No, I think, but somehow “Sure,” comes out of my mouth. “Just let me make a call.” I’m sure Cameron will understand. Maybe not that I’m a total chicken shit, but I’ll know.
“You’ll have a white blouse?” she says, almost following me as I open the door to the courtyard. “And a black skirt?”
“Yeah.” My heart suddenly sinks. I’m truly giving up a night out with a cute guy to serve. What kind of dipshit am I?
“Idiot,” I mutter to myself, yanking my hair up into a high ponytail on the say-so of Mr McCain, who isn’t so cheery this minute but seriously stressed in his white gloves. It’s as hot as Hades in here, so he can’t be wearing them, and a jacket with tails, because he’s cold!
“You’ve done this before, aye?” he asks, eyeballing me as though to find fault in the skirt and shirt I’ve changed into. But, come on, I’ve even ironed them!
“Serving? Yeah.”
“For a formal dinner? Silver service?”
“No, but—”
He curses under his breath. “Silver service is an art form. And one I don’t have time to teach you tonight.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” I reply snippily. “I mean, it’s not like I have a college degree or anything.”
“It isn’t a case of intelligence but practise. So, serve from the left and clear from the right, right?”
“But—”
“Don’t engage the guests in conversation,” he says, barrelling on as he begins to recount a list of dos and don’ts (mostly don’ts), marking off the items against the palm of his left hand. “Do not touch the guests—”
“Not even to cop a feel?”
He glowers back at me but doesn’t miss a beat. “We do not stack plates when we clear. We move them over to the sideboard quietly and discreetly. Only the sherry glasses are removed. I'll tell you when. And we do not get excited when faced with a celebrity.”
“I’ve lived in London,” I retort indifferently. “You see celebrities there all the time.” An exaggeration? Yes. Though I did once think I saw Keira Knightly coming out of a Sansbury’s Metro grocery store. But I can’t believe I gave up an evening at the pub, an evening with Cameron, for this.
Note to self: run when someone next expects a favour.
“Stations, everyone,” Mr McCain calls out. “Guests will be gathering in the hall for cocktail hour shortly.”
I won’t be there because when I look down, I have a snag in my hose.
“Hurry!” Chrissy calls, beckoning me along the hallway, despite the fact that I’m doing just that as I hustle along the busy hallway, people I don’t recognise carrying trays of glasses and cartons of empty champagne bottles.
“I didn’t want to come down the main staircase,” I mutter, trying to untwist the tangled and uncomfortable waist of my hose. Hose put on in a hurry is not fun. “It took a lot longer to get here using the servant’s stairway.” It was neither the scenic route nor the quickest route.
“The back staircase,” Chrissy corrects, handing me a silver tray. “These are Scotch quail eggs with mustard seed chutney,” she says, pointing to the platter of tiny golden balls, each skewered with a cocktail stick. “And these are haggis bonbons with a whisky sauce. On ye’ go.”
“Wait. Which is which again?” Both balls are a very similar colour, and they both smell delicious.
“Does it matter?” she says with an exasperated shake of her head. “That lot out there won’t know the difference. Not after a champagne cocktail or three.”
I take a moment to remind myself that I gave up a night of cocktails of my own for this. Last time, I remind myself. Favours are for suckers.
“And don’t be eatin’ them,” she says, her reprimand accompanied by a slap on the back of my hand.
“Too late,” I mumble around a smile and the crispy morsel. “Oh, these are so good. Keep me some?”
“Go on with ye!” Hand on my shoulders, she propels me toward the door, pushing it open ahead of me.
I take a deep breath and centre myself before making my way sedately into the hall.
Glide. Smile. Don’t touch their butts, and don’t talk to them, I intone silently, coming alongside a trio of people on the edge of the room.
“I just loved the one you were in with Meryl Streep.”
I register the woman’s upper-class accent but not so much the words.
“Can I interest you in a haggis bonbon?” I interject, dipping the tray enticingly. Haggis bonbons. Get your haggis bonbons here!
“Thanks, but I think you might’ve confused me with David Schwimmer,” the man replies. Not to me, obviously, because I don’t know if David Schwimmer likes haggis bonbons. But as his words begin to sink in, I realise why he looks so familiar. “These look good,” he says, his gaze dipping to the tray.
“You’re . . .” so pretty, I almost say. Thankfully, I catch myself just in time. “Hi.”