Maybe this is a singles event that supports a cause, rather than a profit?
I know my social life is non-existent, but it hasn’t been that long since I was last out socially with other adults. I don’t remember ribbons being a signifier of anything other than for charity fundraising. While I’m a great believer in paying it forward and doing what you can for those in need, the possibility of swimming in a sea of singles makes me feel about as relaxed as I would swimming with sharks.
It all feels so so weird; the ribbons, the exchange. The security guard escorting us to the elevator, an elevator programmed to one destination.
The penthouse suite.
“Why am I sweating like a dieter in a bakery?” A rose gold version of me makes chicken arms in the mirror as the doors slide closed.
“Horses sweat, Fee. Men perspire. Ladies glow.”
“Well, I’m glowing like a glassblower’s backside.”
“Maybe you’re excited.” Beth’s reply sounds hopeful, though her expression is less so. In fact, she looks like she’s swallowed something distasteful.
“So, what’s with the ribbons?”
She glances down at her hand. “Oh, I almost forgot. Here.” She turns as though to pin the white ribbon to the soft silk of my dress.
“Don’t put it there.” Before she can poke the fabric, I move out of her reach. “I’ll just stick it to the front of my clutch.”
I’m already reaching for it when she snatches her hand back.
“You want this to be visible.” There’s something a little off about her smile as she wraps her own gold-coloured ribbon around her neck. “I know I will.”
“Why is yours gold and mine white?” I stare at the jauntily tied bow she ties off to the side.
“Gold is for open.”
“Open for . . . chatting? For love? For finding out what the washing machine does with all those odd socks?”
“Let’s go with experiences.”
“What about the white?” I look down at the ribbon between her fingertips.
“A spectator, I guess.”
“What kind of singles event encourages spectators? Isn’t it by definition a participant sport?” Maybe that’s where the ribbons come in, whispers a ridiculous voice in my head. Ribbons for participation like a school sports day.
But how?
Beth doesn’t answer as the elevators slide open to a low-lit marble foyer. A sleek baby grand piano sits in one corner and dark velvet chairs are arranged artistically around low tables giving the space the air of a luxury hotel. But it isn’t a hotel because there’s no reception desk or concierge. Besides, what sense would there be in putting the entrance to a hotel at the very top?
“I thought tonight would’ve been held in a restaurant,” I whisper as a low hum of voices and sultry jazz drifts in from a room beyond.
“I didn’t say so,” she answers blandly as she passes over her satin jacket to a woman dressed identically to the one downstairs. Oddly, she then passes over her phone.
“You did say this was a private event, I suppose.”
“Yes, very.” Beth and the coat check attendant exchange a look before the latter asks,
“May I take your wrap?”
It isn’t really a wrap, but a soft scarf repurposed as such, but I didn’t have a coat to go with this dress. Plus, I judged correctly that pasties wouldn’t be enough to keep me warm. I unravel it, passing it to the attendant. Suddenly, I feel a little exposed as I begin to fuss with the neckline, making sure the girls are covered.
I don’t want to give the wrong impression.
“If I could just take your cell phone, too.”
“Sorry?” I look up, fingers still wrapped around one of the thin straps.
“Your cell,” the attendant repeats. “I’m afraid there are no electronic devices permitted beyond this point.”
“But I need my phone.” My grip tightens on my tiny clutch. “I’ve left my child with a babysitter for the first time tonight. Can’t I just put it on silent?”
The woman just shakes her head, though smiles kindly.
“We can’t go in unless you leave it.” Beth’s whisper is a little harsh.
“I need to be contactable. I’m sorry, Beth, but this isn’t negotiable for me.”
“I’m afraid rules are rules,” the attendant murmurs softly.
“And I completely understand. My friend will just have to go in without me.”
“I can’t go in on my own,” she protests, reaching out to clutch my arm. But I’m already shaking my head because there’s something fishy about this whole thing.
What kind of singles event forbids electronic devices?
“How about I hold on to it for you?” Both our attentions swing to the woman. “If it rings or there’s a text, someone will come and find you. Mothers do have their priorities,” she adds before I can protest. “But they also deserve to let down their hair once in a while.”
“Exactly! That’s exactly it,” Beth echoes, her relief coming from a place of self-serving rather than anything else. I feel like I’m discovering all kinds of things about her, like how she’s more a Charles kind of friend, whose friendship I often think of in dog terms. That’s not to say Charles possesses the boundless levels of love a dog does, but rather, he’ll forget about you the minute you walk out the door. He’s definitely not the Rose gold standard.