‘Okay, we cannot seat the buyer at Net-a-Porter next to the buyer at Selfridges, Annabelle,’ said Minnie, firmly.
‘Oh right, yes, sorry,’ Annabelle replied in her plummy voice, quickly shuffling the name cards out of the plan and ousting them to the corner along with the rest of the names they hadn’t yet found seats for.
‘No, Alexa Chung is there,’ said Liz, pointing to the spot where Annabelle had just moved the buyer at Selfridges.
‘Right, okay,’ said Annabelle. ‘How about here?’
‘Tucci,’ replied Liz, rolling her eyes.
‘Who?’
‘Stanley Tucci,’ she said, her voice raised now.
The pressure from upstairs had clearly started to sink in. Either that or Liz was due another company-funded spa day. Even Minnie, who quickly rearranged the seating plan, seemed stressed. You could always tell what sort of mood she was in depending on her outfit.
On a normal day, Minnie would glide into the office in one of her floor-length patterned kaftans. Her wardrobe was teeming with them, and she wore them even in the bleakest months of winter. Often loaded up with her trademark gold costume jewellery. The bangles were usually paired with chokers, drop earrings, the lot. Today, though, she had stripped this aesthetic right back. Just one gold bracelet, and a pair of simple gold studs. The dress was purple and patterned, grazing the floor as she walked. But it lacked all the tassels and bobbles that defined her usual style.
This was the first time Rose had worked on an event’s seating plan. It wasn’t really her job to be there today – and the September issue press releases needed doing – but Minnie had wanted her involved with the entire process of the event this time.
‘Who do you think Clara’s strawberry daquiris will want to sit next to?’ Liz asked, thumbing her place card pensively. She had got into the habit of naming Clara after a different drink every time she mentioned her.
‘You know it’s Cosmo Clara, Liz,’ said Minnie, rolling her eyes.
‘No self-respecting adult should ever have to say those words earnestly,’ Liz replied.
‘I think someone who isn’t famous, actually,’ said Rose.
‘Oh really? Thought she would have loved to be rubbing shoulders against celebs,’ Oliver guffawed.
‘Pretending she’s one of them, you know,’ agreed Liz.
‘I don’t think she’s like that,’ said Rose.
‘They are always like that,’ said Oliver.
‘And yet you adore them,’ replied Liz.
‘I do not,’ he snapped back.
Rose stayed silent. She didn’t have the energy to go up against another man today.
‘I really liked that pink leotard she posted about the other day,’ said Annabelle, quietly.
Oliver shot her a look and just let out a huff of smug laughter. He was incredibly selective about which celebrities were worth lauding and which were worthy of derision.
‘I’ll put her next to Billy Kilmson, that daytime producer from ITV,’ said Minnie.
‘Wait, why is he coming?’ asked Liz.
‘They give us good coverage on the morning shows,’ said Minnie.
‘I don’t think we need to seat him. Let’s move him to standing. Save the seats for the ones who will make a fuss.’
‘You say that like it isn’t everyone,’ said Minnie.
‘Do you have anyone who needs his front-row seat?’ asked Rose.
‘Potentially,’ replied Liz, looking over at Oliver.
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ nodded Minnie.
Oliver shot them both a look. ‘I haven’t sorted it yet. Bear with me. I’m still talking to Joss.’
‘Is it Milo Jax?’ asked Annabelle, her voice irritatingly high-pitched.
‘Nothing is confirmed at this stage,’ replied Liz.
‘As soon as I know something, I will tell you all,’ said Minnie, nodding gently at Rose, who managed half a smile in return as she tried to dull the paroxysm of thoughts that had suddenly rushed into her brain.
After work, Rose decided to walk. Not all the way back to Clapham – that would take roughly two hours and twenty-seven minutes, according to iPhone maps. But her office was right by Oxford Circus, just twenty minutes away from Hyde Park. She could walk through the park, past the Palace, and then head towards Victoria and get on the next train to Clapham Junction. She could walk the rest of the way from there. That should still leave her with enough time to get to the dinner.
Luna’s dinners felt like more of an obligation than an invitation. ‘Dinner Party’ was always the name of the WhatsApp group next to an emoji. This time it was a firework. Menus were decided weeks in advance – allergies and dietary requirements taken into account, of course. And everyone always had to ‘pitch’ an idea for an after-dinner game; Luna would then choose the one she liked best.
The bit Rose hated the most, though, was that there were always seating plans, the politics of which she’d long tired of at Firehouse. Of course, there was often a strategy behind Luna’s table placements. Last time, Rose had been seated next to Luna’s cousin, Joseph, who worked for his dad’s investment fund and spent the entire dinner talking about how funny it was that he had a serious job and still managed to go on 7 a.m. benders twice a week. Luna thought they’d be a good match, which, naturally, Rose found deeply insulting. The time before that, Rose had been seated next to a woman named Martina who worked at Mast, Firehouse’s biggest competitor. Luna probably suspected they’d trade tales and gossip about various awful people that worked at their respective companies. But Martina mostly talked about which parts of her face she wanted to get plastic surgery on.
‘What do you think I can do to these bits?’ she asked Rose, pulling at the loose skin on her eyelids.
But before Rose could attempt an explanation at why people, generally speaking, need to keep the skin on their eyelids, someone down the table shouted: ‘Stop snorting coke, babe!’
