Chapter 31 Margot
Chapter 31
Margot
There must be about a hundred faces in our house this afternoon, and at least a third are Frankie’s pals. The rest are their parents, and neighbours I invited to make up the numbers. Every one of Nicu’s famous friends that I asked him to invite apparently had prior engagements. How convenient.
I follow the photographer around the lounge, and at my request, he’s currently shooting the grey and yellow balloons arched over the patio doors. They were the party planner’s idea, not mine, but they complement my decor, and when people tell me how great they look, I accept their praise.
If I’m not mistaken, Frankie looks in danger of enjoying being the centre of attention. She treated me with suspicion when I first suggested celebrating her thirteenth birthday with a party. I told her that she could have a say on who was invited, along with a theme if she wanted it, plus she could pick the cake we’d have made for her. Gradually, she warmed to the idea.
However, I failed to mention that I invited Yeah! magazine to cover it until two days ago, and it was too late for her to cancel it. Most guests have signed waivers allowing their images to be used in the magazine. I sent on their merry way those who refused. My party, my rules.
First thing this morning, we were assembled by a team of hair and make-up stylists while the photographer, his assistant and a party planner – a fatberg who’s clearly spent at least as much time hoovering up buffets as organising them – scanned the house and set up lighting rigs. I think it confused Frankie when I let her choose her own outfit.
Later, the photographer had us living a life so far removed from our own that I barely recognised us. We were pictured playing croquet in the garden (the magazine’s team brought its own set – we don’t live in Bridgerton); sitting at the kitchen table eating elaborately decorated pastries (the magazine had them delivered) while Frankie opened presents (the magazine bought and wrapped them).
Everyone has been in such good spirits that I’ve forgotten this house is so often like a battlefield. Today it doesn’t feel like me versus them. We feel like, dare I say it, a family. It stirs up something inside me that I can’t place.
When the journalist arrives a little later, she asks my opinion on the reunion of the Party Hard Posse. I don’t tell her that I’ve blocked the band’s name from appearing on my Google timeline or that I had no knowledge of being invited to the comeback tour.
‘That was a lifetime ago,’ I tell her. ‘If they’re happy reliving the past and surfing the nostalgia wave, then I wish them all the best.’
It wasn’t until I discovered their invitation in my deleted emails that I believed it had ever been sent. I don’t know for how long I must have stared at it. My reply in the sent box told them in no uncertain terms that I wanted nothing to do with it. It was mailed at 1.30 a.m., which suggests I was so drunk that I didn’t know what I was doing. The fact I couldn’t – and still can’t – recollect something so important frightens the hell out of me. So do the things that keep moving around the house, like books, ornaments, wine bottles, etcetera. I want to blame alcohol, so I’ve cut down a lot lately. I decided a drop won’t pass my lips before the clock passes 11 a.m. Now I think I might have to push it back even further.
Anna is here and so is Drew. I see him so rarely these days that I’ve begun to wonder if he’s electronically tagged and on house arrest. Often, his clothes are ill-fitting, his hair messy. It’s as if Anna has drawn him with her left hand. But this afternoon, he’s reasonably well presented. In the right hands, with the right grooming regimen, hairstylist and personal trainer, he might pass as human.
I kiss Anna on both cheeks – the second one never fails to catch her unawares – and then Drew. I catch a whiff of his aftershave. It’s actually pleasant.
‘Drew,’ I say, trying to imagine him with a personality. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘And you,’ he replies, and takes a large swig from his bottle of beer.
‘And how’s the ...’ I hesitate as I try and remember what on earth he does for a living. ‘The postal business?’
‘Haulage,’ he corrects, and starts twisting and turning his silver wedding ring. My attention is drawn to that awful tattoo of a lion on his hand.
‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘Haulage.’
‘It’s good, thanks.’
And that’s the extent of our conversation. We literally have nothing else to say to one another.
I spy Liv in the kitchen, talking to Brandon, and he must know my eyes are upon him because he looks at me directly. I turn away, making myself appear busy with my phone. I realise I have left the wrong SIM card in here and curse myself. I need to be more careful, because in the wrong hands, it could get me into a lot of trouble.
I haven’t seen Liv much in the last few weeks, as she’s been too busy with her wellness cult headquarters to socialise with us commoners. But she was one of the first names on my invitation list. I want her to know she’s not the only one who can throw a lavish party. And I want her to realise I’m a progressive parent who puts her child’s welfare before her own. It might not be strictly true, but she doesn’t need to know that.
I beckon Nicu over and we make our way towards the party planner, who is pouring champagne into glasses in readiness for the toast. The make-up artist gives our faces a little touch-up with an array of brushes in preparation for my speech.
‘This is a really kind thing for you to do,’ says Nicu as he gently squeezes my hand.
His affection flusters me before I relax into it. Sometimes I forget how much I miss his touch.
I tap my champagne glass with a spoon to get the room’s attention. Frankie and Tommy are standing between Nicu and me, and I fleetingly recall how much I once enjoyed commanding an audience. I clear my throat.
‘Thank you all for coming here today to help celebrate Frankie’s special day,’ I begin. ‘I remember how special turning thirteen was and how, soon, I would have the world at my feet when fame came calling.’ I look to Frankie. ‘And while not all of us are destined for great things, I nevertheless wanted to take this opportunity to say how proud we all are of the person Frankie is becoming. And we also wanted to celebrate the arrival of their teens with a special announcement.’
My family turns to me, their faces the same shape of puzzled, and then to the patio doors opening behind us. The party planner brings with her a large white helium balloon and hands it to Frankie.
‘What’s this?’ she asks as she takes it.
I continue addressing my audience.
‘Nicu and I support our children with all decisions they make for themselves. And today we want to take this opportunity to share with you, our closest friends, something important. Not only is this a birthday party, it’s also a gender reveal party!’
The room goes quieter than I’d expected. I press on.
‘Margot,’ says Frankie in a tight voice, her face reddening. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Our beautiful daughter has decided that she no longer wants to be identified by the sex she was born,’ I tell everyone, ‘which of course Nicu and I completely respect.’
I catch a quick glimpse of Liv, obviously uncomfortable that I’m the one who has everyone’s attention and not her. Then I remove a safety pin from my pocket, unhook it and use it to pop the balloon. Frankie is showered in yellow, white, purple and black confetti.
She’s perplexed.
‘It’s your flag!’ I enthuse. ‘Yellow is for people who identify outside the gender binary, white is for those who identify as all genders, purple is for male and female genders, and black is for agender. See?’
I smile broadly, but it’s only when the camera illuminates Frankie’s face that I see light reflected in her tears.
Have I done something wrong?