For real? OK, that’s it. Someone has to tell Janice: Flo’s got to go.
SPEECH TO LONDON BILLIARDS CLUB
By Prospective Member Rebecca Brandon (née Bloomwood)
Copyright Rebecca Brandon (née Bloomwood)
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
Embargoed till December 11
FIRST DRAFT
Billiards is very
Billiards are very
Billiards is very
Oh God.
From: Myriad Miracle
To: Becky Brandon
Subject: Re:Re: Query!
Hi, Mrs. Brandon (née Bloomwood):
We hope you are enjoying the Myriad Miracle Training System™!
Thank you for checking your interactive settings on the app. We have monitored your progress, and it seems that your current exercise activity has moved from “Negligible” to “Negligible to Zero.”
It is part of the Myriad Miracle Training System™ philosophy that we provide extra boosting content for clients whose activity has decreased.
We would therefore like to offer you a complimentary real-time health-and-exercise Skype session with our trainer Olga Ritsnatsova. Olga comes to us from training Olympic weight lifters. She will be calling you soon to arrange your complimentary three-hour session, including:
• high-intensity strength work
• endurance hour
• nutritional chat
• ice bath to facilitate recovery.
Happy health-seeking!
Debs
(membership assistant)
From: Myriad Miracle
To: Becky Brandon
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re: Query!
Hi, Mrs. Brandon (née Bloomwood):
Thank you for your quick response.
I’m sorry to hear that you have broken your leg.
Olga is looking forward to hearing from you and organizing your complimentary three-hour Skype session as soon as you have recovered.
Happy health-seeking!
Debs
(membership assistant)
CHATS
Christmas!
Janice
Dear Becky, it was such a lovely day yesterday. Thank you so much for hosting. I have a small request: Might I bring Flo to our festivities on Christmas Day?
Suze
OMG, Bex, have you SEEN what Janice has asked? She wants to bring Flo to Christmas!!! That miserable drip!!!
Suze & Bex
Bex
Suze!!!! Wrong thread!!!!!
Suze
Shit. D’you think Janice has seen it?
Suze
Oh God. Two blue ticks. Yes she has.
Christmas!
Suze
Oh. Janice. Gosh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to post that message. Actually, I was talking about someone else called Flo that I met at a different party altogether. That Bex and I were at but not you. Isn’t that a hilarious coincidence? Just to confirm, it was a different Flo. Not your friend.
Suze
Janice???
Suze
Hello??? I know you’ve read my message.
Suze
OK, forget that. I WAS talking about your new friend, because we all think she’s FRIGHTFUL.
OK. Don’t panic. Don’t panic, Becky. It’s only Christmas. That’s what I keep telling myself—but the trouble is, I don’t believe myself anymore. There’s no such thing as “only Christmas.”
Everything is sliding out of control. For example: 1. My garlands keep falling off the mantelpiece, even though I’ve tried Sellotape and Blu-Tack and string and, in desperation, my gym weights to anchor them down. 2. My giant snow globe of a Christmas village leaked all over the floor yesterday. 3. My Alexander McQueen dress still doesn’t fit, even though I did twenty crunches before I tried to put it on, and I breathed in.
(Should I do the three-hour Skype session with Olga after all?)
(No. I mean, an ice bath? Are they kidding?)
But the thing that’s most out of control is: 4. My guests.
It’s all kicked off between Suze and Janice. After her WhatsApp faux pas, Suze decided to defend Mum and tell Janice she shouldn’t have got a new best friend so quickly. Whereupon Janice took umbrage and threatened not to come to Christmas. But then she changed her mind and said she believed that the invitation had come from “dear Becky,” so it was nothing to do with Suze and maybe Suze should rethink her Christmas plans instead.
Argh.
Mum is playing the martyr and saying things like, “It’s up to Janice if she wants to move on and ignore my phone messages; good luck to her. I can easily return her Christmas present.”
(Point of information: Janice didn’t ignore her phone messages, they were lost in the cloud, but no one’s listening to facts anymore.)
Jess won’t take sides; in fact, she won’t communicate. She’s totally monosyllabic and unhelpful these days. I sent her a two-page email asking her what I should do, and she literally replied, “I don’t know.”
When I appealed to Dad, he said, “Oh, it’ll sort itself out.” Then I asked Luke what he thought, and he pretty much said the same. (He spoke for longer, but it essentially boiled down to “Oh, it’ll sort itself out.”) He also thinks I shouldn’t get involved. He said last night, “Becky, you can’t do everything. You have a hard-enough job organizing Christmas without organizing everyone’s emotions too.”
Which is fair enough. But maybe I don’t have any choice. Maybe “emotions” is something else a hostess has to put in order, along with napkins and canapés. Because maybe if I don’t, we won’t have any Christmas.
All the fretful voices and WhatsApps are jangling in my head and I keep thinking, There must be a way to unite everyone. But I don’t have time to ponder on it right now. Because, amid all this, I’ve got to give a speech about bloody billiards.
I’m walking up St. James’s Street in a smart dress and carefully blow-dried hair, giving myself a last-minute test on random billiards facts. The stick thing is called a cue. I already knew that. But everything else about the game is gibberish. There’s “balk” and “winning hazard” and “cannon.” If you play a seventy-sixth consecutive cannon it’s a foul, I know that. Only I can’t remember what a cannon is.
I keep telling myself they won’t actually quiz me on billiards facts. And I’ve prepared a few remarks to make in conversation, so I’ll sound like a pro. Like, “I was double-balked the other day, total nightmare.” But on the whole, I’m hoping I can just slip in, make my speech, and slip out again with the portmanteau. Anyway, Edwin will look after me. He can make conversation about double balks or whatever.
And, yes, it has occurred to me to give up on the idea. What Luke said last night is true: You can’t do everything. I know sod-all about billiards. Luke doesn’t even know about the portmanteau. I could buy him an aftershave gift set and he’d be delighted and life would be easier.
But all this Christmas hassle has made me even more resolute. Maybe I can’t reconcile Mum and Janice right now. Maybe I can’t make my garlands stay up. But I can give a speech about billiards to a load of men with elbow patches.
As I arrive at the club, it’s all lit up with extra candles in brass holders, and members are milling around with glasses in their hands. It looks almost alive and kicking. I approach the ninety-three-year-old behind the desk, and he gives me his familiar “go away” look.
“Hello,” I say politely. “I believe Lord Edwin Tottle is expecting me?”
“Lord Tottle has been delayed,” replies the man, reaching for a note on a piece of paper and surveying it. “He will arrive presently.”
My heart s
inks in dismay. Edwin’s not here? I thought he would usher me around and tell me what to do.
“No problem!” I reply, trying to sound assured. “Did he have any other message?” I add, seeing that the note is full of writing.
“Yes,” says the man reluctantly. “He asked me to relay the following: ‘Give ’em hell, I know you can do it, Becky. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ ”
“Thank you,” I say. “So…can I go in?”
“Special dispensation has been granted to you,” says the man in tones of supreme disapproval. “By Sir Peter Leggett-Davey himself.”
He hands me a cardboard slip reading Guest Pass, and I put it in my pocket.
“Thanks!” I say, feeling a bit more bouncy. “Well, here’s to a lovely evening. What’s your name?” I add.
“Sidney,” says the man distantly.
“Hi, Sidney! I’m Becky, but you knew that. And what time is the AGM?”
“The AGM commenced at four o’clock this afternoon,” says Sidney, pointing at the wooden double doors. “I believe your…item is number fifty-six on the agenda. Please help yourself to sherry.”
I collect a drink and head through the double doors to find that the massive room with the fireplace has been rejigged for the AGM. There’s a big long table, at which five ninety-three-year-olds sit facing the audience. Then there are rows of chairs, mostly empty, with a few ninety-three-year-olds sitting here and there, sipping sherry and listening. Or sleeping, in some cases.
As I sit down, I’m not surprised. Some guy with a white beard is intoning in the most boring voice I’ve ever heard, “Item fifty-four: the works in the lower middle dining room. The Works Committee has reported back on the quotation, and I would like to draw attention to the following points….”
He drones on a bit about woodworm and I tune out, looking around the room. I suddenly notice that the prizes for the raffle have been arranged on a table. There’s the portmanteau and a case of sherry and a book about billiards. As soon as I become a member, I’m buying my tickets, I resolve. That very minute.
My eye moves along the row I’m sitting in and I blink in astonishment at a familiar face. It’s…Who is that? A dad from school? I rack my brains for a moment, till it comes to me. It’s the guy! It’s Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf from Selfridges! What’s he doing here? He’s not ninety-three!
As he sees me looking at him, his face registers astonishment, too, and he moves along the row to sit nearer.
“Hello again,” he says in an interested undertone. “You must be the woman.”
“What woman?”
“The woman trying to change two hundred years of tradition.”
“Oh,” I say proudly. “Yes, I am, actually. Are you a member?”
“No, I’m here as a proxy,” he says. “My father sent me along to vote against you.”
Against me?
“You haven’t even heard my case!” I hiss indignantly, because we’re getting some looks from a few nearby ninety-three-year-olds. “How do you know you want to vote against me?”
“I hadn’t given it any thought.” He shrugs. “It’s my father’s club, not mine. I’m only here to do him a favor.”
“Well, think now!” I snap. “I’ve come here in the spirit of modernity. The spirit of fellowship. The spirit of billiards.” I eye him significantly, just as the white-bearded guy at the front says, “Item fifty-five: members’ news. Any information for the London Clubs’ newsletter should be submitted to Alan Westhall by this Friday. Item fifty-six: membership of Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood.”
It’s me! I’m up! My heart gives an almighty bound of nerves and I get to my feet, scrabbling for my speech.
My speech.
Where the hell is my speech?
“Something wrong?” says Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf, as I delve furiously in my bag.
“Nothing,” I say, looking up, my face hot. I know my speech is in my bag. I know it. But I’ve tried every compartment and I can’t find it. I should never have bought a bag with compartments, I think murderously. It’s much better when it’s all just one giant mess.
Suddenly I notice the double doors opening and a surge of ninety-three-year-olds appears, all holding glasses of sherry and chatting. They start to fill the seats, most of them giving me some sort of pointed glance.
“What’s going on?” I say, bewildered. “Why are they all arriving now?”
“They’ve all come here to vote on you,” says Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf. “You’re the only item of interest. Good luck,” he adds casually. “Knock ’em dead.”
My legs are a bit wobbly, but I can’t give up now. I make my way to the front, and a ninety-three-year-old in a velvet smoking jacket claps me on the shoulder.
“Becky!” he says. “I was looking out for you! I’m Edwin’s friend John. I’m one of the chaps who seconded you. Best of luck. Edwin says you’ll do splendidly.”
“Oh, well, let’s hope so,” I say, with my most confident smile. “Thanks!”
At least I have some support. I approach the man with the white beard and lift my chin.
“How do you do,” I say politely. “I am Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood. First of all, I think your club is fabulous—”
“Thank you,” says the man, cutting me off coldly. “I am Sir Peter Leggett-Davey. You’ll have your turn to speak. Sit there, please.”
He points at a chair to the side, and I sit down on it, prickling with resentment. He doesn’t have to be so snooty. I feel all the more determined to get into this stupid club. I might even learn billiards.
“Good evening, to those who have just arrived,” says Sir Peter, surveying the audience. “Now we come to the most contentious item of the day: the application of this female person to join the club, supported by several members with us here today. This membership would, of course, require a change in our constitution, which has been proposed by Lord Edwin Tottle; please see the document now being circulated. And may I start by saying I think this a disgraceful idea.”
Disgraceful?
I feel a surge of indignation as he carries on talking about how special the club is and how females would ruin it and how Lord Edwin Tottle has always had a grudge against him, Sir Peter, as members will recall from the painful incident in 2002 regarding the sherry trolley.
OK. He really needs to get a life.
At last he stops speaking, and one after another of the ninety-three-year-olds stands up, saying all the same stuff, about tradition and sanctity and “facilities,” by which they mean loos. After a while I give up listening and google billiards cannon what is it?—although I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to work it into my speech.
“Mrs. Brandon, would you like to make a reply?” Sir Peter’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and my head bobs up. Shit. It’s my turn already.
“Yes!” I say in dignified tones. “Thank you so much. I am yours, et cetera.”
I make one more hopeless thrust into my bag, hoping I’ll find my speech—but it’s not there. I’ll have to wing it.
I walk slowly to the center of the space, turn to the audience, and say, “Good evening. I am Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood, fellow billiards lover.”
The whole room is silent, waiting for me to say more. I can even see Sidney loitering at the doorway to listen.
“I could talk about…cannons.” I spread my arms nonchalantly. “I could talk about how I was double-balked the other day. Nightmare!” I give a knowing little laugh. “However. Today I want to talk about…billiard balls,” I say in sudden inspiration. “Consider billiard balls. We polish them. We respect them. We play our beloved game with them. But we should learn from them.”
“What? What’s that?” barks a man in the front row who looks about 103, and his 93-year-old neighbor says loudly, “She says we should learn from billiard balls, Si
r Denis.”
“After all, what is one billiard ball hitting another if not connection?” I continue. “Billiard balls don’t discriminate. Billiard balls are tolerant. They’re happy to roll anywhere on the table, see all sides, interact with any other ball, male or female. Or intersex,” I add after a moment’s thought.
“What’s she talking about?” demands Sir Denis, and his ninety-three-year-old neighbor practically shouts back, “Sex, Sir Denis!”
“Sex!” echoes Sir Denis, looking impressed.
“Billiard balls want to connect without prejudice,” I continue, trying to ignore them. “But billiards clubs do not.” I fix Sir Peter with my sternest gaze. “Billiards clubs say, ‘No, the red balls may not interact with the white balls, because red balls are male and white balls are female.’ And what happens? Nobody wins. The world is a worse place.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Brandon,” begins Sir Peter in icy tones, but I lift a hand to stop him.
“I haven’t finished yet,” I say firmly. “I stand before you, a passionate female billiards aficionado, not to mention lover of parlour music, who has been shut out of the greatest experience a billiards lover could know. To be a member of this hallowed club. And why? Because of an outdated, prejudicial rule that has no place in any true billiards lover’s heart. You don’t really want to turn me away. I can see it in your eyes. All of you.”
I move along the rows, catching the eye of each ninety-three-year-old in turn and lingering especially in front of Sir Denis, who beams up at me.
“What are you scared of?” I say more gently. “Be brave. Be true to what you believe. And let me into this club, where I will do my best to be worthy of it. Thank you.”
Christmas Shopaholic Page 23