‘It sounds like you’re trying to make your name cool. And like, I get it, you didn’t call yourself Gertrude but I’m sorry, there just isn’t any way to make your name young and fresh so you may as well stick with what you have. Using your full name is at least dignified.’ She grabs my hand and leads me through to a room where staff are lined up waiting for thetwo makeup artists to get to them. Bee walks past the line and shoves me in front of them, hands on my shoulders.
‘This one next, please. She’s priority.’ With a flick of her hair she flounces to the centre of the room and I sit down in front of the hair stylist, who now hates me as much as my colleagues whose wait time just got extended.
Bee claps her hands together delicately to get the attention of the room. ‘Hi everyone! When you’re all done here, please make sure you head out into the main room for our staff briefing at five forty-five. Guests are arriving at six-thirty sharp, so we need to be ready!’ She directs a quick pointed glance at the makeup artists. ‘Once you’ve had your hair and makeup done, head over here and find your name on the racks for your uniform. Change rooms are just through there. Can’t wait to see you all!’ She bounces out of the room.
The makeup artist shows me the final look in the mirror as though I have any choice about it. ‘Thank you, looks great!’ I say, astonished by how much gel and blush can be applied to one person in such a short time. My hair has been forced into a smooth bun around one of those weird foam donut things, and on top of the crusty makeup I slapped on this morning I now have a different shade of foundation (that does not match my neck or any other part of me), blush and bright red lipstick (matte; it’ll dry out my lips but at least the blood seeping through the cracks will keep them red) accompanied by a quick smoky eye that reminds me why smoky eyes generally take a long time. I leave the chair to the next victim and go to find my uniform.
In the change rooms I find a horrified Nicole, and then find the horror to be contagious.
‘I think this might be a hate crime,’ Nicole says. She’s wearing a short black flapper-style dress with sheer black tights and flats, accompanied by two long strings of pearls and fingerless lace gloves.
‘At the very least it’s an OH&S violation,’ I reply, picking at the pearls on my own hanger.
‘Sex Discrimination Act?’
‘Oh, definitely.’
‘I could use this as a case study at uni! I think we’re doing IR law next semester.’
On the petite Nicole, the dress looks somewhat more modest; on me it looks obscene. From a certain angle guests and co-workers alike will be able to see down to my belly button, and I am completely vulnerable to a) the cold and b) every wandering eye in the joint. A piece of beaded fringe falls off onto the floor as I stand there and my stockings pull a ladder the moment I put them on. The gloves are going to make carrying a tray of drinks precarious at best, but there isn’t much I can do about it now. I take one last longing look at my jacket, tuck it away and steel myself for what is to come.
I am trying to lay out champagne glasses (sans gloves, thank you very much) on the bar without leaning over too far when Bee approaches. Black knee-length dress, French twist and red lipstick. The staff are basically cheap knock-off Bees. Aldi Bee. Bee No Sugar. ‘Oh my God, doesn’t this look amazing? They were sceptical when I pitched it to them, but I justknewit would come together! Way better than the James Bond theme they originally wanted.’
Shit. I would have been great as the fluffy cat that villain guy strokes evilly. Warm, anyway.
‘It’s fantastic, Bee. Really.’
She grins at me.
It is darker now. Dinner has come and gone; wine is just gone and the dancefloor is pumping. I have bruises on my ankles from the unsupportive ballet flats, and the bass pulsing through my entire body is making me jittery. The cream carpet is now a marbled grey. This event, like all of them, started off extremely respectful and dignified but the restraint ended the moment the formalities did.
Bee is still here, which is confusing. I saw her flitting effortlessly through the crowd well after nine o’clock, and who stays at work on a Saturday night when they aren’t getting paid? Being surrounded by hot people and free drinks probably has something to do with it, but it is weird that Bee is acting like it isn’t weird. I see her again just after eleven, leaving the dancefloor; she waves and goes over to the bar to get a glass of water.
From behind me: ‘Having a good night?’
I turn around to say something sarcastic to whichever co-worker it is, because none of us are having a good time, but it’s a guy in a navy suit and paisley tie. I look him up and down. From his build (average) he’s not a footballer, but he paid to have that suit tailored, and there isn’t much that is sexier than a man in a well-fitted suit. He has a nice head of thick dark hair that I have an inappropriate urge to run my fingers through—it flops to each side in a nineties-boy-band way, which is apparently a thing I’m into now. And he has kind eyes. Or at least,they don’t scream ‘loves to sexually harass the help’, which is why I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I smile—my real one, not my customer-service one. ‘Not too bad.’ Original. Interesting.
‘I love your pearls,’ he says, pointing at them like I don’t know where they are. Pointing at my tits, if I’m being ungenerous.
‘Thanks,’ I say, running them (the pearls, not my tits) between my fingers. ‘They’re the best dodgy work practices and drop shipping can provide.’ He laughs, eyes bright, no artifice. I might be fucked here. I hope so.
‘So, what brings you here?’ I ask.
He gasps. ‘You don’t recognise me?’
Oh shit, is he some VIP I was meant to be coddling all night?
He gestures at his body. ‘I’m an All-Australian full forward.’ Oh, it’s a joke. He’s funny.
‘Sorry,’ I say, fluttering my eyelashes for extra effect. ‘Truthfully I’m not much into the football.’
‘That must have made the formalities tonight a bit of a trial for you.’ Before I can say that money can make anything supremely interesting to me, a guest bumps into me as they pass, and I stumble. The strange, funny man catches me, his hands grasping my arms. We’re close enough that I can smell the beer on his breath, see the golden dots in the brown of his eyes. Those eyes flicker to my lips, so quickly I might have missed it if I weren’t just as shamelessly staring at him. We straighten up and he lets go. It feels reluctant. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
I have no idea what we were talking about before The Touch. ‘So, what brings you here?’ I ask.
He chuckles. ‘You already asked me that.’
