Who’s That Girl?

by Celia Hayes

  “That sounds very romantic, but unfortunately…” Great! I’m going to be a spinster even in my tomb! Suddenly my phone starts ringing. “Oh, excuse me, I need to take this call,” I say, glad I’ve finally found an excuse to get out of there. “But I think I have enough information and all the material I need to write the article. I’ll let you know when it’s going to be published, okay?” I say, while walking quickly towards the door, bag in hand.

  “What about the pictures?”

  “I’m sure Luke has taken all the photographs he needed to – right, Luke?” I say, peering around for the photographer only to find him staring blankly at a wax model of a group of dead people dressed up as punks. He nods rapidly in agreement and starts gathering up all his equipment as fast as he can. He manages to be the first out of the door while I’m still trying to untangle my earbuds. Finally, I manage to put one of them in my ear.

  “Err… hello?” I answer just as they are about to hang up. “Hello?” I repeat louder, while I open the door of Luke’s station wagon, thus avoiding having Mr Murphy tell me everything about the special offers on mahogany coffins.

  “Sam? Can you hear me?”

  It’s Dave.

  “Hey – yes, I hear you, what’s up?” I’m so anxious that I can barely breathe. It’s the first time I’ve heard from him since he asked me to help him. I’ve glimpsed him walking through the corridors of The Chronicle a couple of times, but he’s always been too busy to talk to me.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “No, I just finished interviewing Mr Murphy, and now I’m heading back to the office.”

  “I see. Did the interview go well?”

  “Sure, it was very… interesting,” I reply.

  “Right. Listen,” says Dave, changing the subject and clearly not interested in my sensational discoveries about the business successes of Murphy & Son. “The article about that musician who specialises in funeral songs, what was his name… Oxy… Ozzy…? Anyway, that’s been cancelled. Do you remember his name?”

  “No, I don’t have a clue, sorry.”

  He babbles something that I don’t understand, and then resumes talking clearly. “Anyway, the guy took off to Libya before Margaret could talk to him. He apparently heard that they found some ancient instrument or something… So there’s some space to fill for next Friday, and Tom suggested we could put a short piece in about that pageant.”

  “Do you mean Beautiful Curvy?”

  “Yes, the Curvy thing. Are you still interested in it, by any chance? You’d only need to gather some information about it to fill up the Culture and Events page. I can’t wait until tonight’s meeting, I need an answer from you right now and I can’t find Margaret anywhere. So what do you say? Will you do it?”

  “Will I do it? Of course I’ll do it! That would be great, really. I can hardly believe it…” I babble. Can you believe it? Me, finally having the chance to write a whole article! It’s not going to be on the front page, of course, and it’s nothing important, I know, but it will have my name on it! For the first time my name will be printed in The Chronicle! And who cares if it’s not on the Foreign News page?

  “No! I need it by tonight!” I hear him shouting at someone in his office before he asks me, “What did you say? Sorry, but I’m dealing with Jessie and Albert at the moment and I don’t have much time. So will you take care of it?” I guess he didn’t hear a word of my ridiculous rambling speech.

  “Sure, no problem.” Now that I’ve digested my bewilderment, I can feign a bit of professionalism and answer calmly, as though it was no big deal.

  “Good,” he replies tersely. “It’s five now – can you be there by nine?”

  “There where?” I reply, with no idea what he’s talking about.

  “What do you mean ‘where’? At the Ritz.”

  “To do what?”

  “Sam…” He breathes noisily. “Tonight they’re selecting the jury for the contest. The TV will be there. I thought you knew about it!”

  “Err… I thought we weren’t going to be covering the event any more, so I’d stopped keeping up to date with Beautiful Curvy news,” I explain, mortified.

  “Whatever,” he says. “I don’t really have time to discuss it with you right now, you’ll have to gather the information you need by yourself. Do you think you can manage that?”

  “Give me twenty minutes and I will know everything there is to know about the pageant and tonight’s event. Don’t worry, I can handle it. And I’ll be there by nine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Ok…” he mumbles thoughtfully. “I’ll have someone deliver your press pass to the door.”

  “Thanks, I’ll write you a great article,” I say, letting my enthusiasm get the better of me, only to meet the usual wall of indifference from him.

  “Great, but don’t go crazy. A couple of comments from the guests and a summary of the event will be fine. I don’t think you’ll be able to meet Adam Graham in person, but if you get the chance, get a couple of quotes from the judges. They’ll definitely be easier to reach than the organiser of the event himself.”

  I shouldn’t let it get me down because I know these things are unimportant to him, but this is a huge opportunity for me. And on the other hand, I can’t really sulk with my boss just because he’s not as passionate about curvy models as I am. I decide to take a deep breath and count to ten, and then answer him. “Whatever you say – it’ll be ready by tomorrow anyway.”

  “Ok, let me know.”

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Dave.”

  “Huh? Yeah, sure… bye, Sam.”

  Chapter 10

  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 di
dn’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 prob
lem.

  “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.”