“Now?”
“Now.”
“Do I get overtime?”
Mangorean rolls his eyes. He doesn’t seem to think that barging in on one of his employees half-naked necessitates an apology.
“Of course you’ll get overtime. You’re not gonna quibble over this with a man in desperate need, are you, Turner?”
“No,” I say in a small voice.
He makes to go and I make to pick up my maid’s uniform again, and then he turns. “Oh, one more thing, Turner. You’re required to be in costume. It’s one of those themed parties.”
“Costume?” I squeak.
4
I enter the ballroom through one of the back doors, feeling self-conscious. Elizabeth Turner, I tell myself sternly, you’re not going to go far holding your breath all the time this way. So breathe in and out and act natural.
But it’s difficult to be natural when you are wearing a skimpy Arabian harem costume. Yes, one complete with a diaphanous veil and gold threaded pantaloons and all. My bustier is a fake jewel-and- sequin studded number that must have taken a season to sew, so they are not skimping on the help’s costumes, you can be sure of that.
I have a fairly good body, though nothing spectacular. My br**sts – recently crushed against Mysterious Stranger’s well-muscled chest – are medium-sized. Thank goodness my abs are flat, even though I don’t technically have ‘abs’ in the physical fitness sense. My hips are just right. I would like to think my hips are the best part of me.
I think what I’m trying to say is that I carry the harem costume fairly well . . . in the sense that I won’t send anyone in the ballroom running and screaming for the exit.
The ballroom is decorated with dazzling swaths of purple and vermillion cloth on the walls and all the way up to the ceiling – the effect is to evoke a pleasure tent, I suppose. The tablecloths are all decked in similar fashion.
I’m carrying a tray of canapés and circling around the guests, who are all dressed in gorgeous designer gowns I will never be able to afford on three years’ salary. It’s like an Oscar party, only the guests are not as TV beautiful. The guest of honor has not arrived yet, and I think it says on the invitation card that all the other guests have to arrive well before the man who is currently occupying the Presidential suite.
“Hello, little lady,” says a man with a Texan drawl as he filches a canapé off my tray. He tries to pat my rump, but I dart away in time. “Not very friendly, are you?”
“Please, sir, I’m just here to do my work.”
I vanish behind a trio of matronly ladies who resemble the Queen of England. (Yes, all three of them are probably sisters. To each other. Not the Queen.)
A chorus of trumpets sound. How quaint. I didn’t think they did that anymore. The guests all troop excitedly to the sides to line the red carpet that divides the center of the ballroom. We waitresses and maids who are doubling as waitresses stay well behind the lines.
The King of Moldovia arrives. He’s dressed in his state robes with more medals and pins than Colin Powell. I have since learned from Cassandra Pelicano that:
Moldovia is a city state in Southern Europe with a very historical monarchy and very abundant casinos.
I’m a doofus for not knowing that (OK, I have heard of Moldovia, but I haven’t necessarily registered it in my brain).
I’m a doofus for not knowing anything exists outside America. (Not true. I do know about Prince William and Kate.)
I can’t catch a glimpse of the King amid all those heads in front of me, and anyway, I’m not supposed to. I’m supposed to stand back with my tray with all the other servers and look demure. Or interested. Or attentive. Or all three.
The King goes down the ranks, greeting the guests. The men bow and the women curtsey. I didn’t know people still curtsied, and so I find that extremely amusing, like royalty is supposed to be a class above us. (I don’t think I would have made it in medieval times, I’m so egalitarian.)
Once the fanfare is over with, the guests disperse and we servers swarm to mingle with them. Tray after tray of canapés is emptied, and I’m tired of serving canapés after a while, and so I swap to a tray of champagne glasses. These require even more handling care, and so I have to weave my way very slowly though the guests.
Now and then, I catch a glimpse of the King, a handsome silver-haired man who is a cross between Jay Leno and Prince Philip, the English consort to the Queen. (Or maybe it’s because I’ve got royalty on my mind.) He seems very stern, forbidding and displeased about something. Or maybe that’s his usual expression.
I hear snatches of conversation amongst the guests:
“And where is – ?”
“Carousing, no doubt, what a disappointment.”
“Ssssh, he’ll hear you.”
“He’s no doubt thinking the same thing. Such a scandal that is causing.”
“It’s no scandal, darling. The young man isn’t even married!”
“Yes, but it’s due to be announced any time.”
“Where’s his wife, the Queen?”
“Back in Moldovia, I hear, in the summer palace.”
A commotion ripples through the throng of people near the entrance. Heads turn. Obviously someone new has entered. I’m preoccupied with balancing my champagne tray, especially since people have started to put their empty glasses back upon it, and so I don’t notice.
I go back and forth, replenishing my tray. When I return to the ballroom for the tenth time, an extremely beautiful woman sweeps down my path, stopping me in my tracks. She doesn’t acknowledge me, of course. I can’t help noticing the red ringlets that run down her bared back and the gorgeous green gown she wears. Large emerald earrings the size of pigeon eggs droop from her earlobes, which are unfortunately not egg-shaped.
Ok. I’m being mean. But she’s so graceful and gorgeous and everything I’m not that I can’t totally dispel my pang of envy.
She makes a beeline for a crowd of people. Or rather, someone within the crowd, seeing as they part for her to enter.
“Darling,” I hear her gush.
The gowns swirl to reveal her target. And I almost drop the tray of fluted glasses.
There he is. My Gorgeous Stranger.
He’s wearing a white tuxedo, and he’s so handsome that I positively have to grab on to the tray for fear of smashing it onto the floor. The beautiful woman goes up and gives him a kiss. Or at least, she attempts to kiss him on the lips, but he averts her mouth in time. She catches him on the cheek instead and leaves her red imprint.