped:
"Get lost! What's my ass got to do with it?"
He chuckled and quickly backtracked:
"Come on, it's just a wide shot—you've gotta shine from every angle…"
But when they switched to close-ups of her face, he suddenly stopped, set the camera down with a thud, leaned over her, and looked down with sympathy, his breath smelling of fresh vodka.
"You okay? Your eyes aren't shining today."
"I'm fine," Mary said sharply. "They'll shine in a sec."
And that's why she liked Bob—why, out of three camera operators at the studio, she only worked with him.
For his empathy.
Because for the past five minutes, she'd been thinking about how great everything was—and how awful.
Yes, her fame and stunning figure opened countless doors.
The flood of money that came with popularity meant she could vacation anywhere in the world—several times a year, if she wanted.
She especially loved the Maldives: colorful little fish in the pool outside her light bungalow, a breeze drifting through with the scent of tropical flowers, tiny geckos darting up the walls.
The daily afternoon wind rustled palm fronds, nudged windows open, let in bird calls and spicy scents. On that little island in the Maldivian atoll, she felt a peace she couldn't find anywhere in the noisy, suffocating city—even in her cozy studio, in a quiet building with wealthy neighbors.
This morning, after finally stepping into her neighbor Zoya's life, Mary had felt so proud of herself that she decided to treat herself—she stopped by her favorite café, where they knew her and always welcomed her warmly.
The young waiter practically galloped when she ordered her reward for good deeds: mandarin jelly on agar-agar, almost zero calories, barely any sugar.
Mary sat at her usual spot by the window. A curtain shielded her from the street, but she could see the passersby—rushing off to their dreary jobs. And once again, with deep satisfaction, she noted how her life differed from the dull existence of those hurrying gray figures.
Without much optimism, Mary caught the interested glances of handsome guys—clearly her followers—and the envious stares of plain girls with puffy lips. These girls would chorus in her comments, gushing about what a beauty she was, then, in private chats with friends, tear her apart with spiteful gossip, grinding her bones to dust.
Two such girls sat nearby, pointedly not looking her way, yet stealing sharp, furtive glances whenever she turned to the window.
*Then I'll go to the jewelry store and buy something special—just to lift my mood,* Mary thought, plunging a silver fork into the barely sweet jelly that smelled like mandarins on New Year's Eve.
Nowadays, the finest jewelry was well within her reach.
When her account on the Famous Social Network first crossed a million followers, she got her first ad payout. It was so shockingly high she decided to splurge on something truly expensive. She went straight to Zarina—long eyeing their colorful gold pieces.
Now, with more followers and higher fees, she's moved on to elegant Bvlgari diamonds that sparkle even in total darkness. But from that first paycheck, she bought an emerald ring in green gold at Zarina. Now she wears it only at the beach.
The girls from the next table couldn't take the competition anymore. They hastily gulped down their coffee and headed for the door. Cheap, fake perfume clung to them. Even in her poorest days, Mary never wore fragrance if it wasn't real—better nothing than trash. Now, her scent was barely noticeable, but undeniably the best.
She scraped the last of the tasteless jelly, smiled at the waiter, who blushed at her polite kindness.
Didn't make it to the jewelry store—ran out of time. Instead, she stopped by a clothing boutique, where she instantly became a beloved queen. Salesgirls fluttered like moths, rushing armfuls of clothes into the fitting room—items she picked without glancing at the price tags. She bought a pair of chic bermuda shorts that fit her perfect backside like a dream.
Without much optimism, Mary caught the interested glances of handsome guys—clearly her followers—and the envious stares of plain girls with puffy lips. These girls would chorus in her comments, gushing about what a beauty she was, then, in private chats with friends, tear her apart with spiteful gossip, grinding her bones to dust.
Two such girls sat nearby, pointedly not looking her way, yet stealing sharp, furtive glances whenever she turned to the window.
"Then I'll go to the jewelry store and buy something nice to lift my mood," Mary thought, plunging the silver fork into the faintly sweet jelly that smelled just like New Year's — of mandarins.
Nowadays, the finest jewelry was well within her reach.
When her account on the Famous Social Network first crossed a million followers, she got her first ad payout. It was so shockingly high she decided to splurge on something truly expensive. She went straight to Zarina—long eyeing their colorful gold pieces.
Now, with more followers and higher fees, she's moved on to elegant Bvlgari diamonds that sparkle even in total darkness. But from that first paycheck, she bought an emerald ring in green gold at Zarina. Now she wears it only at the beach.
The girls from the next table couldn't take the competition anymore. They hastily gulped down their coffee and headed for the door. Cheap, fake perfume clung to them. Even in her poorest days, Mary never wore fragrance if it wasn't real—better nothing than trash. Now, her scent was barely noticeable, but undeniably the best.
She scraped the last of the tasteless jelly, smiled at the waiter, who blushed at her polite kindness.
Didn't make it to the jewelry store—ran out of time. Instead, she stopped by a clothing boutique, where she instantly became a beloved queen. Salesgirls fluttered like moths, rushing armfuls of clothes into the fitting room—items she picked without glancing at the price tags. She bought a pair of chic bermuda shorts that fit her perfect backside like a dream.
She hadn't felt that rush of euphoria—the one that hit her at the start of her fame—in a long time. Being recognized everywhere she went had grown tiresome, even annoying. In her bag, inside an elegant case, Mary always carried a pen—of course, with a gold nib—for signing whatever fans handed her.
Her autograph adorned theater tickets and twenty-dollar bills, dentist appointment slips and student ID cards, magazines and shirt cuffs.
Stepping out of the store, she tossed the bright red shopping bag with the bermuda shorts onto the back seat, started the car, and smiled, remembering how once a young guy had offered his toned chest for her signature, flashing perfect teeth. Her Parker was useless there—she'd used a ballpoint instead, adding a little flower. The crowd erupted in delight, phones snapping wildly. That simple little doodle on a man's chest was reposted for a month under her photos on the Famous Social Network, as if touching it gave them a piece of her fame.
Coming back from memories of the morning, deliberately not thinking about last night, Mary gave the camera operator a tired smile.
"I'll rest a bit, have some coffee. Then my eyes will shine—I promise."
He gave her an encouraging smile and went to smoke on the balcony. Mary poured herself a coffee from the machine gleaming with polished nickel in the corner of the studio, then settled onto the white sofa with her delicate cup. She inhaled the fragrant steam through flared nostrils, staring out the wide window. From here, the city stretched below in all its glory.
She sipped her coffee, warmth spreading inside—yet she still felt like crying.
To the outside world, her life looked like a dazzling fairy tale. None of her admiring boys and girls could imagine how austere her real life was: how she pinched the smooth skin at her sides, checking for even a hint of fat; how she ate on schedule and sweated it out in the gym; drank water by the timer; went to bed on time and rose early. She allowed herself alcohol once a year—no more than a single glass of champagne on New Year's Eve.
Her days were packed: staying in shape, signing contracts, eating every three hours, massages, makeup, hair, endless fuss...
The phone rang, jolting her from her thoughts. It took her a moment to find it—white against the white sofa. Her finger tapped the green call icon. Her copywriter's voice came through:
"So, what's happened, Mary?"
"What makes you think something's happened?"
"How should I know? Just felt like calling."
Yeah, she was surrounded by empaths. First Bob, now David. And people say men are unfeeling.
Sometimes her copywriter called like this—no reason, no purpose. Maybe just so she wouldn't forget him and pay on time? Though she'd never noticed greed in him. Probably her mood was just off today—thinking the worst of everyone.
"I'm on a shoot, David. Business call?"
"Nah, I'm just wandering—through the tundra, along the railway…"
"Get lost."
Listen, I posted something sleazy on your page — just an experiment."
"At least it was funny?"
You're hurting my feelings.
"And?"
"Well, what do you think?"
"That half a million followers were horrified by my moral decay and unfollowed me?"
"Five hundred *subscribed* in the first ten minutes. Now I'm wondering—should I post filth more often?"
"Don't turn the account into a dump. Keep it classy. Perverts aren't my target audience."
"You think?"
"I don't know…"
"Exactly. So I'll post edgy jokes once a week. People eat it up, followers are growing. Can't quote Kant to them, can I?"
"Once every *two* weeks. No pandering to base instincts."
"As you say, sweetheart!" he giggled, then added,
"You're such a stickler for morals, madam."
"If only."
"Want to talk about it?" he asked, in a therapist's tone.
"Not yet. Nothing to say."
She did, from time to time, open up to David. She'd buy good cognac and drive to his lair. She loved how his eyes lit up with genuine joy behind those thick glasses the moment he opened the door for her.
They'd chat for five minutes, giggle, sip the cognac — smelling of dried apricots—and then she'd start complaining about her latest boyfriend.
While she talked, David wouldn't look at her. His eyes darted behind the lenses, processing. He'd run his fingers through his black curls streaked with gray.
After listening and pausing, he'd say something serious—something she wouldn't fully grasp right away. Only later, on her way home, would she chew on it. His wisdom ran too deep. He saw straight to the core—something she couldn't do, maybe because she was *in* the story, while he stood outside, watching.
Of course, David, her copywriter, was a genius. It was just laziness—born before him—that kept him from becoming a famous writer, a psychiatrist, or at least an internet coach. And yes, he drank. But then again—wasn't he a creative soul?
At their last meeting, she'd told David about her penultimate fling.
All polished and put-together, handsome like a page from a gay magazine, with a Pekingese in his handbag—vicious and smelly, which had hated her on first sniff—the man went all out to dazzle Mary, taking her to outrageously expensive restaurants.
But she noticed how tensely he studied the menu. Rich people don't do that. And the flowers he showered her with during the candy-and-roses phase wilted by the next day—clearly bought at a steep discount.
In bed, he performed like he was at the gym—competing, chasing records. Still, she moved in with him, not knowing why. He just insisted, dragged in his so-called designer bags and suitcases, "genuine leather" that turned out, on closer look, to be cheap fake.
She tossed his bags out onto her landing after talking to David.
Seriously, why settle for some metrosexual poser? And that yappy little mutt on top of it!
By the way, David had advised her back then, before letting all kinds of people into her "white body," to hire a private detective. He even gave her a business card.
She'd hired copywriter David—his unmatched sense of humor—for writing posts and replying to followers from her account. He'd banter hilariously with fans, clean out vulgar comments, and ban spamming lunatics. But it turned out she'd ended up with a therapist in the same package.
Though she and David hadn't discussed her latest fling yet. Mary didn't want to talk about it with anyone—she didn't know why herself. Maybe later?
She opened her online bank, lightly tapped the screen, and sent David his salary, due in a few days, plus a little extra, adding: *"Bonus for follower growth."*
He replied instantly: *"Merci for the inspiration!"*
Later, in that strange world she'd ended up in, she would recall with quiet satisfaction that she'd paid him early. He always struggled to make ends meet, even though she paid him generously, from the heart.
Mary stretched, picked up the cup from the white armrest of the sofa, took a sip of the nearly cold coffee, swirled the bitterness on her tongue. She had to finish the whole cup—still a couple of hours till her next meal. The mood, briefly lifted by her talk with David, was sinking again. But she couldn't let it. She'd promised Bob shining eyes.
On the balcony, the camera operator puffed intently, flicking ash with long fingers. Smoke curled up, drifted, dissolved. The smell of tobacco crept into the studio through the slightly ajar doors.
Dolly the makeup artist shook her rainbow-streaked hair, snapped the balcony door shut in irritation without looking up from her phone, muttering, "When will you finally get your fill?"
Mary stared at the city rooftops and the nearly invisible clouds, tracing the rim of her cup with her finger. Glanced at the wall clock. Oh crap—she was late for the gym! And no amount of willpower could summon those shining eyes now. Maybe tomorrow?
"Bob, let's move it to tomorrow," she tapped on the balcony glass. The operator flicked his cigarette and stared at her, eyebrows shooting up. She'd never done anything like this before!
"Whaaat, Mary?! Discipline is your middle name. How come?!"
His voice came muffled through the glass. He stood there, absurdly spreading his arms, smoke drifting from his nostrils, eyes wide, gawking at her.
She jerked her head, grimaced.
"Bye. See you tomorrow." She waved at Dolly, who finally peeled herself from her phone, blinking rapidly, then hurried out.
Her Maybach gleamed on the underground parking level, its polished flanks reflecting the long row of ceiling lights, slow-moving cars, and the red "Exit" sign.
But even her favorite car brought her no joy today. What had she been thinking—this bulky, masculine beast? It didn't suit her at all. Pure pretense! *"You need to be more modest, Mary."*
The cabin welcomed her with soft seats, the familiar scent of her perfume and leather. *"No, it's a good car. Just a bit too big."*
The road unrolled beneath the wheels, traffic lights blinked in sequence—she'd caught the "green wave." Arrived at the gym earlier than expected. Not late at all.
She drove into an empty spot right opposite a maple tree, stripped bare of leaves—it January, after all.
She'd pulled in front-first, automatically adjusting the wheel. Mary could've sworn she'd seen the curb, had calculated to nudge the wheels right up to it—when suddenly she felt the front right wheel hit something soft, something that gave way, shifting under the weight of the powerful car.
"*Oh, crap!*"
What was that? A bag? A cat? A dog? How could she not have noticed?!
*"Please no. God, no. Not this. Please not this!"*
Her heart pounded as she scrambled out of the car, already picturing it: a dog crushed under her front wheel, its guts spilled on the asphalt in a pool of blood. *"Oh God, not this!"*