Violet never wore a uniform when overseeing a Grand function. She usually adhered to the party's dress code. The better to blend while not being taken for wait staff. Tonight, she felt young and happy and quite sure that a little black dress would never do. A cinched pearl coloured dress, opalescent in some light, bottled joy in her assisted hourglass. The sprinkling of star shaped clips tucked into her loosely upswept hair was an ode to the only man she wanted close enough to detect them.
Christmas parties were usually much tamer than this one. Tonight's gregarious swelling crowd had the sort of we're all going to go sometime, let's live it up tonight attitude of a New Year's Eve bash. It was a group that consisted of scientists, activists, engineers, volunteers, politicians, Sagittarians, and a few charitable tycoons. Most were of John's acquaintance. Most were of his ilk. They mixed and mingled and switched cliques with ease. From the moment the party started, the hot tables were descended upon. The bar was invisible through a constant throng. The few dancers who dared to do so early and without camouflage found spots near the speakers. A line of very good looking young men staked a claim near the non-alcoholic beverage table as a flirting station, wasting no time in lining up dancing partners for later over the punch bowl. The eyebrow wriggling was insane, but by Violet's second pass it had become a little less vigorous.
The dessert table was the one obvious over-indulgence at the event besides the venue itself. It was a rolled out red carpet of sweets and decadent treats from a local French patisserie, a chocolate artist, and Buttermilk Baby. The French shop had also provided the grand prize for the charity raffle, a spectacular cake sculpted and painted into an edible stack of toys, protected under a clear glass case. The winner of the last raffle would get to take it home if he or she could get it out the door. Violet was bringing a new roll of tickets to the server in charge when she heard an argument coming from the coat room.
Cheryl and Ingrid stopped arguing when they saw Violet and turned their backs and ponytails on one another in tense silence.
"What's going on in here, ladies?" Violet asked. "Only the food preppers are allowed to threaten each other."
"I think we should split tips evenly and Cheryl wants to keep what we get individually." Violet remembered the girls had never worked the same shift together.
"I think splitting is more fair," Violet said.
"Especially because Cheryl isn't doing up top buttons," Ingrid complained.
Violet instantly checked necklines for unfair advantages.
"On the coats," Ingrid specified.
"It saves time," said Cheryl.
"But they keep falling off the hangers and who has to waste time in the back picking them up while you make all the tips? Me."
"Who wants a drink?" Violet asked, patting them both on the shoulders.
"Champagne!" Cheryl brightened.
"Small ones," Violet promised. "Button the buttons, split the tips, and I'll be back soon."
After the drink, she was inside the large dining hall again, anxious to see whether John had arrived. There was no sign of him so far. In the meantime, Violet had an interesting conversation with a media co-ordinator about air-time discounts if The Grand was interested in advertising. They exchanged business cards and then suddenly there was Bob Fellows in a Santa hat.
"Oh, deliver me," the co-ordinator said, flicking Bob's hat so that the point of it flopped right instead of left. She excused herself from forming a threesome.
YOU ARE READING
Worth
ChickLitWhen an eccentric old neighbour dies and names Violet March in his will, she is even more surprised than his estranged and spoiled family. To make matters stranger, she learns that all must attend a pretend murder-mystery weekend for any to claim a...
