The Accidental Socialite

by Stephanie Wahlstrom

  “I’m tired of the people down here, do you and your friend want to join me and Lucca upstairs?” The Swede indicated to the very sexy Italian guy sitting across from Lucinda.

  Lucinda immediately accepted before I had a chance to think of the consequences. My brain was still a little tired from the weekend. The bouncer at the stairs to the VIP room inspected me very closely and I couldn’t tell if it was because he recognized me, or because I was about to walk into a hedonistic orgy and had to make sure I had the right look.

  “Be cool, no pictures,” he mumbled as I walked by.

  I rolled my eyes, imagining some Z-list celeb upstairs shouting, “No pictures! No pictures!” As far as I could tell, I was the most famous person there.

  We walked into the darkly lit attic room, lined with deep red banquette seats and a small bar at one end. My eyes adjusted to the dim light slowly, not helped by the several drinks I’d already had.

  We were ushered to the first table on the right side of the room and a petite waitress who had to have been poured into her dress took Lucca’s order: a magnum of Grey Goose. Apparently a regular bottle wouldn’t be enough for the four of us … on a Monday. So the two boys and us two girls—who had already had a fair amount in the last few hours—were supposed to drink a liter and a half of vodka. Right.

  I looked around the room to find possible drinking partners (you know, I do have some love for my liver). Turns out, I was incorrect about the whole being the most famous person there thing because a tall gentleman sitting with his friends at the table directly opposite us looked very familiar. Every British celebrity I knew ran through my head, but it wasn’t Hugh Grant, Orlando Bloom, or any of the guys from One Direction. Was it Robbie Williams?

  “Who’s that?” I asked Lucinda, leaning in so nobody else could hear.

  She looked at me in disbelief. “You really don’t know?”

  I shook my head. Why did I feel like I should know him?

  “Chicken, that’s Prince William,” Lucinda whispered discreetly into my ear.

  My eyes must have been as big as saucers because Lucinda elbowed me in the ribs. I quickly looked into my drink, stared at the waitress’s boobs, and then my eyes found their way back to the royal. It was like my eyes didn’t know where was appropriate to look now that I knew I was in the company of the future King of England. Time to be on my best behavior.

  The next hour consisted of me draining vodka sodas and finding plausible excuses for the uncomfortable level of staring I was doing at William. About halfway through the magnum of vodka, one of Will’s friends got a little too into his dance moves and knocked over our table, spilling all of the drinks on Lucinda and me. Dead silence followed as everyone looked at the giant Viking holding the bottle.

  “Don’t worry, the vodka’s alright!” the Swede laughed.

  Tension relieved, our two groups mingled more easily as Lucca poured a shot for everyone upstairs. Although our groups had been socializing, William was playing shy with his bodyguard in the corner.

  I was sitting in the corner of a banquette talking to the waitress when William came up to me. It went a little something like this:

  William: “Uh, I think you might be sitting on my jacket.”

  Me: (after looking down and realizing that I was, in fact, sitting on a man’s coat): “Your grandma is on our money.”

  I got up and handed him his jacket. He scanned for his security guards.

  By then I realized that he had spoken to me first and took it as an invitation for me to join his inner circle. In hindsight, I may have been mistaken.

  I circulated around a little and, aside from the royalty, there really wasn’t much going on up there. The music was quieter and there was definitely no dancing after the whole knocking over the table thing.

  “Chicken, let’s go downstairs.” Lucida was sitting with her arms crossed, glaring at all the men ignoring her and instead engaging in various forms of bromance. What was wrong with these guys? There were two perfectly eligible women who’d had a fair amount to drink and they were more concerned with hugging each other than us.

  The dance floor lit up like a small Studio 54 replica club. The girls were, on the most part, sloppy drunk and surprisingly unattractive for a club that claimed to be so exclusive. Lucinda gravitated towards a table she assumed was handing out free champagne. She was right, as usual. Within a minute of leaving the free vodka and royalty table, she had found a table full of what I assumed to be Russian billionaires, or Russian gangsters, or both. At this point, details were being lost in the bubbles burning my mouth.

  Lucinda stayed and made conversation for as long as was required and then motioned seductively, indicating that she and I were off for a dance, and that we would be back soon. Which really meant we were going to find some guys who were hopefully more handsome and less creepy than present company, and we would be back if and when our glasses were empty and we couldn’t find someone else to buy us a drink.

  Guilt was eating away at me. As much fun as it was, I couldn’t shake the feeling that as I was getting so much, someone somewhere was losing. My father always taught me there was no such thing as a free lunch, and he wasn’t wrong very often.

  We had been sloshing around on the dance floor, avoiding drunk girls in high heels when a suitor wearing black, thick-rimmed glasses and suspenders to hold up his pants spotted Lucinda.

  The gentleman approached and placed his thumbs under the suspenders, gliding them up and down the length of the elastic, finally stopping in the middle, and snapping them back to his chest. I watched in amazement, while Lucinda stifled a laugh. Was he for real?

  “Do you like my braces?” he said to Lucinda in the poshest of English accents. I was examining his teeth. They were large and slightly crooked with a significant gap in the middle. Certainly not the teeth of a man with braces.

  “Wherever did you find them? I thought they stopped making braces after the Great Depression when everyone could afford belts again.” Lucinda closed the gap in our triangle of conversation and made a face, rolling her eyes. She was not interested in someone who clearly thought they were ironic and therefore very cool.

  However, the strange little man persisted. “My name’s Maximilian.”

  “Of course it is.” Lucinda was trying her best to ignore him, but apparently her giggles were sending the signal that she thought he was entertaining, not ridiculous.

  “What do you mean ‘of course it is?’” He was offended, but still seemed pleased with himself that she hadn’t slapped him yet, which I’m sure everyone in the general area was anticipating would happen soon.

  “I bet your surname is Wentworth-Cadbury the fourth.”

  “Well, it’s the third actually,” he said, tossing his head and attempting a sexy smile. It was more creepy than sexy.

  “Charming,” forced Lucinda through a thin smile.

  We stood in silence and refused to even tap a toe as the music pumped through a nearby speaker. I took a sip of my champagne, but there were no bubbles tickling my tongue; the glass was empty. Thank you, Jesus. Lucinda noticed, made her apologies, and we scurried back to the safety of the VIP room.

  On my way back, Wills (we’re bffs now, I can call him that) and his entourage were standing on the stairs leading to the bathrooms. I stopped, intrigued because the doors were open and there was a lot of noise coming from that general direction.

  “What’s going on up there?” I said to the future King of England.

  “It’s a party,” the very posh and polite Royal responded.

  Ever inquisitive, I responded, “What kind of party?”

  “I think you need to go up there and see for yourself,” requested his Highness.

  So I did.

  Upon reaching the open door I was greeted by a, well, let’s call her curvy, brunette girl with her face in the crotch of a super thin blond girl who was in turn making out with another brunette with the biggest fake boobs I had ever seen in real life.

>   “Oh! Um—sorry.” I wasn’t sure where to look so I chose the ceiling, assuming there wouldn’t be vagina up there. I was wrong. The ceilings were mirrored.

  I ran back downstairs and for some reason searched in my handbag for a weapon. The first thing I found was a Star Wars lightsaber I got from my McDonald’s hangover cure trip on Sunday.

  I stabbed the future King of England in the arm with it.

  “You lied to me! That’s not a party, it’s just lesbians!”

  “Lesbians are the party,” said Mr. Windsor.

  And then I walked away, a little shocked and hoping his bodyguard wouldn’t take me out for bruising the superior skin of the second in line to the throne. Clearly I was trying my hardest to get deported. I immediately hid in the corner of the banquette and covered myself in coats in an attempt to hide from the authorities. They were definitely looking for me after my assault.

  What was probably half an hour later, I checked my phone and then watched the people around me dance. It was three now, Tuesday morning, and I had to get up for work in four hours. Had someone told me this would be how I spend my Monday nights/Tuesday mornings a month ago, I wouldn’t have believed them. It’s amazing what can happen when you aren’t paying attention.

  A surly man was eyeing me up, and as I walked towards the bathroom again (this time because I had to pee), he grabbed me by the arm.

  “Miss, where do you think you’re going?”

  “To pee?” My heart was racing and everyone was too drunk to notice I might be in trouble.

  “Can we have a quick chat? In private.” His tone was threatening. He was not asking me out. I don’t think.

  “Um … I’m kind of busy—”

  “We saw you assault him.”

  There could only be one him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t meant to—”

  “We have our eye on you. I’d watch what you do.”

  And I may not need the bathroom after all because I just about peed myself. I ran back in the VIP room and told Lucinda we had to leave, sparing her the details.

  Lucinda went outside before me to survey the photographer situation.

  “You’re going to have to make a run for it. They know you’re here and William is upstairs.”

  I looked down at my four-inch heels. It wasn’t going to be graceful.

  An unamused bouncer held the front doors of the club open for me as I did my best Usain Bolt impression, bending over, ready to jump out of the blocks. Probably not necessary for me to run out of a club in this fashion, but it seemed like fun. To my left, Maximilian joined me.

  “You’re a strange creature.”

  “This is a terrible idea,” said Lucinda as she readied herself by the door.

  “On your marks!” I yelled.

  “Get set,” laughed Max.

  “Can we just go please?” pouted Lucinda and I was off, running through the front doors, racing an Austin Powers wannabe.

  Max flew out in front of me and I grabbed a suspender to slow him down, until the flashes started.

  Ok, maybe I was a little drunk.

  Lucinda was laughing until she made eye contact with me and put on her best mom eyes.

  I ran to the taxi door the bouncer was holding open for me as Lucinda sauntered gracefully to the taxi, sat like a lady, and helped me off the floor.

  “Paige, that is not how one behaves during Monday night drinks.” I would have thought she was scolding me if it wasn’t for the upturned corner of her mouth.

  “Why so serious, darling?” I said in my best posh accent. “What’s the point if you can’t have fun?”

  She gave me a big hug. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”

  By the time my head was on the abrasive poly-blend pillow in my damp room, the clock read four thirty-five. Shit.

  Later that week, a company-wide email went around informing us of the corporate discount for the nearby gym. The office was buzzing because apparently it was an exclusive gym and these deals rarely came around. Those poor yummy mummies weren’t immune to the recession and were going to have to share the gym with us commoners. There was a Pilates class being offered that evening and I looked down at my new “curves,” as the magazines had so delicately put it after publishing the photos of me running outside the club. Turns out, face diving into a cab isn’t a very flattering angle.

  Lucinda blamed The Heathrow Injection. Apparently all Commonwealth girls who move here tend to gain fifteen pounds due to the lack of exercise combined with copious amounts of alcohol and the penchant English men have for a little more cushion for the pushin’. There was absolutely no motivation to lose weight.

  I’d never done Pilates, but Gwyneth Paltrow went on and on about it and she’s like forty and super hot. I wasn’t ready for the office to see me in what I imagined would be very comprising positions, so I was happy to hear that most girls were skipping the gym tonight for some movie premiere starring the ginger kid from Harry Potter. Besides, London needed a break from my face all over the papers and there would be other Z-list stars there. Going to a film premiere was just asking for it.

  Fifteen minutes before I was supposed to leave, I got an email from Emma asking to write something quick for LazHair, a second generation, at-home laser hair removal system. Apparently generation one had a tendency to give your hoo ha third-degree burns and they needed a new image. I rattled off a quick hundred words about how this machine will give you the confidence to Bare Your Bits, not burn them off. With three minutes to spare, I sent it to Emma.

  When I arrived at the gym, it was more like an up-market lounge and spa than somewhere people were supposed to sweat their asses off, literally. The staff dressed in high-tech tailored workout clothes and there was a waiting area with large white leather couches next to a Starbucks where women in full makeup and coordinating yoga outfits were ordering non-fat soy lattes. The host showed me where I could get my hair done, the express manicure and pedicure area, the Italian restaurant that was reserved exclusively for members, and the children’s area.

  We stopped in front of a large set of frosted double doors. As I walked in I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of machines and the fact that each one had its own television. No wonder there were all those other attractions. If they had a nap room, you’d never really have to leave.

  I walked by the free weights section, which was full of attractive men struggling to lift weights that were several pounds heavier than they were comfortable with, doing their sex face in public. One accidentally made eye contact with me and grunted as if he just came. I blushed and averted my eyes. Screw feminism, men and women should have separate gyms.

  Finally, the host dropped me off at the ladies changing room door, encouraging me to explore some more and get ready for my complimentary class, which started in fifteen minutes.

  The locker room was airy and clean, smelling of expensive soap and hair products. There were two different shower sections and several rows of lockers with beauty stations at the end of each one, complete with hair dryer and complementary products like hairspray and body lotion. Every row looked exactly the same and I was quickly lost, desperately trying to avert my eyes from women in various states of undress, but glancing just enough to compare myself with them so I would know where to feel most comfortable changing. No matter how confident you are, it’s always slightly depressing to undress in the vicinity of a Victoria’s Secret model.

  There was a gap between two average-sized women who were almost finished getting ready so I snuck in-between. I slowly began to change into my gym clothes, deliberately taking my time, hoping they would leave and I could Superman my quick change so nobody would see me. The women grew suspicious and in response were now also taking their time. I knew I was going to be late for the class if I continued to be a weirdo, so I closed my eyes, got changed as quickly as humanly possible, and left before I could register anyone judging me.

  The Pilates class was in a medium-sized warm and humid room at the far end of the g
ym. It had large floor-to-ceiling windows, which offered a stunning view of Soho without the distracting noise. There were several other women already seated on mats across the floor who were all speaking excitedly like old friends. I was trying to figure out what equipment I needed and where to find it when the instructor walked in. Once again, everyone offered their hellos and the instructor asked about Gemma’s dog, Sophie’s husband, and how Amelia’s facelift was going.

  I grabbed a mat, foam brick, and circle thing with pad on it, unsure of what use any of them had or, quite frankly, if I even needed them. But, everyone else had the equipment scattered around her space and my biggest concern was making sure I blended in. I found a small spot in the back corner of the room and placed all of my items down, pretending like I knew which order I was to use them in.

  Just as I sat down on my mat, the instructor asked everyone to stand. That’s when I realized I was the fattest person there and the only one with my natural breasts.

  “Is anyone here new?” the instructor asked, although I’m sure it was very obvious I was the only new person there. I raised my hand anyway to facilitate.

  “Right,” sighed the instructor, “this is a fairly advanced class, so just try to keep up, ok?”

  Then she took us through shoulder rolls, which I learned how to do in gym class when I was eight.

  “Are you still keeping up?” she called to me as I was moving my neck from side to side in the warm up. I corrected the movement to a nod. She corrected me and demonstrated in painful detail once again how to warm up your neck by rolling it side to side. We stopped doing that in school because the Health Minister deemed it had a possible risk of limiting oxygen to the brain, resulting in stroke. That probably wasn’t a big worry for these women.

  She took us through several moves called things like The Dolphin, The Mermaid, and The Cat. I felt like I was at the zoo. It wasn’t nearly as exhausting as I’d first thought and I was definitely getting a workout but wasn’t about to faint like most of the women in the class. Then again, I’d eaten more than a carrot in the last twenty-four hours.