by Unknown
‘Then someone at your agency left out a very important fact in your briefing.’
Yes, she certainly did. ‘Uh, the, ah, death part of the party is just the start.’
‘Terrific.’
‘No, I mean it’s just the prelude to the real party.’
‘I’m almost afraid to ask. What else have you got planned?’
A Caribbean theme, of course. After the ceremonial casting-off of mourning clothes, which I still think is a brilliant idea, terminal ex-husband aside, the waiters change into loud shirts and shorts, drape everyone in tropical flowers and serve Piña Coladas until the guests fall over. The Calypso band should be here any minute.
‘I suggest we get to the Caribbean party quickly. My guests don’t look like they’re enjoying themselves.’
No, indeed they don’t. The room, I now notice, is completely, deathly, quiet. Everyone is listening to the hostess rant at me. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll get right on it.’ Grabbing the bowl of armbands, which thankfully nobody but me is wearing, and tucking the big wreath under my arm, I can just about drag it into the back room. ‘Uh, everyone in the kitchen, please.’
‘All right, everybody, we have a crisis. Apparently the theme isn’t going down well because, well, because the ex-husband is, in fact, dying…’ I’d continue but everyone is too busy laughing their asses off to listen to me. Now why couldn’t the guests see the humour in this? ‘Yes, okay, irony aside, we’ve got to change the theme over right now. Can everyone please change into their shirts and shorts? Sam, can you get all of the black roses out of the room and you, can you put out the tropical flower arrangements?’ This isn’t a total disaster. There’s the Calypso band warming up. Everyone makes little mistakes when they’re first starting out, right? This could happen to anyone.
‘What should we do with the cake?’ Sam asks.
‘Oh god, get rid of it.’ I can’t even imagine the look on everyone’s face if that had been wheeled into the room. ‘No, wait. Do we have flowers left?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Let’s cut it into pieces and stick a flower into each piece. It’ll distract from the brown frosting.’
‘You’re a genius, boss,’ he grins. I search his face for any trace of sarcasm but there isn’t any.
‘Anyway, you’d better get out there and help the bartender. He didn’t look too sure about the blender drinks. I think it’s an American thing.’
When I see Mrs Read-Hutchins half an hour later, she’s got a hibiscus in her hair and a pink drink in her hand. I catch her eye and there’s no hatred in her look. There’s no love either. My U-turn might be enough to save the night but I doubt it’s enough to save my job.
18
I thought Felicity had snuck out but no, there she is, talking to one of the guests. ‘Um, ’scuse me, hi. Felicity, can I talk to you a minute?’
‘Is something wrong?’ She’s the picture of innocence as we move away from the witnesses, er, guests.
‘You set me up.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You heard me. You set me up. You purposely let me make a fool of myself and the agency. I want to know why. Why would you do that?’
She’s trying to melt me with her death-ray ice eyes. It’s the look that makes grown men whimper. It’s the look I admired when it was aimed at photographers and cooks. ‘Hannah, I find it remarkable that you can blame me for this…fiasco. I gave you full reign, and full responsibility. I had nothing to do with it, as you’ll remember. Every one of those ideas was yours. You fucked up.’
‘Felicity, you should have told me about the husband. You knew what the theme was and you should have told me.’
‘I only knew it was a divorce party. As we were briefed. As I told you. I didn’t know what theme you chose. You never told me.’
What is she talking about? Of course I told her the theme. Didn’t I? I’m sure I mentioned it when I booked the Crypt. Granted, I did play the details close to my chest because I wanted to surprise everyone, but I know I told her. I’m almost sure of it. Fairly positive.
‘Let me give you some friendly advice.’ Her voice is most unfriendly. ‘In this business, one must learn to take responsibility for all one’s actions, not just those that save the day.’
What a bitch. ‘Felicity, all I can say is that this is going to reflect as badly on you as it does on me.’
‘Don’t count on that, my dear.’ She turns on her heel, which isn’t very stylish (and that’s not just spite talking), and goes back to the crowd.
My boss has sabotaged me. What possible motive could she have? I’m no threat to her job. I’m not going to take her partnership away. This disaster has to look bad for her. I don’t care what she says, it happened on her watch. It’s possible she’s just mean. I’ve met women like this before, who’ll almost literally cut off their noses to spite their faces. But that doesn’t make any sense. She must have a motive for killing my career. I feel sick to my stomach. Why am I standing here, feeling sick to my stomach? I can simply walk up those stairs and be away from this mess. There’s no reason to stay anyway, if I’m just going to get fired on Monday.
It’s a beautiful night, with people everywhere on the streets. That’s the dangerous thing about the West End–you can’t count on the traffic to tell you when it’s time to go home. Londoners need those curfew bracelets that convicts wear, getting zapped when last orders are called to make them drop the beer glass and step away from the bar. Sometimes people must be electrocuted for their own good.
Speaking of my own good, I’m craving the reassurance of intimacy. I want to be with someone who’ll make me feel better. I don’t mean Chloe, or Stacy, or even Barry (yes, I feel guilty about that). Though they’ll give me perfectly reasonable advice, I need comfort food right now, not a balanced meal. I wish I had a different reaction to turmoil in my life. But I suppose it’s no worse than binging on chocolate, or Cheese Doodles.33 At least my cravings don’t expand my waistline. It’s time I stopped kidding myself anyway. I’ve been thinking about him constantly. Despite her. Despite everything. There must be something there. It’s time I found out once and for all. I do have his number, though I feel a little foolish as it rings.
‘Hi, it’s Hannah.’ There’s a catch in my throat. ‘Can you meet me?’
‘Hi…Where are you?’ He sounds puzzled. I don’t blame him. No doubt my call is a little unexpected under the circumstances.
‘Um, in front of a place called Lupo, in Soho.’
‘I know it. I can’t get there for at least an hour. But I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Thanks.’
Don’t judge me. I need a known quantity right now.
Did I tell you about the first time I went to New York by myself? I lost my wallet and had to make a collect call to Dad to come get me. I wandered around all day first, trying to think of a better way home. My sister was in California, two thousand miles and three time zones too far away to help. Stacy was with her grandparents in Maine, which was why I was alone in the first place. The trip was my first real attempt at a modicum of independence. I was twenty-two, and losing my wallet didn’t exactly foster confidence in my ability to fend for myself. After exhausting my alternatives (including toying with the idea of begging strangers for the fare), I made the call. I was humiliated, so much so that when I saw my dad, I burst into tears. He must have thought I was scared, or relieved or something. He said, ‘Honey, don’t worry, you can always depend on me when you get in a pinch.’ I guess I’m thinking about it now to remind myself that there’s no shame in needing someone else to do what you can’t do for yourself.
The only thing I’m going to do for myself waiting here is to drive myself crazy. ‘Hey, Sarah? It’s Hannah. Where are you? Mind if I come over for a bit? Yeah, I know. I was. I’ll explain later. Right now I don’t want to think about it. Rupert Street? Okay, hang on.’ Thank god for A to Z. ‘I’m close. See you in a few minutes.’ It’s comforting to have flatmates that are always wit
hin easy drinking distance.
Their chosen venue is a haven for the Irish-at-heart, or botanists. There’s an enormous tree growing in the middle of it. My flatmates stand shaded beneath its branches, ready to lend a sympathetic ear and to buy me a pint. I’ll gladly accept both tonight. ‘What happened? This was your big night?’
‘Adam!’ Sarah punches him with the force of a middleweight champion. ‘She doesn’t wanna talk about it.’
‘That’s okay…it was a disaster. The theme didn’t go over well at all, and Felicity is out to get me.’
‘You wannus ta have a word with her?’ Nathan touches the side of his nose. His bravado is just that. As I’ve gotten to know them better, I’ve realized that I shouldn’t have judged these books by their hard-drinking, joke-cracking covers. These are people with the depth to be excellent friends as well as the humour to be excellent entertainment.
‘That’s sweet, but I don’t think roughing her up is going to help my cause. No, this is something I have to take care of on my own. Anyway, don’t worry. How come you’re here? I figured you’d be at Walkabout.’
‘Nathan’s meeting a taht.’
‘Howdaya know she’s a taht?’
‘Your words, mate.’
‘Too right. Up, speak of the divil. ’Scuse me, ladies and gents, there she is. G’night.’ He ambles off towards this evening’s conquest.
Sarah’s right. That girl is a taht. ‘What about you, Adam?’ Winking in exaggerated style should warn him about my next line of questioning. ‘Have you got your eye on anyone here?’ This who-would-I-go-home-with-if-I-had-my-pick game is one of my favourites. It’s harmless, because theoretical. It’s fun, because a little smutty. And it’s revealing. That’s how, for example, I found out that Stacy doesn’t mind fat guys.
‘Nah. D’ya want another beer?’
‘Yes, but don’t change the subject. Come on. No one in here? At all?’ At least fifty young women stand around us in various stages of inebriation.
‘Come on, mate, at a push. Who’d ya do?’ Sarah really has a way with words.
He looks embarrassed. ‘Well, her. Or her. Or her.’
‘The one in the rid top?’
Interesting choices, Adam. They could all be in Sarah’s immediate family. Like I said, this game is always illuminating.
‘I think we need a shot, don’t you, ’Annah?’
Most definitely. Here’s to the Aussies, who have once again proven how fortunate I was to answer their ad.
There he is. God, I’m nervous. What if this is a mistake? Something in my gut is still warning me. I’m well acquainted with this feeling. After graduation, my parents got a little desperate when they realized that I might never leave home. Dad’s friend runs an injection die-casting company (I know, I didn’t know what it meant either–it’s how plastic handles and things are made) and set me up with an interview. It wasn’t really an interview: Dad must have agreed to let his friend beat him at golf for the next ten years or so, because he offered me a job on the spot. I should have jumped at it, considering the student-loan payments in my near future. That night I tossed and turned, and in the morning I knew, although I had no idea why, that I couldn’t take the job. So I respectfully turned it down, and a few months later I got the PR job, which led me to London, and my party-planning job. Trusting my gut was the right decision then. But it’s too late to turn back now. He’s watching me approach. I can’t read his expression. Maybe a little concerned, maybe a little annoyed. I can’t blame him there – Piaget says I’m later than planned. ‘Hi. You haven’t been here very long, have you?’
‘Ten minutes or so. You sounded upset.’
‘Yeah, thanks for meeting me.’
‘No worries, it’s just a school job. They’re used to us goofing off.’
‘Hey, Sam,’ nods the bouncer as we pass.
The bartender reaches across to shake his hand. ‘Sam, I’ve got your CDs.’
Who cares if I could have dated him at home? I probably wouldn’t have. It’s taken London and a lot of growing up to learn to stop doing what I think I should do and instead do what I want to.
‘What are you, Sam, a closet alcoholic?’
‘Where’s the fun in being a closet alcoholic?’
‘True. How do you know everyone?’
‘Sweetheart, so much to learn. There’s a seedy underbelly to every city, populated by all the people who serve you your dinner and drinks. Where do you think they all go when their shifts are over?’
They go home to their tiny, condemned apartments to sleep for a few hours before serving me my breakfast. ‘Do you know every bar in town?’
‘Actually, I don’t go out that much.’ The last part of his statement is drowned out by a girl yelling hello across the bar.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I am glad you called. I figured something was wrong when I saw you leave. But I didn’t have your mobile number. And I was elbow-deep in rum punch at the time. Tell me what happened.’
I do, with as much attention to detail as I’d give in a relationship post mortem with Stacy. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m adding a liberal amount of whining and self-pity. Ah, the indulgence of a fresh ear! God, it’s hot in here. I’m sweating. The little Chinese fan I found in Soho isn’t making much difference. It makes me feel glamorous to wave it around, though my technique is not yet perfect. I still hit myself in the face occasionally. ‘What’s that smirk for? Haven’t you ever seen a fan?’
‘You mean since the nineteenth century? I’m kidding, it works for you. I don’t know how, but it does. Anyway, the party. For the record, I thought your idea was great.’
‘It was supposed to be my big break.’
‘It was a big break, all right. You had no way to know about the husband. I mean, what are the chances?’
‘About a million to one. Come on, a death theme when the host’s husband is dying? Give me a break!’ It feels great to laugh, even if I’m laughing over the remains of my career. What’s the worst that can happen? Mark fires me on Monday. So, I’ll find another job. Maybe I’ll take a couple weeks off first, travel around Europe. I should have left already anyway to get another tourist visa in my passport. Being out of work won’t be so bad. Maybe Chloe can find me something…‘I just don’t get why Felicity’d do that to me. I’m no threat to her.’
‘Ah, that I think I can shed some light on.’
‘Do tell.’
‘You and Mark didn’t happen to have a thing, did you?’
‘Uh, why?’ I must be blushing very unattractively.
‘Because Felicity is sleeping with him. That’s why my boss wants to quit working for the agency. She got wind of his affair and, as I mentioned, he’s married to her sister. You can imagine the politics.’
‘But that was over months ago.’
‘Nuh-uh, apparently they’re going at it like rabbits.’
‘I mean Mark and me.’
‘So there was something.’
How I hate to admit this, given his accusation, and my indignant denial, in the office that first week. ‘Yes, but I didn’t know he was married. As soon as I…Anyway, it’s water under the bridge.’
‘Maybe not as far as Felicity is concerned.’
‘Wait, your boss is going to quit? So you won’t be working the parties any more?’
‘Or at the office for much longer. I planned to quit soon anyway.’
His statement hits me in the solar plexus. ‘Is that because you’re almost finished with your mail-order diploma?’ I joke, but given this information, I don’t feel very merry.
‘Uh-huh, I’ve only got about a month left. Then I get a real job. ’Nother drink?’
‘I’m getting drunk.’
‘Good. I’ll get you another.’
‘Are you going to take advantage of me?’
‘While you’re drunk? While you have a boyfriend? No.’
‘Very noble of you…’ Blimey, as they say. He’s some kind of hypnotist. All I did
was look at him and he got better-looking. Not that he’s ugly to start with. He does have very deep-blue eyes. Blimey. ‘Sam? I’ve been thinking. Maybe we could have dinner sometime?’
‘…’
‘Don’t let me force you.’
‘What about your boyfriend?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend. We’ve been on a few dates. It’s not serious.’ We’re not even having sex yet…though can Sam say as much? ‘Are you serious with…anyone?’
‘Erm. Well, Janey and I –’
‘Oh sure, of course. She seems nice,’ I lie. ‘Forget it, it was just a thought. Must be too much wine!’
‘Well, we could have dinner. Sure we could.’
‘No, no, really, it was no big deal. Forget I asked. Excuse me a sec, I need to run to the ladies.’
I will not cry. I will not cry…I’m crying. It’s my own fault. I built this up in my head till it was an actual relationship. And it probably would have been, if I’d said yes to him at the start, instead of scoffing at the very idea of going out with an American office boy. As if my mother, the Queen, would have disapproved. I have only myself to blame for feeling like this now. So stop being mad at Sam. What did I expect, that he’d keep trying, or put his life on hold while I decided whether he was worthy of going out with? It serves me right to be sniffling in this stall. And understandable, I guess, given my imaginary relationship, to feel like I’ve been broken up with. What an awful, fitting phrase that is. To break: to separate into parts with suddenness or violence. To break off: to remove by, or as if by, breaking. Ain’t that the truth.
‘I wondered if you decided to go home and not tell me. Are you okay?’
‘Sorry, you know we girls like to take our time.’ I managed to erase the raccoon eyes but between the scrubbing and lack of replacement make-up, I look like I’ve been swimming laps. ‘So tell me about Janey.’ I’m not a glutton for punishment; I’m hoping he’ll tell me that he doesn’t really like her, or at least that she’s flawed in some important way.
