It turns out that Thomas Davison is absolutely fucking
useless. Not only is he just the worst, but he also has plans and won’t be
available to attend a night of champagne and canapés with me, so I can pretend I
didn’t lie about having a boyfriend. Seriously, he’s just the worst. I’m also currently in an internal fight with Becca, but I
probably won’t ever mention it to her. I’ll just stay angry at her forever and
never tell her why. Or even that I’m angry. So she’ll be living in ignorant bliss forever, and never know how angry I am
with her. That’ll show her.
To make matters worse, Patrice and Mum got on far too well, which resulted in having to spend the day on Saturday inside of
Mum’s boutique, picking out clothes to wear to the event. I also received the
glorious information that Mum and Dad had also been invited and were, in fact,
attending. By the afternoon, I was so exhausted with them that I just accepted a
blue chiffon dress Mum shoved in front of me without a fight. It was a great
choice, obviously, since when I got home and put it on, it turned out to be about
three sizes too big and made me look like that girl who turns into a blueberry
inside of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Mum always seems to know the look I’m
going for.
That evening, I head towards The Dorchester and I’m
nervous beyond butterflies. I think it would be fair to say that my stomach
contains a crossbreed between flying cockroaches and tarantulas. It’s as
disgusting as it is inconvenient.
I pat down the blue chiffon with a glare and silently blame
it for my current situation of having to walk in alone. But on second thought, the
fault actually lies with stupid Thomas Davison, for sucking a big one, and also
Patrice, for getting tricked into showing up early to help Beverly welcome the
first guests in exchange for one extra sick day per year, provided it falls on
a bank holiday. So basically, he has to follow her around and act like he’s her
assistant so she can look important, and she’ll let him use one of his sick
days during a holiday.
I suppose I could have gone with Mum and Dad, but there’s no
way in Tartarus I was going to show up with Mum and Dad. I would rather walk in
wearing three of Mum’s fascinators stacked on top of each other and a feather
boa from Accessorize than walk in with Mum and Dad.
Once inside, I have to ask someone to point me in the
direction of Ballroom B (since obviously, I’m not an annual Dorchester club
card holder), and feel pretty confident I’m heading the right way when I catch
a glimpse of the couple to my right, heading in the same direction. My gut
reaction is to look away quickly, and I’m not sure whether it’s because I don’t
want to seem like I’m staring, or because of some societal standard that’s
subconsciously imprinted itself upon me, whispering that I am unworthy to look
upon them. Like a leper in the presence of Antony and Cleopatra, or something.
Because, wealth. They are Wealth. I feel like I can actually smell the bars of
solid gold that they bathed in this morning. They look like they might be the
Duke and Duchess of Mt. Olympus and eat their cereal out of diamond goblets.
Just kidding. I know dukes and duchesses don’t eat cereal.
They eat doves and drink phoenix tears.
Mum and Dad are going to love this. I bet they’re inside
already, grinning from ear to ear and rubbing their hands together like two
Disney villains. Or they’ve already caught up with the Valhalla gentry and are
explaining to them how Grace Kelly suggested to the Prince of Monaco that they
serve Bernier champagne at their eleventh wedding anniversary, and for about
one-tenth of a millisecond he actually considered the idea.
There are three giant men in black suits standing in front of
the ballroom doors, and then a short, skinny one with a clipboard. He’s got his
nose in the air but when Mr. and Mrs. Zeus approach, he lets them right in,
while showering them with gracious tidings and ass-kissing abundance. But, of
course, when I walk up, he officiously holds his hand up, and demands my name.
If only he knew how much I really don’t even want to be here. I mean, he's basically
Charon with his giant three-headed dog growling behind him, banning me entry to
the Underworld. You’d be doing me a fucking favour, man. No one wants to go to the Underworld. But with
no other choice, I give him my name and he begins flipping furiously through
the pages on his clipboard.
Meanwhile, a group of men come up behind me and I don’t even
see him look up as he says, ‘jackets are required, gentlemen. There’s a
cloakroom that way where the two of you without one can be fitted for a
rental.’ When he finally does look up, he says, ‘Miss Bernier, welcome,’ and
grants me entry to the world beyond.
Great. Thanks for fucking nothing.
I walk in and I’m immediately greeted by Patrice, who I can
tell would look worn out and miserable if it weren’t for the fact that he’s
wearing a bright purple suit with a black fedora and white gloves. I didn’t
even know Mum sold Michael Jackson costumes.
‘Great, you’re here,’ he says, pulling my arm.
‘You look like a magician,’ I tell him.
‘No, I look like David Bowie,’ he replies, matter-of-factly, ‘Come.
There’s a name tag table over there for people who want to wear a name tag. I
honestly figured most would skip it, for fear of putting a safety pin through
their Versace ball gowns, but you’d be bloody surprised. I guess super rich
people really want other super rich people to know who they are and why they’re
rich. Come, you’ll need to wear one.’
‘Why do I need to wear one?’ I ask as he drags me over to the
table.
‘Because if you don’t, I’ll have to stay by the door, and I’ve just about had it with that shit. I’m ready to mingle with my
fellow fabulosas.’
‘How long do you have to work by the door?’ I ask.
‘Just until 8,’ he says, ‘Bev says everyone should have shown
up by then. But still, I’ve been here since 6 which is just rude.’
I glance around at the guests, attempting to see who’s
arrived and who hasn’t.
Patrice is frowning. ‘David isn’t here yet,’ he says.
‘I wasn’t looking for David,’ I lie.
He crosses his arms. ‘Then who were you looking for?’
‘My parents, obviously,’
I say.
Then he points to my parents who are standing at the opposite
end of the name tag table. I’m honestly shocked because they don’t seem to have
champagne in their hands yet, and it seems almost unnatural that this wouldn’t
be their first priority upon walking into a new room of any kind.
As I look closer at them, I see that they have both also used
their name tags for self-promotion purposes. Dad’s written ‘Fernand’ at the top
in letters so small that they probably won’t even be noticed unless someone has
the Hubble telescope handy, and ‘BERNIER’ in giant black capitals. So basically,
his only name tonight is ‘Bernier.’ Like Madonna or Sting. Or Aladdin. Mum’s
gone the alternate route and written ‘Sybil’ in large, curly letters, followed
by an apostrophe ‘S’ in parentheses (and just so there is absolutely no
mistaking that, yes, she is THE Sybil of Sybil’s Boutique, she’s drawn a little
dress in the corner). ‘Bernier’ is carelessly added underneath.
As if this couldn’t be more embarrassing, I then see Mum
whisper something to Dad, pointing to his name tag, and his face lights up as
though to say, ‘ah, yes, Sybil, you’re quite right!’ Then he removes his name
tag, scribbles something else on it, and pins it back.
Oh, look at that. Now there’s a little picture of a wine
glass in the upper corner. Ah, yes Mum. GREAT idea.
I glance around the room again in an attempt to escape before
they notice me and officially identify me as their child.
That’s when I see them.
David and Abigail.
My heart plummets.
©Natalie Cawthorne
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