Prince Charming Joins the Scrum
Being a journalist, I have a bit more flexibility about how I dress, which in my case means that I have three choices: the dress I wore as a bridesmaid for my aunt Josephine’s wedding, the pant suit I wore for my Master’s Degree ceremony or my only little black dress, which I got from a Jil Sander clearance sale and only wore once, for my cousin Brenda’s hen party. The first one is the colour of wisteria, so absolutely not suitable for this kind of worldly event, while the pant suit is so tight I can barely breathe in it. For these reasons, I was going to wear my little black dress. I didn’t have any proper shoes to wear with it, though. I actually don’t have any elegant shoes at all, either with or without a heel, so I was forced to put on the combat boots I used to wear back when I was in college, as they’re the only pair of shoes I own that might, if you’re drunk, pass as a pair of stylish boots. To be honest, I also have some problems with the neckline of the dress, as I didn’t remember it being so low… Anyway, I’m sure nobody will even notice that I’m there. It’s the way it always goes: people who attend an event for work go undetected. With that in mind, thinking that I’m going to be spending the evening unseen and hidden among the conference room’s microphones, I decide not to give in and change into a pair of jeans and I stick with my rhinestones and stockings instead.
I start regretting my choice the moment I enter the front door of the hotel – the moment I discover there wouldn’t be any conference room, any official statement for the press or any microphones for me to hide behind. Stepping into the lobby, I find myself in an episode from Dynasty where everyone, even the bellboys, are covered in gems.
“Excuse me,” I say, asking a couple of them for some information. “I am Sam Preston, from The Chronicle, this is my pass,” I say, pointing to the badge I have pinned to the neckline of my dress. One of them stops and looks at it, but doesn’t seem to understand what I’m asking. “Do you know where the other journalists are?” I ask him. “Are they down there?” I continue, indicating the stairs. He just shrugs and walks away. I try again with a girl in uniform. “Excuse me,” I say with an embarrassed smile, “do you know where the press conference is? I’m from The Chronicle.”
“I don’t know, you could try asking at reception.”
“Sure, why didn’t I think of that…”
I follow her advice and go over to the reception desk.
“Good evening,” I say, pushing past a guest and coughing to try and catch the receptionist’s attention.
“Hm?” The receptionist wrinkles his nose and looks me up and down suspiciously. “How can I help you?”
“Er, well…” I stammer, trying to focus. I’m worried because if the press conference has finished I won’t have a job at The Chronicle tomorrow. “My name is Sam Preston.”
“Preston… Preston… Preston…” The man checks in his guestbook and doesn’t appear surprised by what he discovers. “I’m sorry, I don’t see any reservation for a Miss Preston,” he explains, giving me a superior glare. “We’re hosting an event this week, and I’m sorry but we don’t have any vacancies left. I think there’s a hostel, though, at the end of the road.”
“No…” I say, forcing a laugh through gritted teeth. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I don’t want to book a room – I don’t think my health insurance would cover me if I sold a kidney…” He seems absolutely unamused by my joke, so I decide to start again in a less informal way. “I am not looking for a room, I’m with The Chronicle.” Nothing, he still doesn’t react, but starts observing me as if I was an exotic animal. “The newspaper…” I try to explain. “I’m a correspondent for The Chronicle newspaper? I’m here to attend the Beautiful Curvy event, the pageant.”
The stuffy man in his tailcoat finally seems to get it. He adjusts his bow tie and points me to the stairs at the back of the hall – that is, the same direction as the door I entered from. “In that case, you should go that way. But I’m afraid you’re terribly late, the conference started at seven.”
“Are you kidding me? I didn’t know anything about that. I mean… that’s not possible. Come on, I’m here for The Chronicle, how come nobody told me?” I ask in irritation. “I even have a pass,” I continue, indicating my badge, as if it meant something.
“I’m sorry, but I will have to ask you to leave the building. Mr Graham doesn’t want any journalists to attend the event. Only guests, staff and contestants are to be admitted,” he specifies with his hand over a black folder with a golden ribbon. “I was given the list of guests just this morning,” he says, tapping the folder with his finger, a gesture which makes me realise that the list is inside the folder.
“And… are you really sure that there’s no Preston on the list?” I ask. “Samantha Preston to be precise.”
“I am sure.”
“Absolutely?”
“Absolutely.”
Great, I just lost my article. My first article for The Chronicle. I told everyone that I was sure I could handle it, and now I can’t even convince them to let me in. I can already imagine Dave yelling at me when I tell him…
“Look…” This is my last option; I put my hands in my hair and take a deep breath. “You have to understand me, I can’t go away empty handed. Are you sure that there is nothing you can do to help me? We are talking about The Chronicle, after all – there must be a way for me to get in. I’ll do anything!”
“Miss Preston—” he says in a vain attempt to stop me, but I cut him off and before he’s even managed to finish pronouncing my name I take hold of his hand and stare at him with imploring eyes.
“Please, hear me out. I’ve been waiting for this moment for three whole years and I cannot screw up now. If I don’t deliver an article by tomorrow morning, my career as a journalist is over and I’ll end up writing obituaries with Nicholas, and you have no idea how unbearable that guy can be. I promise… I swear to you,” I add, still holding his hand, “that nobody will notice me. I will sit quietly in a corner. Five minutes will be enough. Can you please make an exception and let me in for just five minutes?” I say, trying to move him to pity with my desperation. “You look like a very…” – Nasty. Arrogant. Snobby. Unpleasant little man wearing a tailcoat – “… understanding person,” I say, trying not to offend him, adding, almost in tears, “Please don’t send me away without even a photograph of the stage. They will fire me, please… I have a cat and a goldfish to feed, what’s going to happen if I don’t take any food home? Please, do it for Samson!”
“And who might this ‘Samson’ individual be?” he asks, starting to lose his temper.
“My cat!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” he explodes. “Security!” he practically shouts. “Security!”
“Hey, come on,” I say, realising with fear that I’ve gone too far. “Don’t over react, please, come on.” Seeing how worried I look seems to work: he snorts and, though he obviously doesn’t want to stop shouting, for some reason he does.
“Very well then, but please stop telling me about all your stupid problems. The conference is over and I am not allowed to let you in, because there’s a private party on now. If you don’t leave the building immediately, I will have to call the police.”
So that’s the end of it, then. Do you know why I wasn’t able to get him on my side? Because I’m not Madeleine Hunt. One glance, one diva-esque smirk from her would be enough to open any door. But not for me. When it comes to me, everybody is very careful to obey all the rules. I can never get anyone to make an exception for me, I’ve never even been able to get a traffic cop to tear up a speeding fine for me. All those things that seem so easy for any other woman are just impossible for me. Why?
“Don’t worry, Rod,” a very deep voice says. “Miss Preston can stay.”
Intrigued by that voice, I turn to look at its owner and find myself staring at the perfect fusion of a professional rugby player and God himself – yes, I did say God. A wholly successful blend of the two personalities, with a hint of Hollywood about the hair. Because he has a very modern hairdo indeed: layered and very bright red. I’ve never seen such a bright red before. It can’t be natural, so I’m guessing it must be dye, but I can assure you that the colour suits him perfectly.
“Oh… I wasn’t expecting to see you before…” stammers Rod, almost as astonished as I am at the sight of the guy, but for a completely different reason. “But, about Miss Preston,” he stutters, while opening his black folder to show him the list to justify his decision not to admit me to the event.
“Don’t worry, it’s fine. You can consider Miss Preston my personal guest,” he says, solving the problem in an instant without the slightest hint of arrogance. He’s so incredibly charming, handsome and charismatic that not even Rod manages any backchat.
“I will take care of it personally,” he says, jotting down my details and then telling a bellboy to inform security of my arrival, while my guardian angel nods and looks at me with an amused expression. He ponders me for a few moments and then says, “I’m delighted to have you here, Samantha. Do you think you can bear spending a couple of hours of high heels and bon ton with us?”
“I… am sure I can,” I stammer. “I… thank you. Thanks a lot.” I lower my eyes. “We should have known about the schedule, I’m sorry. That was unforgivable.”
“And how do you know that?” he asks.
I don’t know what to say. “What do you mean?”
“How do you know if you’re unforgivable? You haven’t even tried to make us forgive you yet,” he replies with a wink.
“Oh…” I say, blushing and hiding my face with a hand. My gesture seems to capture his attention, and he decides to put off whatever he was planning to do to spend some more time with me at reception, never breaking eye contact and with an intense expression on his face.
He looks at me for a few moments, immersed in his thoughts, then asks casually, “Have you ever thought of taking part in the contest?”
I’m speechless – that is not something I was expecting him to ask.
“The… the contest? You mean Beautiful Curvy?” I say, trying to understand. “Oh, no, of course not.” I burst out laughing. “I’m… I’m not…”
“Aren’t you interested in it?”
Yeah, right – that’s the problem.
“It’s not that…”
“What then?”
“I don’t think I have what it takes…”
“Well, from what I can see, you have everything it takes.”
“Wh – what do you mean?” I ask, my eyes wide open, realising that he’s actually interested in me and, for once, not because I’m willing to work on Christmas Day.
“I mean, your face is very interesting,” he says. “I think your face is very interesting.”
“Er, you do?” I ask incredulously. “Well anyway, the selection process is already closed, so I guess the world will have to wait for…” I indicate myself, “… all this.”
“If it were still open, would you enrol?” he asks, visibly curious.
“Who knows? I would probably think about it,” I lie shamelessly, hoping to appear less boring than I actually am. “But anyway, it’s too late now,” I say, more for my own benefit than for his. “I guess I’ll have to wait for the next competition. It might be an exciting experience.”
“That’s a real shame,” he mumbles, sounding sad. “I’m sure the world would have very much appreciated…” he says, while observing me without any embarrassment “… all this,” he concludes with a hint of mischievousness. He then leaves, saying, “Have a nice evening, Miss Preston. I hope you enjoy it.”
I stand there frozen beside the guest book until he disappears up the stairs, hoping that I will have another chance to meet him again, possibly when I’ve been reincarnated as a Brazilian model.
*
“Can I bring you a drink?” a waiter asks me. I didn’t want to bother anyone, so I found myself a little corner near the bar to spend the evening in. I’m far enough from the stage and the dance floor, but sufficiently close to the buffet, which allows me to overhear other people’s conversations undisturbed.
“Yes, a vodka please.”
He looks surprised. “Of course.”
“And straight, please!” I add as he’s going to get it.
I’m no expert, but I get the feeling that this is a hell of a party – everybody here looks like they’re in seventh heaven! The organisers, musicians and presenters alternate on the stage, but everybody is still waiting for the man behind the event, Adam Graham. I don’t even know if he’s here, but since he’s famous for being an eccentric kind of guy, I wouldn’t be surprised to see him arriving just at the end of the evening, maybe drunk and wearing a pinstriped suit and a pair of sunglasses.
“Your drink,” says the waiter, giving me my glass.
“Thank you,” I reply, taking it and noticing that it’s full to the brim.
“Strange choice,” someone comments, but I don’t pay any attention. He must have thought that I was an actual guest, and I don’t really want to disappoint him. I would actually quite like to be mistaken for some snooty, shamelessly rich heiress for once in my life, if only for one night. I’d like someone to think I’m just like any of those glittering girls dancing at this party. It’s a stupid idea, I know. I smile to myself and tip my head back, knocking back the contents of the glass in one gulp. Unfortunately, I realise pretty much immediately that I have overestimated my ability to handle spirits… I don’t even know why I did it. Had I read somewhere that it was supposed to be the proper way to drink vodka, maybe? Anyway, I soon discover that it’s one of those things you can do only after years of practice, and then only with your cardiologist’s approval, because as soon as I swallow the vodka, I start coughing my lungs out. I cover my face, but when I finally stop coughing, my face is as red as the curtains, though less velvety.
“Why are you drinking vodka?” says the same voice, annoyingly.
“Because I’m on a diet,” I reply harshly, wiping my lips with a tissue.
“What?” The voice bursts out laughing.
He’s really getting on my nerves, so I turn round to tell him to take a hike and go bother somebody else with his irritating questions, but then I realise I’m talking to the rugby player I met earlier. He’s looking at me calmly, holding a glass of champagne and leaning on the bar.
“Oh, you’re the gentleman I met before.”
“Yep, I guess that would be me,” he confirms with a sly smile.
“Sorry then.”
“About what?”
“I was about to say something rude.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, thank God – I saw who you were before I opened my mouth.”
“Did I bother you?” he asks, seemingly surprised by my reaction.
“Of course not! If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t even be here now,” I reply, indicating the hall.
“Well, that’s true enough,” he says. “So, are you enjoying the party?”
“Yes, it’s amazing,” I reply enthusiastically. “I’ve never been to a gala before.”
“How come?”
“Well… I’ve just never been invited, I guess. I usually hang out with… a different kind of people.”
“Different how?”
“Different in what they do, I guess… My friends are the kind of people who like bars, you know. Beer with a head on it, burnt steak and fries, all that good stuff.”
“I like that too.”
“You mean you like people who hang out in bars?”
“No,” he says, restraining a laugh and looking me in the eye. “No, I mean I like steak and fries.”
“Do you like them burnt?”
“They’re my favourite,” he confirms, closing his eyes.
“I would have thought you’d be the type for caviar or something.”
“Really?”
“Or oysters. I can picture you dressed in a fancy suit, holding a slimy oyster while singing the praises of some vintage wine,” I say. I’m not quite sure why I’m teasing him or why this is happening, but I am not feeling the oppressive embarrassment I usually feel. I don’t know whether it’s because of the vodka I just downed, or his relaxed attitude while talking to me or because the whole thing just seems too absurd. I mean, we’re surrounded by countless gorgeous women, but he’s still talking to me. Just me, Sam Preston. Sam ‘You shall go to the ball, Cinderella’ Preston. While he is… wow, an erotic fantasy that I don’t even know the name for just popped into my head. Names… Names!
“So what’s your name?” I ask, to break the ice.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. Maybe I was too direct.
“You can call me Al,” he says, after considering his answer for a couple of seconds.
Phew, I was afraid I might have offended him. I had already imagined him running back over to Rod to tell him to put me on the Ritz’s blacklist.
“Nice to meet you, Al,” I say, holding out a hand, “my name is Sam.”
He observes it and then takes it gently in his. “Nice to meet you, Sam,” he says with a smile.
Our eyes meet and my knees start to go weak. Men don’t often look at me the way he’s looking at me now, and I can’t help but blush. In my life I’ve only ever been able to dream about men like this, probably while reading Pride and Prejudice by the fireplace tucked up under a blanket, so I wasn’t really expecting to be flirting with one in the ballroom of the most expensive hotel in town, wearing a dress I bought in the sale and a pair of combat boots.
God! I suddenly remember what I’m wearing and feel hugely embarrassed… Has he noticed my footwear? The thought makes me wince, and I struggle to look him in the eye.
“I… I should go now,” I say, putting down my glass in visible discomfort and starting to move away.
“Did I say something wrong?” He asks anxiously before I can run away.
“No, of course not…”
“Well, it sure looks that way,” he replies with a frown.
“Trust me, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just got all the notes and pictures I needed to take, so my job here is done,” I explain, “and I don’t want to bother you any longer.”
“You’re not bothering me at all,” he replies so seriously that I’m left speechless.
“Look, to tell the truth, I’m feeling a bit uncomfortable.” The words come out before I can stop them. Being so close to him is really having a weird effect on my behaviour. Part of me feels like I’ve already known him for long enough to relax and open myself up to him, but the truth is that the only thing I know about this man is his name, Al. Is this Al actually able to destroy the emotional wall I’ve built over the years to protect me from getting hurt by guys?
“In that case I’ve failed miserably, then,” he whispers sadly. “I was really hoping to get to know you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He thinks about his answer. “How honest can I be?”
“Totally. You can be 100 per cent honest. Don’t worry about my self-esteem, I can take it.”
“Hmm… Okay. My idea was to feign some interest in your job in the hope of getting a date with you in the next few days. For full disclosure, I should add that I’d prefer to just take you in my arms and go to my suite upstairs, where I could tear off the lovely dress you’re wearing and see what it’s so desperately trying to contain.”
I’m speechless.
“Yes,” he continues, answering my unspoken request for some explanation. “Yes, I know – consensual relationships, sexual equality and all that feminist propaganda stuff,” he snorts. “I was born in the wrong period of history, I would have loved the Middle Ages.” He looks out over the crowd with a serious expression on his face. “But then, on the other hand, I’d never have survived without laundromats, and that’s why I decided to be born in the twenty-first century.”
I’m still standing there like a wax statue, doing my best to breathe. I haven’t moved a muscle.
“I was just kidding,” he whispers.
“Oh, I see…” I am in total shock. “Right, cool. Okay, very funny. That was hilarious, really,” I say, without even trying to hide my irritation. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going. Thanks again for the photos,” I say, before fleeing the scene, leaving him standing dumbfounded by the bar.
On his face there is one question clear for all to see: why? But that’s not really my problem. I’m sure he’ll find someone else to annoy. I have already put up with enough weirdness from strangers for one day, and all I want to do now is get back to my bedroom and start planning my revenge against highlights, zebra-striped thongs and Beyoncé.
I walk across the lobby to the cloakroom, where a girl wearing a pant suit holds out my duster coat for me between lacquered nails. I snatch it from her and a few steps later I’m outside in the dark. Peering into the night, I try to identify a taxi amongst the car headlights that streak past, and I lift my arm when I see one, but another hand takes mine and lowers it, forcing me to turn round and see who it is. To my surprise, it’s him again – the red-haired rugby player. This time he’s looking a bit less cheerful, though.
“Why did you leave?”
“Are you actually asking me why I left?”
He nods. “Exactly – so why?” he repeats, looking straight into my eyes.
“Well, take a guess.”
“I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t know,” he admits. “If I did something wrong, you could at least tell me what it is, instead of just walking off without saying a word.”
“Are you kidding?” I burst out. “Really, don’t you have anything better to do?” He still doesn’t understand why I’m annoyed. “Do you think I like being made fun of by random handsome guys?”
“When did I make fun of you?” he asks, sounding almost angry.
“You want me to give you a list?”
He doesn’t react.
“For starters, insulting my intelligence with your dumb lies about my dress and then running me through your unrealistic intentions didn’t really do much for our conversation, buster.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Are you for real?” I’m starting to lose my temper. “Listen, it’s been a long day, I can hardly feel my legs any more and I already know this taxi ride is going to cost me half of my salary. I’m not really in the mood for fooling around, so let’s just say goodbye.”
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” he protests.
“You don’t?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head and moving closer. He puts his hands in his pockets. I try to keep my distance, as his being so close makes me uncomfortable, but I back into a lamp post and it hurts.
“Will you tell me what you want from me?” I ask in exasperation.
“I already told you,” he replies, clearly trying not to laugh at me.
“Again? Come on, cut it out.”
“You told me I could be honest.”
“Yes, but you said you were joking.”
“Not about everything,” he says, moving closer again.
The sudden intimacy confuses me. I wasn’t prepared for this and I don’t know what I should do. I don’t even know who the hell this guy is. Come on, why would anyone with half a brain be hanging out at night with a gorgeous red-haired hunk named Al, especially when he’s already told her he’d like to drag her off to his suite at the Ritz? Err… what was I saying? I got confused after I got to ‘gorgeous red-haired hunk named Al’. What was the question again?
“Listen, Al, it’d be better if you went back inside.”
“Don’t you like me?”
“I don’t even know you!”
“Oh, is that the problem? I can assure you that I’m a very nice guy,” he says, putting his hand on his chest to underline his words. “I’m not pushy, I never kill anyone on Fridays and I can promise I have the most perverse and lustful intentions about everything I can see, from here,” he says while touching my lips, “to here,” he continues, sliding his finger downwards until it reaches the neckline of my dress, which he caresses. “For the first part of the evening, at least.”
He stares at me, but this time he doesn’t look sarcastic at all, and his expression is absolutely serious.
“Ok, you’re crazy,” I decide. It’s the only explanation I can think of. “And I must be even crazier for allowing this to go on,” I add, annoyed, brushing his hand off my dress.
“Why are you reacting like this?”
“Taxi! Taxi!” I shout desperately.
“Sam… Sam, wait,” Al says, taking my hand. “Don’t go away,” he mumbles, pulling me towards him. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I actually just wanted to get to know you, honestly,” he confesses, looking embarrassed. “But you looked so cute with your eyes wide open like a baby seal that I couldn’t resist.”
“Cute? Me?” I burst out laughing. “Hold on, are you trying to tell me you’re actually not making fun of me?”
“Why would I make fun of you?”
“Err, have you taken a good look at me?” I ask sarcastically.
“That’s all I’ve been doing since I saw you in reception.”
I admit that his confession touches me. I can’t think rationally any more so I nod while I try to pull myself back together. When I feel I can think straight again, I whisper, “I’m not your type.”
“And what would my type be?”
“Those other girls…” I say, gesturing to the entrance of the hotel. “One of those girls in there. So cool, so flawless… The perfect ones. Like you,” I sigh. “Super thin, super pretty…”
“I don’t like that type of woman.”
“Sure you don’t…”
“I’m serious,” he says, trying to convince me.
“You mean you like ugly women?”
“I mean I like you,” he says, touching my hair.
“Me? A beached whale?”
“You don’t look like a beached whale to me.”
“And I’m in love with someone else.”
“Where is he now?”
Good question.
“Err…”
“I’ve been wondering how they taste for the whole evening.”
“What?” I ask stupidly.
“These,” he says. And he kisses me.