Unravelled (18 page)

They talk about what time we’re to leave work and go to ‘Heaven’ while I listen with closed eyes. What is ‘Heaven’? It sounds like it could be a transvestite club, a hippie hang-out or a local church café. What have I let myself into?

I decide to ignore the two men and focus my energies on the task at hand. As much as the idea of going out appeals to me, there’s still a lot of work to be done and the committee does not always help as they should. We had a committee meeting two days ago and it seems like everyone has their own ideas on how to makes themselves the star of the opening day. To be fair, the fight is actually between George and Zondra. They truly don’t like each other. And I still have the hardest time getting hold of Zondra. I truly wish there was a spell that I could cast to make this woman cooperate without this pulling-a-tooth effort and pain.

My suggestion of starting the festival with one of our star artists as guest of honour was the only idea that was univocally agreed upon. I’ve cleared it with the artist’s agent and she’ll also perform a few songs with only her guitar on the little ball room stage which is being constructed as we speak. It will give the performance an intimate feeling which is exactly what I wanted. Then there were arguments about who was to give the opening speech, who was to be invited to the gala dinner that evening, who was to be the master of ceremonies and the list goes on.

If I can’t reach an agreement with the other members of the committee on some of these issues soon, I will have to lay my proposal before Adam and ask for his veto right. He has the ultimate decision entitlement, but I sincerely hope that it would not come to that. I hope that my mediation skills will prove sufficient to prevent that.

I open another spreadsheet on my computer and start planning yet another alternative programme for the opening day. I’ve received every committee member’s suggestion of who should be on the gala dinner guest list and have already compiled a completed list that I emailed to them for their final approval. I am sure they will agree on this one. I hope.

And so my mind is totally occupied in what I do and I don’t even notice when Adam leaves. I love losing myself in my work like this. Maybe I’m a bit of a workaholic, but I know that I’m not as bad as Adam. The man works twelve hours in the office a day and then goes home to work some more. Most evenings I sit with a book after dinner while he is punching away on his laptop, muttering to himself, and that is when he is not in his office making phone calls to other workaholics like him.

“…ans?” Is all I catch from a question that Ray asked me. His tone implies that it was not the first time he tried to speak to me.

“Sorry, Ray. I got lost in this. What did you say?”

“I asked what was so all important that you were going to do tonight.”

“I was going to give myself a bikini wax with a glass of red wine in my hand.”

“That was your big plan?” Ray laughs louder than I’ve ever heard him laugh and I pull a face at him.

“Yes. Giving myself a bikini wax requires planning and alcohol. It usually takes me weeks just to build up the courage to schedule it in. If you’ve ever had your unmentionables waxed, you’ll know the meaning of bona fide pain and will understand the need to soothe the nerves.” I am not prone to drinking, but this is one occasion I always feel a need for something with a kick. That and telling Adam that I totalled his car, these are occasions that call for strong alcoholic help. I wonder if I would’ve handled it differently if I had had something to drink when I told Adam about his car.

Ray is still snickering at me when my phone starts ringing. It’s a quick conversation with one of the contractors regarding the wiring of one of the stables. I hang up and turn to Ray with a question that’s been nagging at me for the last hour, but I haven’t had time to ask.

“Ray darling, what and where is ‘Heaven’?” I still have a bad feeling about going to a place with such an ambiguous name. “And who are “we?”“

Chapter 15

“Darling!” I am being accosted by something that I can only identify as a drag queen on steroids. “Ray has told me so much about you.” He/she grabs me, plants two loud kisses on each cheek and then holds me at an arm’s length. “Just like he told me. A true beauty, don’t you agree Fiona?”

“Angelica darling, let the poor girl go.” Fiona pulls Angelica-darling off me and gives me a kind smile. “You most definitely are much more than what Ray told us about you. And I just adore your outfit!”

The greeting party at the door is growing and everyone is inspecting my “outfit”. Getting dressed for this party has been one of the most trying experiences of my entire life, which almost ended up in a cat fight with my trusty assistant.

Ray refused to let me go home alone and get ready for tonight without him. He expressed his genuine fear at what I might decide to wear and with my track record I don’t really blame him, especially since it is my fashion faux pas that is affording us the night out. After a few insults, sharp retorts and killer looks, we decided that I will allow him – this once – to have his way. This compromise is costing him to take complete control of the seating arrangements for the opening ceremony, which is a societal minefield, but he deems it a worthy sacrifice. After a lengthy negotiation, I gave myself over to his ministrations. He was rather impressed with my wardrobe and gave me a piece of his mind when he saw the outfits that I never wear.

I don’t wear those outfits because I think they are just too sexy for me. Plunging necklines and bottom hugging pants are for vixens and that I am not. Ray and I landed up having yet another heated disagreement about my self-effacing opinion and then concluded that we should focus on the present and pick an ensemble for me. His choice horrified me, but since he assured me that ‘Heaven’ is far out of town, I decided to humour the man and wear the blasted outfit. I got dressed only after I managed to get him to leave the room though.

And now I’m here with the cast of a very popular drag show, concentrating on pulling my stomach in. Why is it that on a night like tonight, all of a sudden, out of the blue my stomach decides to become bloated? Why can’t it be like on Saturdays when there is no one to look at me that my stomach is as flat as a washboard, but the moment I wear something other than tracksuit pants, air fills my belly? I never thought it would come to this, but at this moment I envy Blossom and his ability to get rid of unwanted air. It certainly would make me look two sizes smaller if I could fart on command. Discreetly of course.

Ray chose a simple dress for me to wear. I must admit that I love this dress, but never had the courage to wear it. It is a Little Black Number with an uneven hem that shows off enough leg to make me anxious about the moment I will have to sit down. The body-hugging cut shows off my bloated stomach and J Lo butt, but even I have to admit that the cleverly cut neckline turns my bosom into a weapon of mass distraction. Ray, a man of many talents, grabbed a tub of hair gel and I now sport a very sleek wet look that is the topic of discussion now.

“Ray, you old devil! If I knew that you were this good with hair, I would’ve called on you a long time ago.”

“That is why I didn’t tell you, Venus.” Venus – who decided on these names? – fakes a stab in the heart and gives Ray the evil eye. Ray just smiles at her with the irony that only a friend can bestow on another friend. “Ladies, if you will excuse us, I have to take Ms Fields to her seat.”

Ray gently cups my elbow and leads me through the crowd of drag queens. I feel like I’m swimming through an ocean of feathers, perfume and platform shoes. We come out on the other side unscathed and Ray leads me into the theatre. On the way here in the car he told me about his friends’ show at ‘Heaven’, which is a huge casino and entertainment development frequented by the who’s who whenever they pass through this part of the country.

The entrance of the complex attests to it. When we arrived, so many different people greeted us – people parking the car, taking our coats, offering drinks and offering assistance – that I felt as if I stepped into a Disney fairytale movie. Ray immediately took me backstage to show me off to his ‘girls’. Being surrounded by twelve drag queens can be quite intimidating, as I just discovered, but I feel a million times sexier and more confident after all their ooh-ing and aah-ing. I even put a little swing into my walk and feel the soft material of my dress swishing against my derrière.

We reach our row and I am surprised at how packed the place is. It is a large theatre that must seat at least a thousand people and I only spot the occasional empty seat. Since this is my first visit to a casino theatre, I don’t have much experience to draw on, but I am sure that compared to other theatres like this one, it gives the others a good run for their money. It is the most impressive modern theatre that I’ve been to.

As Murphy’s law dictates, our seats are in the middle of the row and we have to squeeze past ten people to reach it, all the while muttering apologies. A gentleman whose legs are too long nearly trips me up, but I recover with aplomb and immediately receive a glare from Ray.

“Can we at least reach our chairs without an episode?” he hisses at me. At this moment he reminds of
Erin
, and I smile inwardly at the gay men in my life constantly getting annoyed with me. I respond to his hiss with the same sneer I usually use on
Erin
and think of how my best friend would love this place. We reach our seats and I concentrate on sitting down without providing a show before the real show begins. I manage to sit without any mishap and gratefully, with a quietly disguised sigh, let out my stomach. Oh yeah.

“It was truly fabulous!” I can’t remember when last I enjoyed a show so much. The ‘girls’ were outrageously funny and highly skilled. The cabaret show was top class, from the music to the choreography to the humour with which it was presented. My hands are still red and smarting from the very lengthy applause they received at the end of the show. It took Ray and me a lot of fortitude and willpower to fight our way through all the ageing necklines and diamond cuff links to reach the back stage again. We’re met with twelve sweating, smiling and very loud ‘ladies’ who are obviously on a post-performance high.

“Darlings, look who’s here!” Venus spots us first and the whole groups turn to us. “How did you enjoy the show, Flower?”

“I loved it,” I say with sincerity. “It’s amazing how you move with these outfits. I would never be able to do that.” And that is the truth. Manoeuvring my way across a floor in this outfit requires concentration. I can’t even imagine having a tight little leather skirt with platform boots, or a ballroom gown with those spiky sandals. These people move with amazing grace. I’m a disgrace to my gender.

“Oh Possum, all it takes is a bit of practice. You’re doing famously in that little outfit of yours. I would just die to have a bosom like that.”

“Oh yes, is it real?” Fiona asks longingly and moves in for a closer look. All of a sudden I have twelve drag queens and Ray staring at my chest trying to figure out the authenticity of it and I feel very afraid they will ask to touch my girls in another moment. Ray must’ve sensed my discomfort, because he’s the one who breaks the spell.

“Well, I am sure that Ms Fields would like to keep some secrets.” He gives them a look that would halt any comments they had planned. “We’re going to explore the floor and will meet you at the usual place a bit later. Give me a call when you ladies are ready.” Once again Ray takes me by the elbow and leads me out of a potential embarrassing situation. For this I’ll forgive him for telling me this afternoon that his auntie Sue dresses sexier than me.

We make our way to the gambling floor and I forget all about my bloated abdomen, which by the way has not yet absconded. I have never, and I mean never seen money on legs before tonight. I’m no expert in designer suits, dresses, shoes and the like, but from one look I can tell that I’m the only one on this floor wearing something worth less than a good month’s salary. The jewellery adorning some ladies’ necks and fingers could feed an African nation.

“This area is only entered by invitation. People come from all over the country, actually all over the world to be seen here. This is the place to meet the people who know the people or who are the people.”

“Who owns this place?”

“It is the great mystery of our area. There are rumours that it’s owned by an oil magnate, others say that it is owned by the government in an attempt to keep an eye on the big money rollers. My favourite theory is that it is owned by the
Vatican
in an attempt to raise more revenue from this godless part of the world.” I smile at this outrageous theory, which could be true, and continue to let my eyes wander from designer person to designer person.

We walk from table to table and it hurts to see how people are literally throwing money away. I’m by no means poor. My financial status is one of comfort. I’m able to pay all the bills, buy good cosmetics and have nice holidays. Not ever have I considered carrying a roll of money in a little designer purse, peel the bills off and throw it on a table to raise the bet like the very tanned woman at the table in front of us.

“Ray,” I whisper. “Do you see that woman? Look at the roll of money in his hand and at his very obviously fake tan. She should take that roll of cash and go on a Greek holiday for some real sun or buy a better self-tanning lotion. Carrot yellow doesn’t look good on anyone’s skin.”