And I was about to have to shovel turds.
“What?” I said. It came out a little sharper than I meant it, but I knew that look on Arthur's face. He'd found a shit job for me to do and he couldn't wait to pass it along.
He flashed me a smile, all business and propriety. One of the many things about being a personal assistant that I am total balls at. I can keep Felicia in line and do damage control, and bark orders with the best of them, but everything else? Might as well hire a Golden Retriever to handle the crowds. It'd be better and more coherent.
Arthur's eyes glinted. “Mrs. Glasscock is on the floor of the ladies' room in a pool of her own vomit,” he said. “I'm going to go see if I can't locate Mr. Glasscock, but I need you to see if you can't get her on her feet and cleaned up.”
I groaned. Of course. And to be fair, this wasn't a job he could just do himself. The ladies room is an inviolate sanctuary. Only a lady—and I hardly qualify, but if someone checked I'd have the biological bits, I suppose—may enter. Tossing back my champagne, I looked around for a place to put it, and finally just set it down in a nearby potted plant. Someone would find it. “Fine,” I said. “I'll have her up and running in ten.”
“Great. And then I need you to go make one last check on the auction items, okay? Ta!” And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the melee of well-dressed assholes.
“Wait!” I cried. One last check? Seriously? We'd checked the auction items at least five times already. What the hell was I supposed to be checking for?
But he was already gone. Cursing, I slipped between the milling people, my sandy-haired Batman all but forgotten. I had a drunken society maven to attend to. And what could be more important than that?
Mrs. Glasscock took fifteen minutes to get up off the floor. I took great satisfaction in slapping her awake, knowing she wouldn't remember it. They were purely therapeutic slaps anyway. Therapeutic for me, I mean.
By the time I had mostly cleaned the vomit from her hair and made her as presentable as possible, I was a mess. My cocktail dress stank of regurgitated champagne, and I was red-faced and sweaty from the exertion of holding her up and maneuvering her out of the ladies room and into the arms of her grateful husband. Unfortunately I didn't have any time to straighten up—the auction was about to begin, and I still had to do my one last check, whatever the hell that meant. I could only suppose it meant making sure none of the staff had contracted a case of sticky fingers, or that nothing had become broken in transport from Anton and Felicia's house.
I knew Felicia didn't like charity events, but I'd organized this one especially for her. It was an art auction among New York's upper crust, and not a boring silent auction, but one where people actually had to raise their little numbers and everything. The snobs probably thought it was very droll, and it's great fun to watch drunk rich people try to outbid each other, so of all the mandatory functions Felicia was obliged to throw at least twice a year this, I had decided, was the least painful. Plus, Felicia could probably buy some nice pieces she wouldn't otherwise have access to.
Me, I was just hoping for a fist fight to break out.
I checked myself one last time in the mirror, making certain I didn't look too much like a vomit splash-guard, then grabbed my dumb beaded clutch bag—the one with my phone in it, the portal to all my plans and people—and stalked out of the bathroom, hurrying toward the backstage. The Edison Ballroom is an old Depression-era hotel-turned-theater, and it's pretty much perfect for an auction. There's a bar and a lounge and its dim and crowded so everyone can get all intimate with each other, whether they want to or not. The auction was about to begin, and I had to make certain everything was in place.
I arrived, out of breath, to inspect the pieces one last time. Two handsome young men who probably did bouncer work as their day jobs were lingering near the first lot, joking about some girl they both knew. Gross. I stomped up to them and waved their bow-tie-wearing asses out of the way before grabbing my phone from my purse.
The pieces had been donated by the audience, and it was essential that they be in the same condition they arrived in. After all, people were here to be seen, and also so everyone could know just how expensive their tastes in art ran. That the money went to Felicia's favorite charity, an inner-city arts program for disadvantaged kids, was probably irrelevant to these people.#p#分页标题#e#
It didn't matter. I just had to make sure it ran smoothly, and to that end I had photographed every piece before it left storage in Anton's basement art gallery. I pulled up the list and began going down the line.
Lot one, an Andy Warhol. Pristine condition, still pristine. Good. You never knew when someone was going to smoke a thousand cigars right under their modern masterpiece. Next!