ONE
The party sparkled with Christmas magic, even this early in the season, and I looked around with satisfaction at the results of our hard – sometimes gruelling – work over the past few weeks. Although there were some big events still to come for my company, this was the biggest, held in the opulent Dome of the Victoria and Albert Museum and attended by major influencers as well as stars of fashion and TV. Even my mother was there, although of course she had been far too busy being fabulous to spare the time to speak to me, the lowly events organiser. But there was nothing lowly about this event. The space was staggeringly beautiful, with its high ceiling, gallery and marble floor and columns, not to mention the extravagant glass Chihuly chandelier which hung centrally. The people holding the event, a television and film production company, had given us a brief which was wide open and creative: my favourite kind.
‘We want something fabulous, obviously,’ said China, the woman who had hired us. ‘It has toscreamChristmas but absolutely no kitsch, unless it’s heavily ironic.’
Sam, my business partner, glanced over at me and grinned. We were used to these sorts of demands, and it was part ofour job to interpret them and deliver exactly what our clients wanted, and often what they didn’t know they wanted.
‘Got it,’ I said, scribbling notes in my book. ‘Any particular colour scheme or theme?’
China regarded me through narrowed eyes.
‘Well,obviouslywe don’t want any sort of over-the-top Christmas theme – no, oh, I don’t know, reindeer or elves or anything.’
‘Understood.’
‘But given the new TV show, there must be a nod to fashion, without it taking over the party.’
I wrote all this down. The show she mentioned was in the popular mould of taking a group of people – in this case, skilled clothes designers – and culling them week by week by judging them on various tasks, then eliminating them until one exhausted soul was finally crowned the winner.
‘So,’ I said, glancing up at China’s immaculately made-up face – how longdidit take her to get ready in the morning? ‘Fabulous, Christmassy but not tacky or themed, fashion. We’ll get some ideas to you by the end of the week.’
And now, as I stood and ran my eye over the finished space where the guests milled around screeching at each other, their minds only on who would be most useful to talk to, I thought we had done an excellent job. We had decided to use the space itself as our theme, particularly that stunning chandelier, decorating enormous real Christmas trees with specially commissioned sparkling glass decorations. Vastly oversized wreaths created with hundreds of matt emerald green and gold baubles hung from the gallery, and Sam and I had spent hours wrapping empty boxes in shiny paper and tying them with huge ribbons to place in enormous piles under the trees. As the space was called ‘The Dome’, we had turned over ideas relating to this for a week. Eventually, we had decided to hire enormous glassdomes, underneath which were displayed iterations of famous dresses, in tasteful Christmas colours. One held a royal wedding dress in emerald-green silk with gold accents, under another was enclosed a recreation of Marilyn Monroe’sSeven Year Itchdress, but green rather than white. Its reimagining was gorgeous, and I would have loved to try it on, but firmly under the dome it stayed, and I had to look elsewhere for a suitable dress. There was even a nod to Björk’s swan, which had been created with a peacock instead. We had mined the museum’s archives for more flamboyant representations of peacocks, then given our favourite of these, a glorious wallpaper by Walter Crane, to an artist who had used it to inspire an extravagant design for the invitations, menus and place setting cards. A four-piece band played jazz versions of Christmas songs and carols and guests were being offered a special cocktail that a mixologist had created for the occasion; made with Green Chartreuse and shimmering with gold lustre, it was proving very popular.
‘It’s a triumph,’ said a voice beside me, and I turned to see Sam. ‘You’ve pulled it off again.’
‘Thank you. China told me she wassatisfied, which is probably the most gushing she ever gets.’
‘I saw your mother and she was very complimentary – she said it was one of the most elegant Christmas parties she’d ever been to. Have you seen her?’
I laughed drily.
‘No, of course I haven’t. She wouldn’t want to hobnob with the staff – except you, of course. And she may well tellyouthat, but she’d never dream of saying it to me.’
Sam nodded sympathetically. He and I had known each other for years, and although he got on well with Mum, he was under no illusions about how tricky our relationship could be.
‘Look, Fallon, why don’t you go home? Talitha and I can look after everything from here. You’ve barely slept over the past month; I’m worried about you.’
Truth be told, I was worried about myself, but I shook my head stubbornly.
‘Thanks, but no. The clients expect me to stay until the end, and I will.’
‘I think you need a break, darling. And not just tonight – a proper break from work.’
I shrugged. ‘But I can’t take one, because there are too many jobs coming up.’
‘Jobs that you’ve already done all the work for. Talitha and I can easily oversee them while you take some time.’
‘And what would I do? Where would I go?’
‘Anywhere you can get some time to yourself? I’m deadly serious, Fallon. At least agree to think about it.’
‘All right, I will think about it,’ I said, not for a second intending to. ‘But for now, I’m going to go and make sure the waiting staff know which wine to serve with each course.’
I marched off, determined to do my job thoroughly and see the night out, even as the balls of my feet screamed in pain, my eyes longed to close, and my head buzzed with everything that had to go right.
The party finished at two a.m., and I didn’t leave until nearly half past three, having overseen the clearing up and made sure that everything was left immaculate. We often worked with prestigious venues like this one and wanted to be sure we would be welcomed back. I thanked the taxi gods as an orange ‘for hire’ light appeared almost as soon as I left the building. I fell in gratefully, glad to be out of the cold night air, gave the driver my address and slumped back to stare out of the window for theshort journey home. Once inside, I greeted my sleepy little dog, Runcible, kicked off my shoes and slipped out of the glamorous dress I had worn, putting it carefully on a hanger to return to Marcella, the designer I had rented it from.
It was about the only thing in my flat thatwasin the right place: my exacting standards at work sadly did not extend to home and the place was a disaster. There were unwashed clothes spilling out of the hamper, clean ones waiting to be put away, books and magazines strewn everywhere, and several used mugs dotted around. The bathroom looked all right if you only gave it a cursory glance, but I didn’t dare move too many of the myriad bottles as I was sure the hidden corners were manky. I pretended to myself that I maintained an acceptable level of hygiene in the kitchen, but the truth was that there was a light layer of greasy grime on everything, and so much clutter on the small work surfaces that it made getting through to clean them seem like a Herculean task. I hated living in squalor, but the task of sorting it all out felt overwhelming, given how drained I already was. I had started, once or twice, but quickly felt panicky and despairing, so I just did the bare minimum and promised myself I would take some time when work slowed down. Which it never did.
