Page 10 of Mr Best Friend's Brother Grump

I hadn’t seen Nathan for a couple of days. I wondered if he would be here tonight. We hardly saw each other at the apartment and when we did, either he was leaving or I was. We passed each other in the kitchen and said hi or bye. There was no conversation unless it was a conventional pleasantry.

My focus was finding a new home. Kendra was still housebound, so I went out exploring the city by myself. I had signed up on a few rental property sites and met with agents to view prospective apartments. The range and standard of ‘inhabitable’ was loose and free from set guidelines, I was learning.

As I help unpack the glassware and place bottles of bubbly wine in ice buckets, the thought of seeing Nathan causes a wave of excitement that makes it difficult to line up small bottles of mineral water in tidy rows. Kim tells me to help bring wrapped platters of tiny hors d'oeuvres from the truck. The DJ cranks up some drum ‘n’ bass beats. The floor is cleared. Boxes and crates are tucked away under the starched white tablecloth of the trestle table. Sebastian has changed into a plain dark blue shirt and is mentally composing himself to receive guests. The Poolside representatives arrive and shake hands with Sebastian. They seem pleased with what they see. All smiles and bonhomie congratulations on a job well done.

I’m relieved that Sebastian is too distracted to notice me. I certainly didn’t expect him to. He is a busy and important person. We only met that one day at the photo shoot and then briefly afterward at his office.

A group of sophisticated well-dressed people arrive. The women have salon-perfect hair and makeup. I try not to stare at their glamorous outfits with coordinated heels and bags. I circulate with my tray loaded up with Champagne flutes. One by one the tray is emptied, and I go back to reload at the refreshment table. Kim gives me an encouraging smile before I’m off circulating once again.

More guests arrive in twos and threes. Then a man enters alone. I stop and stand still. It’s Nathan. He’s wearing a khaki green flight jacket and jeans with Doc Marten boots, reminiscent of Tom Cruise in ‘Top Gun’. His camera bag is slung across his body. He is so handsome it takes my breath away. My tray wobbles and I almost lose the eight full glasses that teeter and clink together, before I breathe and steady myself. Get a grip, Rosa. You are here working, remember.

Kim didn’t notice my potential disaster, and glancing around, I don’t think anyone else did. Feeling more composed, I glide around the room without making eye contact. I’m doing my best to be on the opposite side of the room to Nathan. But then I accidentally look straight at him. He catches me and does a double take. And, oh no, he’s coming over. Waves of embarrassment are rising to my cheeks.

“Hey Rosa,” he says surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Hi Nathan,” I whisper, trying not to move my lips like a ventriloquist. “Ummm. Look. I’m working…,” I hiss as if I’m a spy. “… and I’m not meant to talk to anyone, okay.”

“Yeah, sure. I understand. No problem. I’m working too.” He walks away.

More people arrive and, from the way other people respond, I assume they are important in the world of fashion. Is that the editor of Vogue? And, gosh, could that be Cara Delevingne? Zoe Saldana? And some of the Kardashians? I try not to stare.

The DJ stops the music and introduces the host of the evening, Patti Driver, CEO of Poolside Exclusive Resort Wear. The crowd politely applauds.

“Welcome, and thanks for coming out to the sneak peek of this year’s fabulous Poolside Exclusive collection. The theme this year is, of course, Red, White, and Blue, celebrating the indomitable spirit of this great country, America.” She pauses here for more enthusiastic clapping. Someone whistles. Teary-eyed, she mentions the company’s commitment to quality and design, and how she has so many individuals to thank, it would be impossible in the limited time slot available, “So you people, just know you are one hundred and ten percent appreciated. Muah”. More noise of applause. “Don’t forget to pick up your goody bags from Javier by the door.” She waves at a young man who waves back. “Everyone gets a complimentary limited edition Poolside Exclusive designer scarf... So, without further ado, let’s start the show!”

The overhead lights dim, and spotlights shine down the podium runway. Music pumps out of the speaker stacks. Dry ice plumes atmospheric mist and a projected backdrop plays a loop of ocean waves and a scudding clouded sky. One by one, ten models enter the gallery space and strut onto the stage like living breathing red, white, and blue carnival bunting. They each pose, turn, flip their hair that streams out in front of the industrial-sized fan stationed off to one side. They strut some more then arrange themselves in a group against the shiny chrome pretend yacht railing underneath Nathan’s poster-size photos.

The crowd seems impressed and shows their appreciation by clapping, stomping, and whistling. A horde of photographers snaps away at the guests and the assembled models who are still posed on the podium. I notice Nathan who is photographing the photographers and the reaction of the guests. He moves with stealth and ease. And I’m off in the opposite direction, circulating with a platter of mini quiches using the loud, excited guests as a barrier. I’m avoiding Nathan on purpose. But then I turn, and I know that I am caught in his viewfinder. I hold my breath and Nathan slowly lowers his camera. Then I’m surrounded by people who help themselves to the contents of my platter. In a moment it’s empty apart from a sprinkling of crumbs.

The models form a line and prance off the catwalk and out of the gallery space to rapturous applause. The music changes and three drag queens climb onto the vacant stage. Two of them re-enact the seminal scene from Titanic, which causes the room to howl with laughter.

“Now that we have your attention,” one of the drag artists purrs into the microphone. Then she laughs and says, “Maestro. Hit it!” The intro to ‘I am what I am’ plays and the queens assume the start positions for their routine.

I want to watch the show, which is hilarious. I’m trying not to laugh. My platter is empty, so I make my way back to the refreshments table. Kim exchanges my empty plate for a chilled bottle of prosecco and a folded white linen napkin that I drape over my arm mimicking the other wait staff. I’m on the lookout for glasses that need refilling.

Halfway through the drag queens’ next song, ‘Native New Yorker, I notice the gallery doors open and the models come back in, this time they are in their own clothes. They mingle with the guests and receive hugs and kisses.

I’m standing beside an elegant older woman, wearing improbably high stilettos, who has handed me her glass to refill. I’m pouring out the bubbly wine, conscious of the effervescence racing to the rim, trying to control it with the angle of the pour, when someone knocks my elbow and a great whoosh of fizz explodes from the neck of the bottle and shoots over the glass, missing it completely, and causing the elegant woman to shriek with alarm. Horrified, I watch the splash of prosecco spread out a soaking, dark wet patch on the woman’s skirt.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasp almost in tears, using the white napkin to dab away the wetness. “Let me dry that for you.”

“No! Please don’t. It’s a Chanel, dahling, and it’s ruined!” The woman throws up her manicured hands.

I’m trembling with remorse and distress. The commotion has instantly drawn attention from the drag queen show on stage to my desperate, miserable mopping.

Fortunately for me, Kim is at the scene and intervening. “Ma’am. Please accept our deepest apologies. We are more than happy to compensate for any cleaning bills or garment replacements.” She gives me a nod and I seize my opportunity to remove myself from the excruciating situation.

Someone has been quick with a sponge to address the puddle on the floor and most eyes are now directed at the entertainment, once more. I head back to the refreshments table where I steady myself and take a breath. I am mortified by the experience and glance back to the spillage area where I notice Ingrid laughing with one of the other models.

“Just stick to the hors d'oeuvres, babe.” Kim is stoney-faced.

“I’m so sorry. It was an accident. Someone knocked my arm.”

“I know. It’s okay. It happens all the time. I’m on it. We’ll pick up the dry-cleaning tab. It’s fine. Now…” Kim smiles at me. “Take that tray. Put on your happy face and go circulate.” She winks.

Very carefully, I negotiate the tall groups of chatting fashion people, like an obstacle course, eyes down, trying to predict potential danger, balancing my tray on one hand. I turn a corner and there’s Nathan. He’s talking to Ingrid and the other model.

I try and backtrack away, but Ingrid exclaims, “Hey, isn’t that your assistant from the shoot, Nathan?”

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