Dyan Sheldon - Away for the Weekend

“They have to let her in if she has a ticket.” Beth removes hers from her bag and hands it to Gabriela.

Delila moans. “Oh, mama… Don’t tell me you think you’re going into the writers’ gig dressed like a body-spray commercial?”

“I’d like somebody to try to stop me,” says Beth.

The Cary Grant Conference Hall is, in fact, an auditorium with staggered rows of seats and a stage across the far wall. It is a windowless room, lit indirectly, climate controlled and acoustically advanced, so that pins can be heard to drop no matter where you sit and no one has to shout to be heard or tap the mic or blanch when the sound system shrieks. Its anodyne walls have been decorated for the occasion with large black-and-white photographs of famous writers (Hemingway with a dead animal, Tolstoy with a beard, Jane Austen with a cap on her head), creating an atmosphere that is at once exotic and intellectual.

Every English department in every college in the area has been invited to this landmark event, and almost every seat is taken. The finalists in the Tomorrow’s Writers Today competition sit in the middle of the front row, ready to take their turns at the podium, flanked by the distinguished writers and academics who acted as judges. Professor Gryck (who will be giving the opening address) stands like a sentry on the bottom step of the stairs that lead to the right side of the stage.

Among her many skills and talents, Professor Gryck is a consummate multitasker. Although she is busier than a Viking raiding party this morning, she knows exactly who is seated and waiting for the ceremony to begin – and who isn’t. Beth Beeby. Of course. Who else? Apparently Beth Beeby is, if not the Devil’s spawn, at least a close relative, who for some reason is determined to undermine Professor Gryck every chance she gets and is doing a splendid, almost inspired, job of it – so splendid that not even two run-ins with the law have been enough to make her stop. Professor Gryck looks at her watch. And then back to the two empty seats in the front row. Where in the name of Snorri Sturluson is she?

Being the proactive kind of person that she is, Professor Gryck doesn’t hover hopefully at the front of the stage waiting for something to happen. Smiling grimly, she marches up the aisle to see for herself if there’s any sign of Beth. She reaches the door just as it opens and Delila Greaves and some blonde walk in. Though, like the rest of us, she often hides the fact, Professor Gryck is not a stupid woman. For a few seconds, she’s puzzled by the apparition in front of her – where did she come from? what is she doing here? – but then she realizes that the shining blonde in the aggressively trendy suit and cinderblock platforms hasn’t stumbled in here by mistake; she is none other than the drab and colourless Beth Beeby herself. She can just make out the small, pinched features under the make-up and the tiny bat wings that have been glued to her lashes. Professor Gryck is not the sort of person to giggle, but the corners of her mouth do twitch. You almost have to admire the girl. What better way to damage her authority and the integrity of the event than to turn up looking like you’re going to a party?

“You’re late,” she says, her eyes on Delila. “Go and sit down.”

Delila, who’d expected more resistance, scuttles forward with relief.

But when Beth starts to wobble after her, Professor Gryck puts out a hand to stop her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Though Beth, of course, would have preferred to tiptoe to her seat without attracting the professor’s attention, she doesn’t yet realize that there’s a problem.

“I’m going to sit down.”

“Sit down?” Professor Gryck looks at her as if she said she was going to get her camel. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Professor Gryck.” Beth moves her head forward and smiles. “Professor Gryck, it’s me. Beth. Beth Beeby.”

“I know who you are.” Arms folded, mouth set, Professor Gryck has become an immovable force. “But you’re not coming in here looking like that.”

Beth blinks. “I’m not?”

“No, you’re not.” She leans forward to speak directly into Beth’s ear. “I have worked very hard for this day, young lady, and neither you nor anyone else is going to ruin it for me.”

“I don’t want to ruin it,” says Beth, with remarkable calm and reasonableness considering the morning she’s had already. “I just want to take part.”

“You listen to me.” Professor Gryck’s words hit the air like hail hitting the ground. “This is a literary consortium, not an audition for some Hollywood movie. I will not have it cheapened and debased by the likes of you.”

“Me?” If only Professor Gryck were as reasonable as Beth. “But that’s ridiculous. I’m me . I’m exactly the same person I was when you met me.”

“No, you’re not. Then you were a serious, sensible young woman. Now, you’re a … a party girl.”

“No, I’m not. I’m one of the finalists. You can’t keep me out.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t know who you are. You are not the girl whose photo is in our brochure. If I asked any of the others to pick Beth Beeby out of a line-up, they wouldn’t pick you, believe me.”

“Delila would.”

“That’s one out of twenty.” None too gently, Professor Gryck takes hold of Beth and propels her into the hall. “Let me assure you that if you try to get back in here, I’ll call security and have you forcibly removed.” She turns to the young woman from the hotel who’s been given the job of keeping out latecomers. “Did you hear that? If I see this girl inside again, you’ll find yourself working in a motel in Nebraska.” With which pronouncement, the leading authority on the Norse sagas steps back into the auditorium and shuts the door behind her.

“She’s bluffing.”

These words so exactly echo Beth’s own thoughts, that for a second she thinks that she spoke them out loud. And then she realizes that it’s the hotel clerk who spoke them out loud, though she doesn’t realize that this is not the same clerk who let her and Delila in only minutes before.

“Excuse me?”

“She’s bluffing. She can’t have you forcibly removed.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No way. And I have no intention of keeping you out. But I think you should ditch those shoes before you hurt yourself.” Remedios, who beat Otto sixteen rounds at jan-ken-pon to be the one to sit in on the writers’ event, goes over to the door and cracks it open. “She has her back to us,” she whispers. “Come on.”

Two days ago, an invitation like this would have sent Beth running back to her room. Now, however, she merely nods and, holding the offending shoes, quickly follows the young woman inside. They’ve already slipped into two miraculously empty seats at the back, slouching so they can’t be seen behind the heads of the people in front of them, when Professor Gryck takes the stage.

“Firstly, I have to say that it is an honour for me to welcome you all to the First Annual Tomorrow’s Writers Today Symposium on behalf of our generous sponsors…”

Remedios closes her eyes. “Wake me up when it gets interesting,” she whispers.

The man at the door of the Grace Kelly Room (an actor who’s played a CIA agent in several forgotten movies and was very good in the role) lets Gabriela in with a puzzled smile but with no argument. She does, after all, have a ticket, and she is with someone who isn’t dressed like a pilgrim and obviously belongs. “Enjoy yourselves,” he says, looking at Lucinda, and winks.

Nonetheless, it’s just as well that Taffeta Mackenzie, though also good at multitasking, is not at all skilled at astral projection and can only be in one place at a time. At the moment, that place is in the makeshift “dressing room” off the service corridor where the models are getting ready for the show.