“Can’t you stuff it in your bra or something?” always practical Allison.
“That would be a great idea if I was actually wearing a bra… besides I’m pretty sure they would disapprove of me fishing around in my bra for money to donate.”
“Well you don’t have to do it in front of everyone… anyway you don’t have one on so that idea’s out the window. I guess you’ll just have to hide your purse or something?”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, really. I’ll just shove my purse in the pantry or something.”
“Right, now go! You’re going to be late.” I hop out of the car, reminding Allison that unless something goes terribly wrong I’ll need her to pick me up at midnight. She waves me off and takes off around the driveway and back down the gravel path. I walk around to the back entrance, after all, tonight I am not Mrs. Lambert and I hope that no one who knows me as her will be around tonight. The butterflies in my stomach turn in to what I can only describe as dragons and a sudden wave of nausea hits me as I step up to the back door. Here goes nothing.
“Hey!” A familiar voice calls out from across the kitchen as I walk in and looking up I catch site of Marcus; one of the regulars on the wait-staff crew.#p#分页标题#e#
“Hey! How is it tonight?” He shrugs.
“Same old, but damn girl, you look hawwwwt!” I can’t stand the pronunciation but his compliment makes me smile and I give him my thanks as I set about finding somewhere to squirrel away my purse. I settle on the back of one of the cupboards that seems less likely to be used during the night. With a quick look around I shove my purse in, kick the door closed carefully and present myself for tray duty. A middle aged woman whose face I can’t seem to place but certainly recognize, places a full tray of half filled champagne flutes on my hand.
“Be careful and don’t drop any this time!” She must have been at the first ever Lambert event, the one where I launched a tray of drinks all over the floor.
“Don’t worry, I won’t!” I head out of the kitchen doors and make my way in to the crowded hallways keeping my eyes peeled for anyone who might recognize me as the elusive Mrs. Lambert. So far so good and it’s not until I get to the main hall that I spot Mrs. Dubois, the overly curious, over imposing benefactor of the last estate function I attended with Gideon. She knows me as Mrs. Lambert and tonight I sure as hell don’t look like Mrs. Lambert. I don’t chance it and spin around, heading back in to the hallways and through to the second smaller ballroom.
I walk by one couple with my tray of drinks balanced carefully on my hand, and I imagine that is what I looked like on Gideon's arm as I played the role of Mrs. Lambert. I watch the young wife give a smile and giggle, the way that young women sometimes do, and then she buried her face into his shoulder. Her arm was hooked into his and he laughed and leaned his head on top of hers as he did. I felt my heart sink and for a tiny moment I missed Gideon. I missed playing the role of Mrs. Lambert. I missed the feeling of being someone’s wife, treasured, loved and cared for in a way that only the privileged man could. Call me shallow but there is something nice in being the one who is waited on, rather than being the one doing the waiting. I recall Gideon’s words on the night we met, his words when I knew him as just ‘Ricky.’ ‘Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be serving other people,’ that’s what he’d said to me and I’d bought it, hook, line and sinker. I’d believed that I had the potential to be something more than a barista, that I could one day have a life of being treated like a princess… perhaps not Princess Leia but a princess all the same. Then ‘Ricky’ had turned out to be Gideon and for just a moment I found myself thrilled, titillated that someone so high profile had any interest in someone like me. I wish I could have that first night back. I wish I could be with Ricky, that there never had been a Gideon, just the friendly bartender who knew how to treat me like a lady but give me a run for my money between the sheets.
“Excuse me…” A middle aged man with a large and somewhat embarrassing stain on his shirt stood in front of me. “Do you think you could help me here?” He gestures down to his shirt with half a smile on his face in excuse of his clumsiness.
“Sure, head straight back through the main hallway and you’ll run in to two large doors. Through the doors you’ll end up in the kitchen and there’s a middle aged woman in there that can help you with some soda water. That should get it right out and she might even be able to help you to find a replacement shirt or jacket or something?” I say this last part hopefully and he bursts in to laughter, the kind of laughter that makes bellies jiggle and reminds me of Santa Claus.