I've discovered that the thing to do in these situations is to concentrate
on doing some small job. It makes you look busy, it keeps you out of the way, and
at least you can point to something you've done if anyone asks. Not that they have
so far. In this case it is telling two guys where to put some potted plants.
"Two, two. Testing.
Two, two," says a voice from behind me but when I look around I can see no
one. A techie guy laughs at my confusion and explains: "It's a new sound system.
There are three hundred miniature speakers around the place, tucked away in flower
arrangements and places like here..." He reaches up and pulls out what looks
like a black match box from behind a picture. "So wherever you are it sounds
like someone next to you is talking rather than all that shitty sound quality with
Tannoys booming and distorting across the room."
Suddenly sequences of
the new, updated website flash onto the screens. One telly in the wall of monitors
isn't working and remains obstinately blacked out, like a missing tooth in a smile.
The techie tuts and yells something to his mate.
"I told you that
they were your responsibility," Simon is saying.
"Hello? Are you not
hearing me? My responsibility was to buy them. Your responsibility was to get them
here," spits Heaven, lovingly enunciating every venomous syllable.
Simon consults his clipboard
but, finding no solace in it, says: "Well, I would have thought buying them
would have included actually, you know, getting them here."
"Not when I had no
budget for transport and the shop doesn't deliver. I would have thought that was
obvious," says Heaven, hands on hips, edging slowly closer to Simon who is
pretending that he is not remotely interested in this conversation. Finally Heaven
is so far into his adversary's personal space that Simon has to say something: "Well,
at the end of the day it's your problem. You're responsible for candles and you
haven't got them." Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, goes unsaid. The two face
each other for a few moments.
"Oh, working with
you is just Hell," says Heaven.
At that moment Piers arrives.
"Finger tip control?"
he says, rubbing his hands together. Heaven and Simon give him a poisonous look
but he is impervious to it and rearranges some of the exotic flowers, admiring his
irrelevant handiwork. "How's it going Charlie?"
"Fine, no problem.
Should be ready in plenty of time, shouldn't we Simon?"
It's supposed to be supportive
but Simon obviously doesn't see it that way. His jaw locks and he shudders slightly
before spitting out: "No problem."
"Great," says
Piers.
"Huh! Give him a
clipboard and suddenly he thinks he's bloody Stalin," yells Heaven from across
the room. Simon begins to talk to Piers. "Poncey public school twat!"
adds Heaven for good measure.
"You will never work
for The Communications Game again," says Simon with dignity.
"Good!" yells
back Heaven. "I wouldn't want to!" He turns around to concentrate on something
else. "Oh, for God's sake, sprinkle love, sprinkle," he shouts at one
of his terrified staff. "If I'd wanted that much glitter on it I'd have given
you a bloody shovel."
"Splendid,"
says Piers.
At two minutes to eight it looks like we're finally there. Waiters
and waitresses are milling around with full drinks trays, moving into position around
the main reception room - one is showing another the underside of his shoe for some
reason. An older waitress with rather exaggerated eye make-up sidles up to me and
says: "What time does overtime start?"
"Midnight,"
I tell her.
"Oh, good, thanks"
she says. I've actually no idea but I suppose I ought to know. The candlesticks,
I discover, have arrived because the owner of the shop was persuaded (and bribed)
to come back and open it especially so that they could be biked over to us. Now
the huge, gilt gothic pieces with their towering black candles are placed on each
table along with white lilies and black
on doing some small job. It makes you look busy, it keeps you out of the way, and
at least you can point to something you've done if anyone asks. Not that they have
so far. In this case it is telling two guys where to put some potted plants.
"Two, two. Testing.
Two, two," says a voice from behind me but when I look around I can see no
one. A techie guy laughs at my confusion and explains: "It's a new sound system.
There are three hundred miniature speakers around the place, tucked away in flower
arrangements and places like here..." He reaches up and pulls out what looks
like a black match box from behind a picture. "So wherever you are it sounds
like someone next to you is talking rather than all that shitty sound quality with
Tannoys booming and distorting across the room."
Suddenly sequences of
the new, updated website flash onto the screens. One telly in the wall of monitors
isn't working and remains obstinately blacked out, like a missing tooth in a smile.
The techie tuts and yells something to his mate.
"I told you that
they were your responsibility," Simon is saying.
"Hello? Are you not
hearing me? My responsibility was to buy them. Your responsibility was to get them
here," spits Heaven, lovingly enunciating every venomous syllable.
Simon consults his clipboard
but, finding no solace in it, says: "Well, I would have thought buying them
would have included actually, you know, getting them here."
"Not when I had no
budget for transport and the shop doesn't deliver. I would have thought that was
obvious," says Heaven, hands on hips, edging slowly closer to Simon who is
pretending that he is not remotely interested in this conversation. Finally Heaven
is so far into his adversary's personal space that Simon has to say something: "Well,
at the end of the day it's your problem. You're responsible for candles and you
haven't got them." Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, goes unsaid. The two face
each other for a few moments.
"Oh, working with
you is just Hell," says Heaven.
At that moment Piers arrives.
"Finger tip control?"
he says, rubbing his hands together. Heaven and Simon give him a poisonous look
but he is impervious to it and rearranges some of the exotic flowers, admiring his
irrelevant handiwork. "How's it going Charlie?"
"Fine, no problem.
Should be ready in plenty of time, shouldn't we Simon?"
It's supposed to be supportive
but Simon obviously doesn't see it that way. His jaw locks and he shudders slightly
before spitting out: "No problem."
"Great," says
Piers.
"Huh! Give him a
clipboard and suddenly he thinks he's bloody Stalin," yells Heaven from across
the room. Simon begins to talk to Piers. "Poncey public school twat!"
adds Heaven for good measure.
"You will never work
for The Communications Game again," says Simon with dignity.
"Good!" yells
back Heaven. "I wouldn't want to!" He turns around to concentrate on something
else. "Oh, for God's sake, sprinkle love, sprinkle," he shouts at one
of his terrified staff. "If I'd wanted that much glitter on it I'd have given
you a bloody shovel."
"Splendid,"
says Piers.
At two minutes to eight it looks like we're finally there. Waiters
and waitresses are milling around with full drinks trays, moving into position around
the main reception room - one is showing another the underside of his shoe for some
reason. An older waitress with rather exaggerated eye make-up sidles up to me and
says: "What time does overtime start?"
"Midnight,"
I tell her.
"Oh, good, thanks"
she says. I've actually no idea but I suppose I ought to know. The candlesticks,
I discover, have arrived because the owner of the shop was persuaded (and bribed)
to come back and open it especially so that they could be biked over to us. Now
the huge, gilt gothic pieces with their towering black candles are placed on each
table along with white lilies and black
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