by Paul Rudnick
And now I’m terrified and hideously embarrassed and late for work, but I said it and You listened and—here we go!
CHAPTER 3
One of the perks of my job is getting to constantly visit new venues, because the company I work for, Eventfully Yours, promises, as its mission statement, “Vivid, life-affirming, experience-aware, visual, tactile and culinary event planning within a tristate celebration radius,” which means I’ve helped create fiftieth wedding anniversary rodeos on Long Island, complete with bales of hay and waitstaff in gingham and Stetsons; Game of Thrones–themed bachelorette parties in New Jersey, with ice-sculpture dragons and crude bronze tiaras; the introduction of a “sky-high energy-plus” sports drink with out-of-work actors dressed like bottles of the stuff parachuting onto the Brooklyn Bridge; and so many more, including the after-after party for a Lincoln Center film festival where I got to help Sandra Bullock navigate the red carpet, and she was the nicest human being I’ve ever met. Today I was headed for the United Nations, a landmark which, like most hard-core New Yorkers, I’d brag about to newcomers but had never actually been to.
A laminated security pass on a lanyard was waiting for me, and the many security guards guided me toward a large amphitheater paneled in sleek Mad Men–era blonde wood. There was a wide stage, which my boss, Cassandra Crastick, was standing on, issuing commandments.
“Bailey, please raise the banner with Prince Edgar’s official portrait five inches so it’s even with the photo blowup of him touring the refugee camp. No, one more inch, must I do everything myself? And Jesus, Carter, where have you been? We haven’t even started on the flowers or your precious acrylic panels, whatever they are, I hope you have a decent excuse, like you were hit by a bus while riding your ludicrous bicycle, I have told you, riding a bicycle in Manhattan is basically begging the world, ‘Please fracture my pelvis and give me a head injury.’”
Cassandra is not what I’d call merely high-maintenance, but a narcissistic personality disorder in a nubby cashmere poncho with foot-length fringe. She’s insane, but I love her, because she’s helplessly insane, as opposed to deliberately evil.
“Carter, do you have an Ambien or an Adderall or any sort of pill I can swallow, only please don’t hand me a peanut M&M like yesterday, because then I’ll only want more, and the entire point of antidepressants is that they’re fat free. Carter, I don’t know if I can say this, I don’t know if my lips are capable of forming the words, but you’re the only person on the planet who can possibly understand what I’m going through. My ordeal. Dwayne left me.”
All five feet eleven inches plus suede platform boots of Cassandra had now flung itself onto me. I’ve learned to brace myself for these moments, and I turned my head to avoid getting slashed by the arc of Cassandra’s necklace, which was several yards of huge amber beads and spiked brass discs. Cassandra’s private life is always public, and often fictional or at least exaggerated. Dwayne is her doorman.
“Dwayne is on vacation with his family in Pennsylvania for two weeks,” I soothed, “and I’m sure his substitute is doing just fine.” I patted Cassandra on the back, or really on her cascade of multicolored hair extensions, which resembled a street fair wall hanging.
“Do you really think so?” Cassandra asked plaintively, and then, as always, her mood shifted violently, to haughty disdain: “Carter, I have to get to the Javits Center to oversee the presentation of Jasmine Tremble, that new calming shampoo, which I may drink. So I need you to finish up here and make sure everything is polished and locked down, can I trust you to manage that?”
“Of course,” I assured her, trying not to remind her that after three years and countless projects, I did most of her job for her; Cassandra had trained me, which I appreciated, but she still second-guessed my decisions and took credit for my ideas, claiming the business was “a family, and families share. Well, not my family, because I don’t speak to my mother, not after she slept with two of my husbands, although I suppose in a way we were sharing.”
“Cassandra, I’ve got this, and I’m begging you, please don’t steal a crate of that shampoo and use it as Christmas gifts for our staff, like last year with those dryer sheets.”
But Cassandra was already on her way out, pausing at the top of the amphitheater steps and crying out, “Farewell, my children! Give me beauty and madness!” These favorite words had been tattooed on either side of her neck and were also the names of her shih tzus.
“Okay, everybody,” I told the eight members of our extremely hardworking team, “You’re doing great, and Mikaela, let’s get the urns filled with the forsythia branches, Sean, please center the programs on each chair, and Ryan, I’ll need the cherry picker for the acrylic panels.”
Everyone paid attention, because I try to never waste people’s time; I believe in positive energy, and I know what I’m doing. At college I’d majored in musical theater, with vague thoughts of becoming a director or set designer, but these goals had evaporated once I’d met professionals who were actually good at them. Most of the people in the musical theater program ended up doing something else, but it had been a buoyant four years of painting backdrops, hot-gluing headdresses and learning the jazz routines I still occasionally practiced when alone in an elevator. As my great-aunt Miriam had once remarked, “So, Carter, let me understand this musical theater nonsense—you’re being gay for credit, right?”
That’s what college had been for me: a time to fully assemble my personality. After arriving in New York I’d interned in a publicist’s office, I’d written mini-reviews of sex toys and lubricants for a website called ManBatter.com, I’d bartended in Broadway theaters, having to defend the obscenely expensive cocktails on the grounds that they’re poured into sippy cups; I’d worked almost salary-free at a startup dedicated to renting scrupulously laundered luxury bed linens, which remained an off-putting and unsuccessful concept; I’d had fun as a rich lady’s social secretary until her accountant had advised her to economize, so she’d fired me, and I’d walked dogs, delivered sustainable floral arrangements (made from newsprint and recycled plastic bags), taught Slow Pilates to seniors, and eventually began to worry that I was drifting, embarrassing my family and coming dangerously close to moving to California, as if that was a career.
I’d met Cassandra while cater-waitering at one of her events; I’d been unable to resist rearranging a stack of glowing, lit-from-within Lucite cubes into an impromptu Christmas tree, and she’d been impressed and hired me. I’d learned the ever-shifting basics of event planning: interviewing clients to coax out their must-haves; drafting sketches and building three-dimensional models; combing the city for quirky DJs, inventive chefs and off-duty acrobats; in short, applying my imagination to every occasion. I’d soon realized that event planning is pure theater and that if I put my mind to it, I could surprise and delight people who were dreading a conference or reunion or Midtown fountain pen trade show. My favorite moment is always overhearing a guest comment, “I can’t believe it, but I’m actually having a great time!”
Today’s event was a press conference for the Royal Clean Water Initiative, a charitable organization devoted to providing drinkable water to the over a third of the world’s population that lacked such a necessity. Most of our team’s work entailed filling the stage with a podium, a sound system and restrained floral design. So all of this wouldn’t remind guests of a funeral, I’d commissioned, as a backdrop, a series of shimmering floor-to-ceiling acrylic panels, which, when layered and ingeniously lit, appeared to be a glistening, tumbling waterfall, flanked by photo blowups of Prince Edgar, who’d visited over thirty countries helping to dig wells, construct pipelines and bring global attention to his signature cause.
I’m not going to talk about Prince Edgar, because I hate his guts, since he’s perfection itself. I hate him because when I was little and I’d smear ice cream on my striped T-shirt, my parents would inevitably ask, “Why can’t you behave yourself, like
that Prince Edgar, who’s always such a gentleman?”
I hate Prince Edgar because he’s almost exactly my age and has never had, as far as I can tell, a blemish, an awkwardly timed fart, a cataclysmic breakup or not just a bad hair day but even a bad hair moment. I hate him because he’s openly gay, which means every queer man in the world fantasizes, even if they won’t admit it, that Edgar’s their boyfriend or husband or secret when-he’s-in-town fuck buddy. There aren’t that many out dreamboats on such an international level; when seeking mass-media swoon material, gay men will sometimes insist that various movie or pop stars are actually gay, as if collective gossip is a form of conversion therapy.
I hate Prince Edgar because, as I stood atop the cherry picker and adjusted a banner, which pictured His Royal Perfection in a tux at a previous summit, I knew one thing for sure: I was the total opposite of Prince Edgar and I seriously wanted to slap his photo or have sex with it. But instead I signaled Mikaela to lower the cherry picker and I told the team they’d all done an awesome job and had earned a longer lunch break and could clear out, as the United Nations staff would be running the event itself.
I stayed behind to fulfill Cassandra’s most unbreakable edict, which was humiliating but at least could be done without anyone watching. Cassandra had a bizarre, we-are-all-one, zen-consciousness streak, which was Cassandra combining her daily-horoscope superstitions, her rampant OCD and her needing the constant intuition that she’d pleased and befriended Marie Kondo, Martha Stewart, Reese Witherspoon and Gwyneth Paltrow.
I stood in the amphitheater’s wide center aisle and faced the stage. Everything looked good: symmetrical, dust-free and inviting. I shut my eyes and spoke Cassandra’s Gratitude Prayer, which she stipulated I recite aloud, because “otherwise the universal hive-sensors will know you’re cheating.” But I kept the volume at a respectable level to avoid security guards rushing in and asking, “Who the hell are you talking to?”
“I am thankful for the freshness of the forsythia and the on-time delivery of all products and services. I salute the impact and grace of this event, and I bring an intersectional awareness to this day, along with providing flattering side lighting, basic but attractive stemware and effective signage. I am blessed and I bless in return.”
I clapped my hands briskly three times over my head, offered three joyful shouts, and tried not to kill myself as I heard, in a distinctly English accent, “Are you all right?”
CHAPTER 4
I was looking into eyes that were so radiantly blue I either wanted to faint or yell, “Just stop it!”
The eyes belonged to Prince Edgar. The Prince of Wales. The guy who was next in line to the throne. The guy who, fine, I’ll admit it, I had Googled using the search terms “Prince Edgar Shirtless,” “Prince Edgar Beach” and “Prince Edgar Naked” (these last photos didn’t exist, but there were some amazingly undetectable fakes). The guy who made me feel like, well, a cartoon rodent or snail, especially right this second, with my hair drooping and possible sweat stains from climbing ladders and moving furniture and my shirt half-untucked but not in that casually stylish way I usually copied from Callum. And I was looking directly at Prince Edgar from only a few feet away. I wasn’t just a deer in headlights; I was that deer if it had also been struck by lightning while holding an ungrounded extension cord.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realise anyone was here. I was going to practice my speech.”
I tried desperately to remember any shred of royal protocol: should I bow, nod, curtsy or helplessly scream, “I’m an American!” to justify my ignorance. Shockingly, the prince offered his hand. Like a human being.
“Edgar.”
Now I wanted to not just slap him but then say, “No, just no. You don’t get to look like that and be who you are and also be nice. No way.”
But I didn’t do or say anything because I was paralyzed with Celebrity Terror, galloping insecurity, a tsunami of lust and total brain freeze. I might very well never move again, and my rigid body would be stored in my parents’ finished basement, or stationed at the end of their driveway, with a mailbox nailed to my chest.
“I . . . I . . .” I was like a primitive robot, trying to reboot its meager functions. Because in that instant, I couldn’t remember my name. I didn’t know if I had a name. Should I make up a name? Then my ignition turned over and I blurted, “I’m Carter! Carter Ogden!”
He smiled, which is something I’m not yet ready to describe, but I processed instantly that he was accustomed to people acting like lunatics just because they were meeting him.
“Carter. So good to meet you.”
“I . . . I work for Eventfully Yours, we did the event planning for your . . . event.” How many more times could I say the word “event”?
“Aha. Well done. The space looks marvelous. Especially that waterfall moment.”
WHY WASN’T I GETTING THIS ON MY PHONE?
“Would you mind terribly if I ran through my opening remarks? To get a feel for things?”
“I . . . I . . . of course. I’ll just get out of your way.”
As I stumbled backward, out of some dim memory of never turning one’s back on royalty, I managed to ram into the seat at the end of an aisle, almost fall, kick an extra papier-mâché urn I was supposed to put back in the Eventfully Yours van, and finally steady myself as the prince studied me like a researcher tracking a mouse’s journey through a maze.
“Carter?”
“I’m fine!”
“I’m glad, and this is an absurd imposition, and I’ll completely understand if you refuse, but might you perhaps listen to my speech? And offer an honest assessment?”
Okay. Okay. Prince Edgar was now asking me to critique him. He was asking me to be a New Yorker. A gay New Yorker. A gay Jewish New Yorker. Trust me, I have opinions. Did he have any idea what he was in for?
“Um, sure, of course,” I told him, “although I’m sure you’ll be awesome.” Awesome? Awesome? When did I turn into a mumbling middle schooler, slumped from my two-ton backpack?
“Awesome would be lovely, but I’ll settle for audible. I’ve been working on my personal presentation, as my online nicknames include the Little Wooden Soldier, Prince Plywood and His Royal Blore. And before you ask, a blore is a combination of someone bland and a bore. So I’m seeking to improve.”
He was mounting the steps to the podium as I trailed in his wake, standing in the aisle below.
“And we’re off. I’m introduced, to polite applause and not a few yawns barely hidden behind programs. Despite this, I begin. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for allowing me to—”
“Okay,” I interrupted, and I have no idea where I found the nerve to utter a single word, except that my theatrical background and event-planning DNA had kicked in. Telling people how to work a room was my business.
“You look, well, you look perfect,” I began, “which is a certain indisputable form of bliss, I mean you look like your official portrait on the airport LED screen welcoming tourists to London. But that might be part of the problem you mentioned, with public perception. Try this.”
I gave myself a brief shake, a blend of mild seizure and invisible hula hoop.
“Why?” asked Prince Edgar, clearly regretting having asked such a possibly dangerous stranger to stick around.
“It’s a technique for relaxation and relatability. It’s about allowing yourself to get a tiny bit messy. Trust me, it will only enhance your appeal. It’s like, if you were a cologne, which would sell trillions of units, it could be called Slightly Rumpled Royalty. It’s like a movie star with just the right amount of bedhead. Do it.”
I gave myself an even more decisive shake, with my arms extended, like the Tin Man after his oil change. Prince Edgar stayed doubtful, but launched a halfway vigorous shake.
“More! Like you’re alone in your bedroom and you’re listening to
some amazing dance mix, and then it gets even hotter. No one’s watching. Go!”
I shook myself even more exuberantly, and Edgar gave in and let loose. In some loony way we were dancing with each other, like two of those inflatable air puppets outside a used car lot, flailing with joy at the one-day-only bargains. Then, out of breath, we stopped, and the prince laughed.
“This is absolutely ridiculous,” he announced. “But I do feel better. Less . . .”
“Prissy? Uptight? Royal?”
He looked at me, almost glaring, and then he smiled. His face was flushed, his hair was less well-behaved, but if anything, he looked even more handsome, only approachable, which was what I’d been after.
I’m almost ready to describe his smile. Edgar had a bit of that abashed schoolboy look, but the years were lending him a man’s seriousness. When he smiled, all this fell away, and he became pure joy, maybe because he didn’t do it that often, and he surprised himself. His smile had a recklessness to it, which was why he held it in check. I’d made him smile, which was maybe the sexiest thing ever.
“Your Highness?” I asked, and as I was saying it, I felt like a cartoon mouse dressed as a footman in a Disney animated classic.
“Yes?” he said, as I climbed the stairs and approached him.
“May I?” I asked, reaching toward his head. “You look great, and even more adorable than in those pictures where you’re feeding a tiger cub at the London Zoo, which made the entire world go ‘Awww’ and then donate to Save the Tigers. But you’ve got a flyaway—you know, a few strands of hair that might catch the light and mess up the video. So if I could just . . .”
I reached out and adjusted his naturally wavy, reddish brown hair, and while trying to stay professional, I thought, “I’m touching Prince Edgar’s hair and it feels like cashmere and he’s got a few freckles across the bridge of his nose and eyelashes for days and Carter, do not even look at his lips or you’ll be arrested.”