Single in the City

by Unknown

  15. You have too many shoes.

  16. The dinner was lovely. Was that beef or chicken?

  17. No, honey, you’re not fat. You’re just bloated.

  18. What do you mean, appliances can’t be Christmas presents?

  19. I thought about buying you sexy underwear for your birthday but thought a gym membership would be more useful.

  20. You’re just like your mother.

  Ticked only one? With the proper training at Boyfriend School your man is probably salvageable. Ticked three or more? At some point in your relationship, he’s going to point out your hairy lip/legs/underarms in public and fart unapologetically on the couch.

  Of course, I’m thinking about him again. And while the sad fact is I know he wouldn’t be good for me, I also know he’s not the kind of guy to fart on the couch. Couldn’t that be enough, at the start?

  ‘What are you wearing?’ Felicity demands when she sees me.

  What I’m wearing is a floor-length raspberry rough-silk (very) fitted dress that I got half-price at Ann Taylor last year. I give her as much of a twirl as the dress will bear. It’s her own fault if she doesn’t like it. She still won’t let me near the closet.

  ‘This is a business dinner! I didn’t think I had to tell you how to dress.’

  Given the facts, she certainly should have. We’re gathered, by invitation, in the grand ballroom of a stately home for a champagne reception with canapés, followed by dinner, a few speeches and dancing. Throw in bickering in-laws and a drunken bridesmaid and it’s practically a wedding. What did she expect me to wear, tweed?

  She’s wearing tweed. And sensible shoes. ‘Ugh, it’s too late for you to change.’ I get the feeling she’s not just talking about my dress. ‘Go and check on the champagne…and make sure the table cards are all set up. And Hannah, please try not to muck things up!’

  I’m constantly letting Felicity down. I wish I didn’t, and not just because disappointing your boss is a poor route to career advancement. I crave the validation. Can you blame me, when I was fired from my first job and got my second under sexual pretences? I haven’t exactly built sound work credentials so far.

  ‘Nice outfit. What are you dressed for?’ It’s Sam.

  ‘Coming from a guy wearing an apron and gum-soled shoes, you’ll excuse me if I don’t crumble into tears at your cutting sarcasm.’

  ‘Didn’t Felicity mention that this was a business dinner?’

  ‘No! I mean, I knew. Don’t you have work to do?’

  ‘I’m on my –’

  ‘Hi, Sam.’ Janey may have microchipped him. She certainly has a knack for knowing when he’s talking to me.

  ‘Hey, you. Remind me to give you something later.’

  ‘Give it to me now,’ she says suggestively, eyeing him from beneath thick, super-long lashes. What kind of supplements does this girl take? ‘I’m here for another hour, just for the drinks reception.’ She should realize that standing there with that look on her face is just encouraging me to flirt with Sam, simply for the joy of being responsible for her insomnia tonight. ‘Will I see you after?’ she purrs.

  ‘Gonna have to study but come on, I’ll…’ As they amble out of eavesdropping range, my mumbled ‘See ya’ meets with no response.

  Far be it from me to lecture on manners, but that’s just rude, to walk away without a goodbye.

  The guests arrive in an enormous wave at 7 p.m., as demanded by the invitation. One after another, the women shed their coats to reveal business suits. Apparently Tories are Conservatives in both the upper- and the lower-case sense. Which means I do look like a hooker. And judging by the leers, I’m not the only one to think so. Just perfect. At least if I sit behind the nametag table, I’m hidden from the waist down. Short of donning a tablecloth there’s not much I can do about the rest of me. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t mind having a few extra pounds settle into my décolletage, but my dress is unforgiving. Breathing in results in a sort of squeezed water balloon effect.

  ‘You! We have white space!’ It’s the photographer, a man who doesn’t understand that skinny jeans on men are as inappropriate as lumberjack shirts are on women. ‘We can’t have white space!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘At the tables. There are three empty chairs on the tables at the front.’ Clearly he’s one of those hysterical artistes who fall apart when the light goes wrong or it’s too humid for the lens. You’d think he was shooting a feature film for Spielberg, not a Tory propaganda video. Annie Leibovitz wouldn’t behave like this.

  ‘What would you like me to do?’ Spontaneously give birth to a litter of Conservatives?

  ‘You have to fill those chairs.’

  ‘Why don’t you just take the chairs away?’

  ‘Uneven place settings? At the front? I don’t think so. You!’ He spots Felicity. ‘Your table plan is wrong.’

  Heads down, everyone, and shield the children. In my short career, I’ve learned that there are a few things you don’t say to a party planner: 1) I love the theme, I saw the same thing in Tatler last month; 2) Are you sure these oysters are fresh?; 3) I don’t think I should have to tip the caterers when I’ve paid that kind of money; and 4) You’ve fucked up the seating plan.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Felicity asks with a perfectly raised eyebrow that adds ‘you odious little troll whom I’m not above running down in an alley’. I’m in awe of her ability to reduce people to quivering masses in seconds (as long as it isn’t aimed at me). The English really are masters of disdain.

  But this photographer didn’t climb to his prissy heights by being weak. Plus he’s English himself. ‘I mean that three of your confirmed guests haven’t turned up and their chairs are empty, which will look terrible on film.’

  ‘Hannah. Who isn’t here?’ Three badges sit accusingly on the table. Unless there are unlabelled guests inside, the photographer is right.

  ‘Did you confirm these guests?’

  This is hardly the time to start pointing fingers. How am I supposed to remember whether they confirmed? They all have names like Pilkington and Tomlinson.

  ‘Ugh, never mind. Hannah, go to the table.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘Sit down.’

  Oh god, oh god, oh god. What am I supposed to say to these people? Am I supposed to pretend to be Mrs Pilkington? Of course not. They’ll catch on to my accent instantly. Felicity has just pressed one of the waiters into service. He rushes off into the kitchen and returns a few seconds later sans apron to take his place among the Peers. Felicity settles herself into the third seat.

  ‘Hannah Cumming. Nice to meet you,’ I beam to the man on my right.

  ‘Oh, er, ehem, well, uh…’ You’d think I just tried to hand him a trout instead of my hand. I’m not sure why people who could teach Miss Manners30 a thing or two can’t make smooth introductions. ‘Yes, uh, George Whittington,’ George Whittington MP says to my breasts. Sir, those are my nipples, not my pupils. The woman I assume to be the long-suffering Mrs Whittington is shooting daggers at me from across the table. As if I’d steal her middle-aged, socially inept husband. ‘You must be a Yank,’ he says accusingly.

  No kidding. What tipped you off? Was it my accent or the fact that I revealed my name without stammering? ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Why is that fascinating?’

  ‘Well, ah, I can’t imagine what a Yank is doing at a Tory dinner.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. I’m the party planner! Well, assistant party planner. And there’s an empty chair at this table, and the photographer doesn’t want white space, so here I am.’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t think you looked like a Tory.’ He’s eyeing me up like a party favour. There’s a saliva ball in each corner of his mouth. When he talks, a snotty string of it stretches between his lips. Nice catch, Mrs Whittington.

  What can I possibly say to this hygienically challe
nged man? ‘Nice weather we’ve had.’ Talk about a cliché. But in an equally clichéd Pavlovian response, he starts waxing poetic about the finer points of English weather. How can forecasts that don’t vary beyond some combination of warm/cool and wet/dry hold anyone’s interest for long? England has hardly any of the spectacular weather patterns that excite the rest of the world, though there was a hurricane once, and every so often a mini-tornado tears the roofs off a few garden sheds in the Midlands. I think weather is just an excuse for Brits to talk to each other. It’s the only way to strike up a conversation for people who think giving you their name is akin to telling you about their last bowel movement.

  Just as we lapse into silence, a man stands up at the next table. ‘Lords, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.’

  The only thing worse than listening to someone else’s speech is having to make your own. It was the one part of my old job that I absolutely hated (aside from getting fired, obviously). We mostly did boring company PR, but there were a few very rich clients who paid us to manage the scandal they brought upon themselves. I once had to make a statement to the press that started with ‘What two consenting adults do in their private home…’

  ‘So without further delay, let’s begin tonight’s discussion. As you all know, the topic is immigration and what should be done about it. Who’d like to start?’

  George Whittington clears his throat and says, ‘I wonder if our American guest would like to say a few words?’

  I most certainly would not like to. Surely this isn’t part of my job description. I’m getting confusing signals from Felicity. She’s smiling through her I’m-warning-you face. I recognize this look from my mother’s well-worn catalogue of threatening body language. Finally she mouths, ‘Go on.’

  If you say so. What do I think about immigration? What do I think? What–do–I–think? Let me see…Everyone in the room is staring at me. Get up, Hannah, and don’t breathe in or your boobs will fall out. ‘Ehem. Well, as an immigrant, I say I’m all for it!’ Heh, heh, heh. The room is silent. ‘And, um, well, my country was founded by immigrants and look how successful it’s been…’ More silence. Is that a tumbleweed blowing between the tables? ‘Er, and I think that if you let the immigrants in, they’ll work here and be productive members of society.’ Yes, that’s better. ‘And I don’t think they’ll take jobs away from English people, like some of the newspapers say. Um, they’ll do the jobs that the English people think they’re too good to do. So the job gets done, the immigrant makes his contribution and the lazy bast– uh, people who would rather stay on welfare can do that too.’ Are those the cries of vultures circling above? ‘Uh, and of course it’s not just fruit pickers we’re talking about. What about the ones who work in the banks? They’ve changed the way English bankers work. Well, heh, heh, at least they do work now! They really needed a kick in the pants to wake up and realize it’s not the nineteenth century any more.’ That may be a man coming towards me with a big vaudeville hook. Perhaps it’s time to sit down. ‘So it’s good. Ah, thank you.’ A few kind souls limply clap. George Whittington looks very sorry to be sitting next to me. Then a man to my left gets up, clears his throat and argues that immigrants are pond scum and should under no circumstance be allowed into the country to ruin its Englishness. The guys at the next table whoop their support. I think I might throw up.

  Sam appears as I’m weaving between the tables on the way to the bathroom. ‘Considering a future in politics?’

  ‘Shut up.’ I’m trickling tears. I can’t believe I’ve screwed up again. What an unbelievable confluence of events led me to my speech. Think of all the if onlys: if only I’d confirmed the guest list, if only the photographer hadn’t had a tantrum, if only Felicity sat me at another table, if only I’d kept my big mouth shut. I can’t go back to the table now. I’ll have to sit in the kitchen.

  ‘Well, at least you didn’t insult the Queen.’

  ‘No, just welfare recipients and the privileged class.’

  ‘That was an impressive one-two punch.’

  With my head in my hands maybe he won’t see that I’m crying. ‘Why do I always end up in these situations?’

  ‘Do you give inflammatory speeches a lot?’

  ‘Making a fool of myself. This isn’t the first time.’ By a long stretch.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with speaking your mind.’

  ‘Tell them that.’

  ‘What do they know, they’re politicians. Listen, I’m guessing you won’t be asked to join them for any after-parties. Do you need a ride home tonight?’

  I’m very tempted, but given that my dress is essentially a sausage casing, the only way to sit on his moped is sidesaddle. Even if I was prepared to hike it over my ass, there is a slight issue in that to avoid unsightly panty lines, I’m going commando. ‘No thanks. I’ll get a taxi.’ I wonder if Felicity will believe I’ve had an attack of food poisoning, or malaria, and let me leave early. Can a person be fired in the UK for her political views?

  My mascara has run through my bronzer to pool along my jaw. Bleakly, I try to fix the mess between waves of humiliation. Occasionally I’m joined at the mirror by a tweedy lady who studiously avoids looking at me. It’s impossible to say whether it’s my speech or her abject fear of making eye contact that makes her so rude. Just as I get my lipstick right, having chewed it all off during my speech, Felicity walks in.

  ‘Em, Felicity, I’m not feeling very well.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with your little speech, would it?’ She’s blotting her perfect red lipstick. She really is one of the most beautiful women I’ve known. Shame her personality doesn’t match.

  ‘No, no! I, uh, feel like I have a fever.’

  ‘Because what you said is right.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Don’t look so surprised.’

  ‘Well, I just didn’t think’–you had a heart–‘you’d agree.’

  ‘Oh, I do, except for the American rah-rah flag-waving. We don’t go in for that kind of boasting.’

  ‘That? That wasn’t boasting!’ If she wants to hear boasting, she should listen to my mother talk about us kids.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it sounded like it. We’d never say that we think our country is great, or that we’re the best at something.’

  They have a lot to be proud of and yet these are people completely incapable of taking credit for their accomplishments. Just try telling an Englishwoman that you like her hair or her dress, let alone her country. She’ll either disagree with you or tell you yours is better. Maybe it’s a consequence of their empire shrinking to the size of Bermuda. ‘Felicity, I need to ask you something.’ What have I got to lose at this point? ‘Do you think I did a good job on Hermione’s birthday party?’

  She looks surprised. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘I mean, isn’t it obvious that you did a good job? Why do I need to say anything?’

  To be nice. To be human. ‘I’d like to have some feedback.’

  ‘I just gave you feedback.’

  ‘That was feedback?’

  ‘I answered your question. Yes, you did a good job.’

  I could wait for more but she’s obviously exhausted her meagre supply of praise. It’s better than nothing, but she’s still not getting my nomination for coach of the year. Even so, and despite tonight’s disaster, I feel like I’ve won the lottery. The pay-out might only be ten bucks in soon-to-expire coupons; nevertheless, technically, I’m a winner.

  15

  I feel like a reformed smoker. Having kicked the habit (in this case an unhealthy crush on my flatmate), I’ve substituted one craving for another. The craving’s name is Barry. He’s a thirty-year-old investment banker, he told me over the Easter for Orphans dinner that the flatmates organized for all us transplants without families here. There are worse ways to spend
the holiday than lounging at a table full of food, wine and Antipodeans. Stacy was at her cousin’s house, the one who married ‘that Mormon’ (that’s what the family calls him. It’s more a reflection of their feelings towards him than the belief that there is, in fact, just the one). Her poor cousin has been pregnant for the better part of fifteen years, giving their house the restful quality of a prison in revolt.

  ‘What, exactly, do you do?’ I asked Barry. I have investment-banking friends in New York. Their jobs seem to involve working late and going out to dinner a lot.

  ‘I mostly raise capital for tier-one and -two firms, you know, debt origination, equity flotation, bridge loans.’

  I heard mostly blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, you know, blah, blah, blah, loans. Nobody works in fields where they speak English any more. ‘Ah. And how do you know Nathan?’

  ‘He’s working on my flat. I bought it last year. It’s a total renovation job.’ When Nathan isn’t busy augmenting his sexual track record, he works on construction sites to top up his beer fund.

  Sarah offered, ‘’E’s single, ya know, ’Annah. Aren’t ya, Barr?’

  I may have mentioned that my flatmate has the tact of a seven-year-old. This is because she’s one of those rare girls who are exactly as they appear. For instance, she really is uninterested in the men that flock to her every time we go out. I love this about her, of course, since going out with her is like chumming the water. She can afford to be magnanimous; she’s got a serious boyfriend back in Australia. I don’t know how they make it work, since he hasn’t been able to visit yet and she’s been gone almost a year. It must truly be love. I could never have a long-distance relationship.

  ‘Uh, yes, I am. Single,’ Barry confirmed, glancing back and forth between Sarah and me. ‘I had a girlfriend for a couple of years but she, ah, ran off with my boss.’

  ‘How terrible!’

  ‘Mmm, it really gutted me, you know? I was depressed for months. It’s hard to see how you’re going to get over it, but eventually you do.’