“Can you check again, please,” I said, full of sweetness and light. Aunt Miranda wasn’t much in the way of motherly, but she had taught me a few essential life skills. Her top tip is never to piss off the gatekeeper, i.e., the receptionist, the secretary, the personal assistant, or the hotel clerk. That was a pure guarantee, she said, of being separated from what you hoped to gain or achieve. “My aunt works here. Maybe you know her?”
He gives me a hard once-over. At least I think he does. It’s hard to tell behind his menacing shades. At any rate, he’s standing still and facing me.
Hudson lets out a little whine, and bicycles his front legs. I give him a squeeze to warn him not to blow it. To my surprise and relief, a slow smile spreads over The Refrigerator’s face. “That’s a good-lookin’ Jack Russell,” he says. “Real cute dog.”
He presses a button near his chest, and says, “We need an escort at A4. Send a PA right away.”
He reaches out, and says, “May I?”
Bemused, I hand over Hudson, and the big teddy bear of a bouncer snuggles my dog, cooing, “Who’s a handsome dog? You are! That’s right. You’re a handsome dog!” Hudson wriggles gleefully, twitching and contorting his body into a near backbend, burrowing into the multiple chins of the big softie. I look on, smiling. I smell coffee coming from inside. My stomach rumbles. I can’t wait for Aunt Miranda to walk me in, show me where the craft services table is, and sit me down someplace with a view of the tree. I have to confess, I do love a craft services table. I hope they have pastry. Something sweet and fruity would hit the spot about now.
“Who did you say your aunt was?” the bouncer asks, setting Hudson down on the floor.
“Miranda Nichols,” I tell him.
We both squat down to play with Hudson.
“Aw, hell no. For real? You’re not messin’ around.” He presses the button near his chest a second time. “Escort to A4, pronto.” Hudson nuzzles the man’s huge, ham of a hand. “Heh, heh. Real cute dog.”
Huddie’s extra-frisky tonight. Maybe it’s the cold weather or the snow on the ground, but I suspect it’s from being out in the melee. Guilt nudges at the corners of my heart. I really should bring him out more often. I mean, I make sure he gets exercise, and he has plenty of opportunities to relieve himself and all, but he’s such a social butterfly. I wonder if he ever regrets being saddled with a homebody like me.
Even though he’s a dog, Hudson is a “people person.” He rolls over on his back, writhing like an alligator, flapping his paws above him. This elicits a big belly laugh from our formerly foreboding friend. We take turns pretending to nip at Hudson’s hindquarters with our forefingers and thumbs, and each time, he whips around pretending to snap at the offender. He couldn’t look happier if he tried.
Without preamble, two impeccable men’s Italian leather boots appear in my field of vision. Hudson romps over, and moves in to give them a sniff.
“Can I help?” demands a stern, disembodied English voice from above.
I struggle to rise from my position on all fours, but find that now, not only are my feet numb, my knees are stiff from the cold. My new friend, the bodyguard, has nimbly risen and is back at his post, stiff as a statue, staring straight ahead. Hudson thinks I’m still playing a game. He keeps leaping up, punching me in the legs with his two front paws. I teeter, trying to stand, but there’s nothing solid to grab onto. “I need to see Miranda Nichols,” I say, trying to push up with my hands from the ground. Hudson licks my face with glee.
“Miranda Nichols?” He barks out a short laugh before recovering. “She’s a bit busy at the moment.” There’s no sarcasm colder than an Englishman’s sarcasm.
“I’m sure, but could you, just, uh,” I stammer. “Could you please go and get her for me?” I’m hoping by the time she gets here to meet me, I won’t still be scrabbling around on the floor.
“That won’t be possible. She’s unreachable at the moment.”
I see his feet shifting impatiently. I’d better get up quickly. He’s grouchy, and obviously has better things to do. Like Aunt Miranda says, you don’t annoy the gatekeepers. The harder I try to get up, the more the pins and needles prick my feet, and the more Hudson bounces off of my hip like a circus poodle.
“Huddie, no! Down!”
If I could only push off from something… I grab at the man’s knee, but the physics of lifting are all wrong. I strain to re-position my arms. Maybe if I can just crab walk to the director’s chair, I think. Hudson notices my struggle and begins springing up and nipping at my ear.
“Huddie, cut it out,” I say, breathless from trying to maintain my yoga-like position. He barks playfully in response. I try to gain equilibrium, woefully aware that my backside is pointing skyward.
My dress coat, cut quite close through the shoulders, if effectively functioning as a strait jacket. Miranda convinced me that sleek was in last winter. I think I hear fabric ripping. I’m dizzy from hanging my head downward, and Hudson’s sharp barks so close to my ears are making them ring. In a valiant leap, he winds up on the flat of my back, and teeters there for a proud moment before we both tumble over in the snow. I land hard on my bum. It smarts a bit, but I can’t help laughing as Hudson flails like a bug on his back.
“For heaven’s sake,” the man says impatiently. He hooks his hands under my arms and, with seemingly little effort, pulls me up to standing. I’m face-to-chest with an oxblood leather coat, and green knit scarf.
“Oh! It’s you.” Behind his glasses, his eyes are a startling clear blue. I’ve never seen eyes that blue before. I look closer, trying to see if there’s a corona of gold, green, or even turquoise around his pupils. Nope, just bright Grecian blue.
“Have we met?” he asks, holding my gaze.
Oh god, I’ve been staring. “I know you. I mean, no. You’re one of the production assistants I saw on TV.”
I hear a high-pitched little gasp. I whip around to look at The Refrigerator, but he’s cool as a cucumber, arms crossed, eyes straight ahead. If the gasp came from him, he’s not letting on.
“I most certainly am not a production assistant,” he assures me in a Little Lord Fauntleroy voice. He stands up taller, which is a feat. I mean, he’s pretty tall in the first place. “I’m the Assistant Production Manager.” He looks at his watch. “And right about now, I’m responsible for seeing that the mayor of your fine city is briefed before she goes on live television. So, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, turning crisply to walk away.
“Wait!”
“I’m sorry, there’s no access through this door. You’ll have to queue by the barriers for autographs.” He turns again, and Olympic race-walks in the other direction, deftly dodging crates, printers, and myriad interns as he goes.
Hudson lets out a low, slow whine, ending in a bark. He wants the man to play! He’s bowing down with his rump in the air, shimmying. Clearly, he isn’t as offended by the man’s rudeness as I am.
“I’m not here for autographs, I’m going backstage.”
“No dogs allowed. Please exit through the front with your animal. This is a restricted area,” he says, still walking.”
No dogs allowed? I just saw the outlines of a camel and what appeared to be two fully grown sheep through the far tent wall. As if Hudson’s going to infect the place!
“Not for us!”
“Goodbye,” he calls not bothering to turn around. “Marlon, please escort the lady and her dog out to the public plaza.” His snootiness ignites a fire in me. Is that the way he talks to the minions in his fleet of servants back home on the manor in Jolly Olde England, I wonder. I think it’s time he was taught a little respect.