Chapter Two It’s a Boy/Girl! （Delete as Appropriate） #2
Eloise is standing over a rather scared-looking young man as he finishes off my coffee. She’s smiling at him in a very friendly manner, but I gather that’s what sharks do before they attack, so I can’t say I blame him for his anxieties.
I spot Conrad for the first time, standing with head chef, Pixie – who is to novelty food items what Eloise is to a high decibel level.
‘These look very good,’ Conrad tells her in his clipped German accent as he looks down at one of the platters Pixie and her team have prepared.
‘They do,’ agrees Pixie, who nods her head, setting her various piercings jangling.
Pixie is the perfect caterer for my clients. She has her own extensive social media following, and the kind of multi-coloured hair that is roundly approved of by the influencers of the world.
She also knows how to bake a marvellous Guatemalan polvorosa, and an equally tasty Latvian bubert.
Both of which are on the extensive menu I worked out with Pixie for today.
‘Coffeeeeeeeee!’ Eloise exclaims, using more vowels than is healthy for anyone with a grip on their sanity, and hands me a rather silky-looking flat white, which I take gratefully and have a long sip of.
‘Thank you so much,’ I tell her, and nod thankfully at Pixie’s teammate, who gives me a relieved look, and bustles back over to the far side of the kitchen – as far away as possible from the maniacal pregnant woman.
‘Everything is proceeding according to plan, yes?’ Conrad asks me in his Teutonic manner.
You’d think his more reserved demeanour would make him ill-suited to social media influencing, but his calmness acts in necessary counterpoint to his wife’s over-excitable personality.
It all works very well – if you’re into that sort of thing.
I nod, and have to resist the urge to snap off a salute. Conrad’s a good ten years younger than me, but demands respect. Probably something to do with being six foot four and having the kind of chin people write stories about – and possibly construct municipal building foundations from.
‘Yes. It’s all coming together nicely,’ I say, and instantly have to stifle another yawn.
Conrad’s brow furrows. ‘Are you okay, Charles?’
Nobody calls me Charles. But I let Conrad get away with it, because of that chin.
‘Yes, yes. Just a little tired, is all.’
‘Ooh!’ Eloise cries and puts her arms upon my shoulders. ‘You poor thing! We’ve made you do so much, haven’t we?’ She looks aghast.
‘I’m fine, El,’ I tell her. ‘More than happy to do whatever I can to make sure your special day goes off without a hitch.’
. . . just please remember to send a few posts out on the socials over what a good job I’ve done. And maybe speak a little quieter? Not much of what you’re saying is going in, because my brain is putting up a large defensive barrier.
‘Ooh! Thank you so much, Charlie! It means the world to us that you’ve done such an amazing job. He’ll be so pleased with everything!’
‘It’s my absolute pleasure,’ I reiterate, and take another much-needed sip of coffee.
On any other day, I’d be able to cope with Eloise’s enthusiasm with considered ease, but today is not that kind of day. Today is the kind of day that requires several more of these coffees, and some peace and quiet.
Just cope with it all for three hours.
Four at most.
‘Shall we go and take a proper look at the things we’ve set up outside in the garden?’ I ask my clients, affecting an enthusiastic expression. ‘I know we’ve been through it all a hundred times, but I want to make sure you’re happy with the placement of everything.’
‘Ah yes, that is a very good idea,’ Conrad says with a curt nod.
Eloise squeals, because of course she does.
Heading back through to the dining room, I see that Aisha and her team have vacated, leaving everything looking just right.
Excellent.
‘Here’s the cannon,’ I remark, when we step outside and walk up to it. ‘You’ll want to make sure you’re both standing on these white markers when it goes off.’
‘Will there be a lot of glitter?’ Conrad asks.
‘Oh, I do hope so!’ Eloise cries happily.
‘There is indeed a lot of glitter,’ I tell them confidently.
So much, in fact, that I’m going to make sure I’m as far away as possible when it goes off. I don’t think my brain can survive that loud a noise today. Or being covered in several million pieces of glittery pink paper.
. . . all of it 100 per cent biodegradable, of course. Eloise and Conrad may think nothing of racking up thousands of miles in business class, but present them with anything made of plastic and they have a collective apoplectic fit.
‘That’s wonderful!’ Eloise exclaims, and gives me another bone-crushing hug. How can anything this tiny be so bloody strong?
And oh, my God . . . her head is right by my left ear. If she says anything else at her usual volume, it’s likely to spark off that aneurism.
‘He’ll be absolutely amazed when he sees it!’ she says, obliterating my cochlea. ‘We will have plenty of people recording everything, won’t we?’ she continues, still right in my ear, but looking at her husband.
‘Of course. Four cameras, as agreed.’
I’m eternally grateful for the fact that Conrad is the one who’s organised that part of this morning’s entertainment.
Not having to wrangle a bunch of cameramen on top of everything else has been a great relief.
To my stress levels, if not my wallet. I wish I could have taken on that aspect of the event as well, because it would have bumped my pay up even more, but I just couldn’t cope with it.
By the time I’ve walked the two of them around the placement of the light display, it’s nearly 11 a.m. I let them go off to stand by their front door so they can welcome their guests.
I hang back – as I always do at these kinds of shindigs. I delight in organising them (usually), but I don’t want to be the centre of attention at them, ever. It’s not professional.
I grimace as I think back to the weird panic attack I had at Teddy’s birthday party a month ago. I certainly became the centre of bloody attention that day, didn’t I?
And ever since that day, it’s been rare for me to get anything more than six hours’ sleep a night at most.
My bloody humps, indeed.
Stop it.
You’re fine.
Just stressed with the amount of work you have on at the moment. Nothing else.
I drain the last of my flat white and breathe deeply.
Everything is okay. It’s just a question of sitting back and watching this party unfold . . . and then getting out of here as swiftly as possible, before Eloise has the chance to destroy my other cochlea, and render me completely deaf.
I hear that awful two-tone version of ‘Blank Space’ again, indicating that the first of the guests have indeed arrived. There’s a lot of screaming coming from all quarters, suggesting that these arrivals are the same level of extrovert as Eloise. How delightful.
I should have brought some earplugs.
I go and hide myself under a Japanese maple tree at one side of the garden, slightly away from the double doors, and hope that this will be enough to avoid having to do a meet and greet, along with being far enough away from the cannon for what remains of my ears to survive when it goes off.
This hidden position works to keep me away from the arriving guests.
Partially.
There’s a hairy moment about five or so minutes later, when a person of indeterminate sex, but very determinate woollen clothing, comes over to ask me if I’m the gardener.
This is a fair assumption to make, given how I’m trying to disappear behind the leaves of the Japanese maple as much as is humanly possible.
Mind you, from that kind of cursory assessment, I could also conclude that this person is a wool salesperson. They are covered in the stuff. Wool hat, wool coat, wool trousers, wool sandals and probably wool underpants. None of it is the same colour. And none of those colours are subtle.
I assume this person is some sort of wool influencer, if such a thing exists.
It probably does. You can be an influencer for anything these days. I saw one the other day advertising suppositories. Her toilet seat was covered in sequins.
Other than this one strange person, though, I manage to remain alone, and deeply unobtrusive – and thus am spared any more encounters with the increasingly bizarre series of human beings that are attending this gender-reveal party.
Eloise and Conrad’s little girl is going to have to grow up in an environment where keeping her feet on the ground is going to be about as impossible as if someone has tied a thousand helium balloons to her feet. Poor little thing.
Still, at least none of the flamboyant extrovert looneys are looking over at me. I’m far too dull and sensibly dressed to draw any attention. I look like what I am – one of the staff.
I brave a move into the kitchen twenty minutes into the party to secure myself another coffee.
My brain has taken on a hazy, dreamlike quality that is not commensurate with watching over an event you’re meant to be co-ordinating, and should be taking careful note of, to make sure that everything is going well.
Other than this one venture, I make no other moves for pretty much an entire hour, as the partygoers settle themselves in for the duration.
It’s only as we get closer to midday that Conrad comes over to me.
‘So, we are ready, I think, for the big moment,’ he tells me, indicating towards the three separate cameramen he has set up at various locations.
‘Excellent,’ I reply. ‘Well, as we discussed, then, all you and Eloise have to do is press the big red button next to the cannon, and everything is timed to go off at that moment. Once the initial surprise is over, you can move into the lounge to cut the cake, and the caterers will take that as their cue to start bringing the rest of the food out.’