by Unknown
‘But you won’t fail?’
‘It’s unlikely. There, this one looks…er, is this name right? F–F–A–R–Q–U–U–H–A–R–S–O–N? How do you even say that?’
‘Let me see. Crap.’ This is literally going to take all night. ‘Hand me another card.’
…‘I’ve been working with my mentor for two years on the thesis. If there was something fundamentally wrong with it, I hope he’d have told me by now.’
‘He wouldn’t be much of a mentor otherwise. Then what’ll you do?’
‘Find a real job.’
‘You don’t want to work here for ever?’
‘I can’t lie to you, I’ll miss it. The low pay, getting bossed around, the chance to unclog my colleagues’ toilets…You don’t get that kind of glamour everywhere.’
‘You’re looking for glamour, then?’
‘Nah, but it wouldn’t be bad to win the Nobel Prize some day.’
‘I’m glad to see you have modest goals.’
‘It’s possible. I have a professor who won one twenty years ago.’
‘For what?’
‘Economics. Contractual and constitutional bases for the theory of economic and political decision-making.’
What I hear is ‘Economics. Blah and blah, blah for the blah of economic and something decision-making’. ‘I see. Interesting.’
‘Only to other economists.’
‘Is that what you’ll be, then? An economist?’
‘Political economist.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that I’ll get to go to countries with emerging political systems and advise them on how to do it better.’
‘So you’ll be a know-it-all.’
‘Already am,’ he declares. ‘Why are you doing this?’
I assume he means the question in the broad sense rather than the immediate one. Because, obviously, I’m sticking the letter opener into the side of the printer to get it to stop making that noise. ‘If I can prove that I’m reliable to Felicity, she’ll let me plan parties.’
‘Is that your ambition? To plan parties?’
‘Is that so preposterous? You sound like I want to blow bubbles for a living. Hit the print button.’
‘The world doesn’t need another party planner.’
‘But it needs another economist?’
‘Economists solve real problems. You…solve seating problems.’
‘Then why are you bothering to hang around with me, if you think I’m so stupid?’
‘I don’t think you’re stupid, Hannah. That’s the point.’
‘But you think my ambitions are stupid.’
‘I just suspect you could do more if you wanted to.’
Just what I need, tips on getting ahead from the office boy. ‘Thanks. Next time I’m looking for career advice, I’ll be sure to ask you. Meantime, if I don’t get these finished, I won’t have a career to advise about so come on, less talking, more working, please.’
‘It’s still jammed. Here, let me –’ Sigh. ‘Sticking that in there won’t unjam it.’
‘What are you, the Xerox expert now too?’
‘You need to take the jammed paper out of it. Get out of the way, please, and let me have a look.’
Sam is developing a real knack for pissing me off.
The answering machine is blinking when I drag myself from bed, still in mid-REM, to begin the day of my first party. Stacy has taken to calling after her nights out, but the housemates insist they don’t mind. That’s because their friends phone at all hours. It’s a side effect of living with people who come from the other side of the world.
‘It’s me, just got home from my date. Yes, home; before you ask, it’s only midnight. Tye was a perfect gentleman. We had fun, he’s nice and after a few drinks I hardly notice his eye.’ When Stacy said he was ugly, she wasn’t kidding. A ginger man with a lazy eye is never going to be a lady-killer, at least in the non-literal sense of the phrase. ‘He wanted to go to Black-Eyed Sally’s but BBQ is just stupid on a first date, isn’t it? Can you imagine what’d end up in my teeth? So we went to Peppercorn’s; it was good. I didn’t order the spaghetti, for obvious reasons, and we drank quite a bit, come to think of it. But I don’t feel drunk. Although I think my tolerance is lower than it used to be. Remember in college when we used to drink a couple cases a weekend? If I did that now, I’d pass out. Anyway, he’s a decent kisser. Nothing too dramatic, just a little tongue. He had pretty tight jeans on; I think he might be nicely hung.’ God, Stace, not on the answering machine! ‘Worth a second date. I’d love to give him a makeover. With darker hair, he’d be much better-looking. Does that make me shallow? Okay, email me tomorrow.’
10
Imagine, if you will, the most glamorous Roaring Twenties soirée. Beautiful women step from antique chauffeured cars, walking advertisements for Cartier and De Beers. Men in tails escort these bejewelled flowers proudly along the red carpet, giving the paparazzi photos that will put their kids through college. Inside, a twenty-piece band plays softly in a glittering gold ballroom, the grandest in the city. Liveried waiters gracefully dance trays of vintage champagne and cutting-edge canapés between the guests, whose voices are raised in delirious excitement at the grandeur of the event. And the guest of honour is so happy that our next two years’ party-planning revenues are guaranteed.
Now glimpse reality. I’m going to throw up. I’ve got butterflies the size of parrots in my stomach. I’ve already been to the bathroom twice to stuff toilet paper into my armpits. And it’s not even seven o’clock. Felicity is screeching in my ear through one of those little headsets that looked like such a good idea in the opening scene of The Wedding Planner. ‘Yes, Felicity, what is it?’
‘The singer! Get over here!’
Now what?
We’ve lost the band leader. Literally lost him. The saxophone guy says he was in the kitchen about an hour ago. I try the kitchen. ‘Last time I saw him, he was pouring himself another drink,’ offers one of the caterers.
‘Just great. Which way did he go?’ He points to the back door. I’m really not dressed to walk London’s streets looking for a drunken singer. What does Felicity think I am, a bloodhound? My Jimmy Choos (hot-pink satin, very stylish, to match my dress) have made the balls of my feet numb. I have no idea in which direction he may have staggered. And come to think of it, I don’t even know what he looks like.
‘Felicity, I can’t find him.’
‘Well, you’d better find him!’
As if I carelessly misplaced the guy. ‘I’m not telepathic, you know. I don’t even know what he looks like!’
‘Ugh! Useless cow.’
The saxophonist is still awaiting instructions. I’ve got an inspiration. ‘Can you play instrumentals?’
‘I’m sorry?’
They really struggle with my accent here. ‘Can–you–play–music–with–no–words?’ He’s staring at me. Oh, right. By definition a musician plays music with no words. So shoot me. I’m no Beethoven. ‘I mean, can you play stuff that’s supposed to have words so at least the guests will recognize it?’
‘What are you talking about, Hannah?’ Felicity barks. ‘Don’t you think Hermione is going to notice there’s no singer?!’
Tell me why I stayed up all night for the chance to get screamed at by my boss? ‘Well, I don’t know what you want me to do!’ I say, storming off. I admit it isn’t the most mature response to a crisis, but it beats my instinctive reaction, which is to cry. Unfortunately, as soon as I get to the kitchen I start doing that too.
‘Why don’t you get another singer?’
‘Sam! What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you; I’m working. Why don’t you just get another singer? From one of the West End shows.’
‘Just like that?’ This party was nearly a year in the planning.
‘It’s worth a try. It’s better than crying.’
‘What do you know?’ Now he’s an emotional counsellor too.
&
nbsp; ‘I know it’s better than crying.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He picks up his tray of glasses and pushes past me. ‘Try The Rat Pack.’
Felicity is wearing her expression that says she enjoys the odd seal pup with a side of babies for breakfast. No chance she’s found the singer, then.
‘Um, when’s Hermione getting here?’
‘She’s due at seven. Oh Christ. Who’s going to sing “Happy Birthday” to her?’
I’m not generally a great thinker on my feet (hence my need for comeback fantasies) but miraculously another bolt of inspiration strikes. ‘We could have her best friends sing karaoke-style!’
‘What are you, thick?’ she hisses. ‘Do you think Hermione’s parents have paid the equivalent of a down payment on a French chalet to hear her drunken friends slur “Happy Birthday” down the microphone?’
I admit that sometimes my ideas don’t stand up to scrutiny. ‘Um, how about getting one of the singers from the West End to stand in?’
‘Who?’
What did Sam say? Rat bag? Flat pack? No. ‘The Rat Pack?’
‘I saw that, it’s fantastic!’ Now I’m afraid she might kiss me. Instead, she flips open her phone and punches in a number. ‘Carol, hi, Felicity. I need a huge favour. Who’s representing the guys in The Rat Pack? Yes, Frank. And Dean. I see. What about their understudies? Well, can you find out? I need one of them to fill in for me. Tonight. I know, I know. I don’t care how much it costs. No, of course don’t tell them that. Thanks, I’ll call back in five. You’re a star.’ Five minutes and thirty seconds later she crows, ‘We’ve got Frank!’
As if in response, a bloodcurdling scream erupts from the foyer. Felicity, in more practical shoes than I, is first on the scene. Hermione has just arrived and she’s in full hysteria. ‘Didn’t you vet the dresses?!’ she’s screaming at Felicity. Vet the dresses?
‘I, ah, no, Hermione, I didn’t think –’
‘I’ll say you didn’t fucking think. Now my party is ruined!’
‘What’s going on?’ I whisper to a young woman standing with her mouth agape.
‘That girl,’ she points an emaciated finger, ‘has Hermione’s dress.’
Sure enough, a stunning redhead is wearing the same Christian Lacroix black and champagne tiered-silk number. Frankly, she looks better in it. ‘Who is she?’
‘Lord Darlington’s daughter.’
It figures. She couldn’t be some nobody who’ll let me stuff her into a broom closet. The birthday girl now hates Felicity with an intensity normally reserved for girls who trump her on handbag waiting lists. She’s not going to listen to a word Felicity says. ‘Let me see if I can help.’ What have I got to lose? My job. My self-respect. My teeth.
What do I say, what do I say, what…to…say. It’s not like I’ve had to avert disaster in real-time like this before. I suppose I could just tell Miss Darlington that she has to change her dress. But what if she throws a fit? Hysterics in stereo. No. Think, Hannah, how would you want to be told. Deep breath. Ready. ‘Hi, I’m Hannah, the party planner, and I just had to come over to say that you look fabulous!’ She’s positively glowing. Kindness and joy practically ooze from her pores. Or they would if she had pores. Must find out where she gets her facials. ‘That is an absolutely gorgeous dress, and,’ I continue in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I have to say that you look so much better in it than Hermione.’ I smile sincerely, letting that little fact sink in for a few seconds. ‘Are you all right?’
She’s now the colour of the tablecloths. ‘I didn’t mean…I don’t want…Oh my god. Where is she?’
I put a consoling hand on her shoulder. ‘Oh, I didn’t realize you didn’t know. Oh dear, this is terrible. I suppose you could always change if you wanted to.’
‘But we’ve come from Surrey! I’ll just have to leave.’
What a shame! I mean that, I’m not being sarcastic. Here’s a perfectly nice girl who’s probably been looking forward to this party for weeks and now she’s going to have to miss it because the hostess, who is a bitch on heels, chose the same dress. She doesn’t have a monopoly on it. In fact, there’re half a dozen others that would have worked as well. The Dolce collection alone has three…
‘I don’t think you have to leave. Stay right there.’ As I find the number for Selfridges’ personal shoppers (one of the mandatory numbers Felicity programmed into my speed-dial, along with Berry Brothers wine shop and the ambulance service), I realize that I’ve been in training for this moment my whole adult life. Why else would I have the god-given ability to memorize runway collections with almost perfect recall? ‘Hello? This is Hannah Cumming, with M&G events. I hope you can help me. Do you have Dolce and Gabbana’s dove-grey and silver sequinned drop-waist dress in stock? In size…’ I hold my hand over the phone. ‘Ten? Great, I’ll send someone over now to get it.’
‘How did you know…?’ She’s staring at me.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. I like to keep up with the trends. Trust me. This dress will be even more beautiful on you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get someone to go pick it up for you.’
And I know just who to send. I’ll show him what’s better than crying. ‘Sam, I need you.’ He’s carrying a tray of glasses and doesn’t break his stride.
‘I’m busy. Can I –’
‘I’m sorry, but I need someone to go to Selfridges and pick up a dress.’
He sets his tray down and walks back. ‘And?’
‘Well, I can’t go, so someone has to, and I thought…’
‘Yes?’
‘That you, um, could.’
‘Hannah, I’m not sure who you think you are all of a sudden, but I’m here to do my job, not your shopping.’
He might tower over me, even in my heels, but he’s not intimidating. For god’s sake, he’s got curly hair. He wears a smock to work. Besides, it’s Sam. ‘Look, if, as you say, you’re here to work this party, it’s part of your job to make sure everything goes smoothly. If that means going to Selfridges, I think that’s a fair request. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with your boss. Either one of them.’ I must be channelling one of the Kates again.
He’s wavering. ‘Fine. Give me twenty quid.’
‘Why?’
‘For the taxi. Unless paying for that’s part of my job too.’
‘Oh right, okay.’ I only have twenty pounds on me. ‘They’re on the second floor. Tell them it’s for M&G. Uh, here, in case they need a credit card…Thanks,’ I call to his retreating back. ‘Wait, Sam!’
‘What?’
‘Can I have your phone number?’
‘Isn’t that a little forward? We’ve only known each other a few weeks.’
‘In case I need to get hold of you on the way.’
‘Why, are you going to ask me to shop for shoes too?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I grin, ‘I wouldn’t trust you to choose shoes.’ At least he doesn’t look thunderous any more.
Within an hour, Miss Darlington is resplendent in her new frock and once more mingling among the beautiful people. Frank’s understudy showed up on time and sober, and the crowd loves him. Hermione’s guests are even dabbling in carbohydrates. You go, girls, one mini brioche won’t give you love handles. I was wrong in my initial impression of Londoners. All those sandwich shops must be kept in business by tourists and men. Between the New Atkins devotees, South Beach fans, SlimFast point-counters and caveman enthusiasts, planning the menu must have been a minefield. There is literally no safe food any more. I heard there’s a chef in Spain who serves flavoured air in his restaurant. Reservations are booked up six months in advance.
By 3 a.m., when the party starts winding down, Felicity tells me I can go home. That’s it. That’s what she says. ‘You can go now.’ Not one word about the table cards, about the wonderful job I did on my first party. Not even a thank you. Isn’t saving her party, three times, enough to earn a little respect? I’d love to summon the
energy for anger but I’m so exhausted I’m weaving in my stilettos. Thanks again, Felicity, for last night’s contribution to the bags under my eyes.
And I have no money to get home. I hope Sam has change from my twenty. He’s not in the ballroom. ‘Try the kitchen,’ advises one of the waiters.
He’s elbow-deep in soap suds.
‘Um, hi. Listen, thanks for going to Selfridges for me. It saved the night.’
‘No problem. Who knows what catastrophe might have ensued if two girls were photographed wearing the same dress.’
I can do without the sarcasm. ‘Whatever. Um, I was wondering if there was any money left over from the taxi?’
‘No, why?’
Suddenly the thought of walking miles in heels at 3 a.m. is too much for me. ‘I don’t have any money!’
‘Wait half an hour and I’ll give you a ride home.’
‘Really? Thanks.’
‘Wait. Where do you live?’
‘Earls Court.’
‘Okay.’
‘What were you going to do, take back your offer if I lived too far?’
‘Depends on how far away you lived. Give me half an hour.’
Honestly.
Good to his word, he emerges from the kitchen half an hour later, catching me rubbing my feet. ‘I don’t know why women wear such stupid shoes.’
‘These shoes aren’t stupid!’ What a thing to say about perfectly innocent footwear.
‘They’re completely impractical, you can’t walk in them and they probably cost a fortune.’
‘What would you prefer we do, tape old tyre rubber to our feet?’
‘It’d be more practical.’
‘Maybe we’re not interested in practical.’
‘Apparently not. Come on, hop on.’
He’s kidding, right? When he offered me a ride, I assumed he meant in a car. ‘A moped?’
‘It’s a Vespa.’
‘Isn’t that Italian for moped?’
‘Do you want a ride or not?’
Since beggars can’t be choosers, with my dress hiked up, I can just straddle the seat. I’m very aware that my crotch is up against his backside. As we pull out on to the Strand, I shift back to get some distance between our genitals. This is practically obscene, especially considering the thong that I’m wearing. He speeds up, I grab his sides tighter and the wind catches the front of my dress. Before you can say ‘flasher’, my dress is over my head and we’re speeding through traffic. I can’t let go of his sides for fear of falling off. ‘You all right?’ Sam yells through the wind as he peers from his rearview mirror.
