More Than One Way to Be a Girl

by Dyan Sheldon

  You didn’t have to be listening to overhear conversations; and you didn’t have to be paying close attention to figure out who was a guest of the bride and who a guest of the groom. The bride’s guests were the ones who were better dressed and very obviously accustomed to parties where they were photographed talking to some movie star or politician. They were also used to bossing servants around. If you were looking for humility, you wouldn’t be looking in that group. They didn’t so much as glance at you as they reached for a canapé or set an empty glass on your tray. They gravitated to the limited shade like moss; they mingled only with themselves. The groom’s guests were the ones standing in the sun looking as if they’d arrived at the wrong hotel – possibly in the wrong country. The groom’s guests were the ones who said thank you and smiled.

  Unfortunately, there was no leverage to use against the weather. Inside, there was air conditioning and, at least for the beginning of the reception, only a handful of guests and very little to do. Outside – unless you were in one of the marquees, where there were fans – the air was like a hot wet towel, and there were scores of party-goers schmoozing and eating and drinking and waiting – demanding – to be served. The guests, of course, weren’t the only ones outside. There was the photographer as well, moving the bridal party around like traffic from one scenic location to another, always in search of the perfect shot. Besides the official photographer and the bridal party, there was some guy with a video camera filming the whole thing. He was everywhere and nowhere; there and not there at the same time – which means that he was either getting in people’s way, or you thought he’d gone only to spot him lurking behind a bush like a spy. Not that I had time to pay attention to anything but the guests. Maybe it was the combination of the heat and the alcohol making everyone seem extremely intense, but working in the garden was to hectic what a supernova is to a sparkler. It didn’t take more than ten minutes for me to realize that though some people might have a natural talent for waitressing I for definite wasn’t one of them. Not only did you have to keep the trays coming, answer any questions, clean up any messes and make sure no one was left out or overlooked, you had to do it all with a pleasant attitude, smiling as if you enjoyed it.

  It also didn’t take long to dispel any idea I might have had way at the back of my mind that weddings bring out the best in people.

  I was approaching the chattering throng with a loaded tray of canapes, trying not to think about how long this day was going to be, when suddenly the janitor, who was doing a last check on the marquees, bumped into me from behind. I pitched forward, struggling to keep my balance. I managed not to fall, but the canapes weren’t so lucky. They flew into the air like miniature missiles decorated with parsley and olives. It’s practically a natural law that if something like that’s going to happen it’s going to happen to the least equanimous person within a twenty-mile radius. Several rounds of toast, with lobster, pastry and possibly mayonnaise involved, hit their target – who, in this case, was the father of the bride. He let out a bellow of surprise, dropped the glass he was holding and stepped back into the woman behind him, who, of course, then spilled her drink. That a perfect chain reaction of people knocking into each other didn’t result is only because Mr Bagley recovered from his surprise in half a nanosecond – and as soon as he did he started shouting. Which caught everyone’s attention. Because he was a Master of the Universe type, Mr Bagley didn’t shout the way a lesser mortal might have, but got this eerily calm but authoritarian tone in his voice – as if he was God telling Man what he was doing wrong and how much trouble he was in. “You!” he roared. Meaning, me. “Are you a totally incompetent idiot or have you been hitting the bar?” Behind him the video guy suddenly materialized. After I’d apologized I kept my gaze on the ground – I didn’t want to meet those cold, dead eyes again – and concentrated on picking up as much as I could. While Mr Bagley rolled on. He not only questioned my sobriety and general ability to walk and breathe at the same time, but accused me of being a tray-wielding terrorist. All the while he was ranting, his wife, summoned by his booming voice, was dabbing at his jacket with a napkin and trying (unsuccessfully) to calm him down. When he finally ran out of insults, he marched off to the Inn, Mrs Bagley scurrying after him. Everyone around us went back to their interrupted conversations and I went for another tray.

  The talk and laughter got louder. Smiling relentlessly, I filtered through the noisy throng, bearing platters of stuffed quails eggs and caviar on rounds of toast. I was so busy that I couldn’t see the trees for the wood; all I saw was a blur of laughing, talking, chewing, sipping faces. I lost track of the bride and groom early on. I lost track of Claire, only occasionally catching a glimpse of her holding a tray and smiling like a corpse. Every now and then I’d catch a glimpse of Mr Schonblatt on the edge of the gathering, checking that the guests were having a good time and that Claire and I weren’t. Besides getting an ache in my back and blisters on my feet because I’d been too cheap to buy a pair of pumps that fit and was wearing ZiZi’s, I began to acquire a new respect for her. It was bad enough just serving, but at least I didn’t have to take orders or explain the menu or do crisis control the way a real, everyday waitress does. The only person who spoke to me – except to ask for something – was the janitor. Who said, “I’m sorry, honey” when he nearly knocked me over.

  Otherwise, I was the ghost of Mr Schonblatt’s dreams; silent, invisible and excruciatingly busy. So busy that it wasn’t until dinner was announced and people headed inside that I realized two things. The first was why the woman in the blue suit and hat that resembled a beached boat looked vaguely familiar. I’d seen her before, of course, but she’d always been wearing leggings and a tank top and carrying a purple mat under her arm. It was as I was passing behind her that I heard her say something about her yoga class. Yoga class? I stopped and took a good look. She was Magda Hornung, Dillon Blackstock’s mother; which more or less guaranteed that the man beside her had to be Dillon’s stepfather. He was wearing a carnation in the buttonhole of his jacket – as were the groom, the father-of-the-bride, and several young men I took to be the best man and the ushers – and Magda Hornung was wearing a corsage of tiny roses – as were the bridesmaids and the bride’s mother. I was wondering if that meant that Magda and her husband were part of the wedding party when realization two hit me like a meteorite; who the guy with the video camera was. It was none other than Dillon Blackstock himself. Why hadn’t I recognized him before? Because he was behind his camera? Because I was so busy? Or because I thought he was hundreds of miles away making a documentary about a man who was living without money, not in Howards Walk, filming the Bagley-Schreiber wedding – where money was being spent at the speed of light. Which meant that Dillon’s brother’s wedding was happening after all.

  I watched Dillon stride towards the Inn, camera in hand, grinning as if he knew he was going to win a documentary award at the Sundance Film Festival.

  There was no way I could warn ZiZi. Phones had been left in the staffroom, and even if I could escape the vigilant eye of Mr Schonblatt, I couldn’t move fast enough in the shoes I was wearing to get inside before Dillon. My only hope was that she was in the mood for surprises.

  ZiZi

  Dadzilla and me

  I woke up on the morning of the wedding to what was a totally perfect day for a celebration of love and romance, all sunshine and blue skies. Loretta (big surprise!) said it was too hot, too humid and was probably going to rain. I said it was probably going to rain somewhere, but not in Howards Walk. Not today. Look at that sun. Look at that sky. (If there’d been a couple of stick figures on the lawn, it could’ve been a picture by a little kid with only primary colours in her paint box.) Loretta (who’d rather wear a bikini than admit she might be wrong) said it was an afternoon wedding, so what did it matter what colour the sky was if it was going to be dark by the time the reception really got under way? See what I mean about negativity? Another patent pending.

  The
Inn may be just a really big old house, but the decorators had made the restaurant and the garden look magical. The dining rooms were all white and silver with lights and candles and flowers everywhere. In the garden there were two billowy white marquees (that looked like the tents of desert kings, not like the grubby old yurt my cousin was married in that looked like it’d been used to house goats) and metal arches covered with roses and tiny, heart-shaped lights. And, when the bridal party finally arrived, the bride looked like a princess (unless you were looking through the eyes of Loretta Reynolds, who thought she looked like food) and the groom like a prince (or an undertaker if you were the best friend standing beside me). If you ask me, all the shouting and crying had been worth it. This really was a dream wedding. A dream wedding planned by someone (the bride) who cares about appearances and knows the importance of getting every little detail right. (Over and over and over again, and no matter how long it took!) If Mr Schonblatt hadn’t forbidden phones at the reception (staff phones, not guest phones!), I would’ve taken pictures so I could remember everything for when I get married myself.

  Mr Schonblatt stationed Claire (who had a lot of experience) and Loretta (who had none) in the garden. But, because the regular staff had pretty much bailed on the reception for one reason or another (mainly being fed up with Mr Schonblatt!), I was the most experienced waitress left inside (and, because I’d been so determined not to let the back room beat me, also the most efficient), so the Schonblatt put me in charge of the dining rooms and of making sure everyone found their table and everything. (It’d been a long and ugly war, but if you asked me, I was winning!)

  Almost everybody stayed down by the marquees or on the terrace, but some came inside (especially the older guests, because of the heat). I was kind of surprised that the parents of the bride were among the first to take shelter in the dining room. I knew who they were because I’d seen Mrs Bagley so many times before. Plus, as they swept through the French doors, he was saying to her, “We’ve had our pictures taken more times than necessary, and if anyone wants to talk to us, they can come in here. I’m not standing out there baking like a loaf of bread with that damn boy prowling around with his camera, getting in everybody’s way, and clumsy waitresses bombing me with hors-d’œuvres, Adele. I want air conditioning, I want to sit down and I want a drink. Where’s our table?”

  By then, I was pretty used to men like Mr Bagley in his hand-stitched suit. Rich, successful and always expecting to get their own way (except that Mr Bagley acting like he owned the place made sense since he kind of did, at least for the weekend). I stepped forward, welcoming smile on face and clipboard in hand. “It’s right over here, Mr Bagley.” (They like it when you know who they are.)

  Mr Bagley has the kind of vision that doesn’t always see people he doesn’t think are important, so he didn’t seem to see me, but he saw his table okay. “I don’t want to be near a window. I’ve had enough sun for one afternoon. You’ll have to change us.” (But he could talk to me even if he didn’t see me.)

  “I’m sorry but I’m afraid everything’s set.” I looked sorry. Sorry and sincere. I held out my clipboard as evidence. “See? It’s all been agreed.”

  Mr Bagley is one of those people whose super power is to grow larger and more imposing the more displeased he is. And believe me, that did nothing to make him more charming or endearing. “Not by me it wasn’t.”

  “Well, no, I know.” I kept smiling but it was a sad, helpless smile. If it was up to me, sir… But what can I, a mere waitress, do? “The thing is…” I turned to Mrs Bagley, who knew all about the seating plan even if she hadn’t made it herself. I was hoping she’d step in and explain. But Mrs Bagley wasn’t going to rescue me. She was looking at the table, straightening a fork. I took a deep breath and tried again. “I really am so sorry, sir, but the place cards—”

  “Move the place cards,” said Mr Bagley. You couldn’t call it a suggestion.

  Loretta always asks herself, What would Emma Goldman do? What would Gloria Steinem do? I asked myself what Mr Schonblatt would do. Grovel. “Of course, Mr Bagley. Where would you like to sit?” I moved the place cards. So now he was in my section. It was then that I should’ve realized that my guardian angel had taken the day off.

  Once he was seated out of the sun at the table of his choice, Mr Bagley wanted drinks. Wine was going to be served with the meal, but there was a bar at one end of the restaurant for anything else, and before the sit-down you were supposed to get your own.

  The way Mr Bagley looked at me when I explained about the bar made me feel sorry for anybody who worked for him. “I’m the father of the bride, not the date of a distant cousin. I don’t wait on tables. I get served.”

  I said, “Of course. I’m sorry. Just tell me what you want.”

  When I came back with the drinks, he wanted canapés. There weren’t any canapés inside. Not in here. The canapés were all kept in a chill case in the smaller of the two marquees outside.

  “Do I look blind to you?” asked Mr Bagley. He pointed to the garden. “What’s that on those trays out there? Rocks? I happen to know for a fact that there are canapés, because I’ve had quite a few of them thrown at me by your incompetent staff.”

  I stood up tall, looking competent. And oozed positivity the way a gateau will ooze icing if someone steps on it. “I think you’re supposed to stay in the garden while the photographs are being taken and—”

  “In case it escaped your attention, I am not ‘staying in the garden’,” Mr Bagley informed me. You know, in case I hadn’t noticed that he was sitting there, getting bigger (and a lot less happy) by the second.

  “I understand, sir, but—”

  “You are aware that I am paying for this shindig, aren’t you? I don’t think it’s too much to expect a cracker with some caviar smeared on it.”

  Okay, so maybe if it had been me in charge of the reception arrangements I would have had canapés in the dining room as well as in the garden, because people like Mr Bagley don’t get where they are by being shy and retiring and making do and not getting what they want. But I hadn’t been in charge. That was his daughter (who you’d think would’ve known better), with help from his wife (who should have known better, too). Sit-down dinner was indoors. Drinks and canapés were outdoors. That was what they’d ordered. I glanced around for a higher authority. The bride was standing under an arch of roses having her picture taken looking beautiful and happy (I’d never really seen her smile before). Mr Schonblatt was somewhere whipping his staff into shape. Mrs Bagley was staring at the ice in her drink as if it might speak.

  I think I may have curtsied. “I’ll be right back.”

  When I returned with a full tray, there’d been enough time for Mr Bagley to realize that there was something wrong with his drink. (Of course there was; how could there not be? The whole world obviously went out of its way to annoy him.)

  He held up the glass. “This isn’t what I asked for.”

  I wasn’t the bartender. I’d only placed the order and carried it to the table. “It isn’t? That’s not scotch and water?” Even without actually sticking my nose in his glass I could smell the whisky.

  “It is scotch and water, but it’s not what I asked for.”

  I apologized. A lot. “I’m so sorry, Mr Bagley. I really thought you said scotch and water.” I reached for his glass. “Just tell me again what you do want—”

  “I want scotch and water.”

  Was there something wrong with my hearing? Or was there something wrong with the water? He wouldn’t be the first man wearing a gold Rolex to send the water back. Not at the Old Clipper Inn.

  “Excuse me? I’m sorry but—”

  “Be a good girl and just get me my drink. I asked for a very specific scotch, and this is not it. I know you have it, because I ordered it in. I don’t know what you told him, honey, but this is bottom shelf.”

  Loretta could tell you (and would) that I’m not the kind of person who objects to being called “go
od girl” or “honey”. I’d always thought that, as words go, they were pretty sweet and affectionate. But they didn’t sound sweet and affectionate coming from Mr Bagley’s gleaming white and over-toothed mouth. They sounded patronizing and condescending. Be a good girl? Honey? If I’d been male he probably would’ve called me “boy”.

  My smile was intrepid. “I told him what you told me.” I remembered because Mr Bagley had repeated it three times. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know how this could have happened. I’ll change it right away.”

  He spelled out the name of the whisky he wanted so I wouldn’t get it wrong. “You got that?”

  Loretta would have snapped at him “I can spell, you know”, but all I said was, “Yes. I have it.”

  Mrs Bagley handed me her glass. “I’ll have another of these.”

  I was starting to feel pretty sorry for her. Even though I’d only known Mr Bagley for ten minutes, I figured no one could blame her for drinking. She really was a senseless victim.

  “And watch him pour it this time,” said Mr Bagley.

  The second time I went back to the bartender, he returned to the table with me and poured it in front of Mr Bagley.

  More people started coming inside so I was kept pretty busy showing them to their tables and stuff like that, but no one kept me busier than Mr Bagley. He was like a one-man rush hour when orders get mixed up or forgotten and every word you hear is a complaint.

  He sent back the cutlery. He sent back his water glass. He ordered a bottle of mineral water and sent that back. (There was no big mystery about which parent the bride took after. Chip off the old megalomaniac, or what?!) He couldn’t make it to the bar to get himself a drink but he was able to get up and tour the dining room, talking to people he knew and noticing anything and everything that was wrong (eat your heart out, Otis Schonblatt!), and making sure I knew about it. He went on for at least ten minutes about the ice sculpture. It was a beautiful, intricately carved swan, the space between its wings filled with flowers. Everybody except Mr Bagley and one other person loved the ice sculpture (so, amazingly enough, he had something in common with Loretta Reynolds!). Mr Bagley doesn’t like swans. Plus, he thought it looked cheap (it wasn’t, Mr Schonblatt told us all exactly how much it cost). Mrs Bagley, who was on her third cocktail by then, murmured that Gloriana chose the sculpture. Mr Bagley made a sound like the bathtub backing up because it’s clogged with hair. “Is that supposed to make me feel better, Adele? Gloriana has the taste of a salesgirl. Look at who she’s married.”