Crossing the line - 19. An evening party: preparations

In his new role at The Manor, Dan was responsible for internal and external security. His presence was not necessary at evening events, there was a pool of other qualified guys to supervise. But Dan felt he should get his hands dirty, so he did occasional evening duties. However, since he’d joined, Francis Heyward hadn’t had a really big event; evening duties simply involved an enormous amount of waiting around and boredom, he assured me. Heyward’s event planner, Dudley, had moaned to Dan that life at The Manor had got very boring.

I’d become aware, however, that Francis Heyward had plans because of one of Archie’s emails about the hang of the new pictures had mentioned in passing that the rooms being used to lay out the new pictures would be needed for their ‘proper purpose’. There seemed little chance of us ever getting to the point of having a hang. Francis Heyward would constantly want to tweak things, feeling that a new picture was needed, etc. It drove me mad. The ultimate happened, inevitably; the pictures were crated up and the basement cleared. There was a new restored print of the film Lawrence of Arabia coming out, there was to be a screening in the cinema room and a themed party.

Dudley was evidently all glee, until it was realised quite how long the film is. The event had to be scaled back, just drinks, no fancy dress, and a screening. Dudley had suggested only showing a bit of the film, but Francis Heyward would not commit such sacrilege, if they were doing the film, then they would do it properly. There would be a themed party later, after Francis Heyward returned from his travels. This latter piece of information coming from Dan via Dudley, made my heart sink, we weren’t ever going to finish the new hang of pictures, were we?

Dan put himself down for the screening. It was to be what the guys called a fancy event; they’d be kitted out. This time just black waistcoats and black jock straps, and black trainers. The guys lined up in the hall as people arrived (the meat rack as they called it), then duty in pairs, two in the hall, two at each entrance, two supervising drinks, but during the screening only two would be needed.

It seemed to be quite straight forward in prospect. I joked with Dan that he’d be able to slip in the back and watch the film. His reaction was a picture, a) that he would do something so unprofessional and b) he hadn’t actually seen the film. We’d have to have an outing.

Plans began with spreadsheets and timelines, but for a fancy event there were other considerations, and Dan found himself needing to ensure there was the right size jock and waistcoat for each man (they provided their own shoes), plus some spare for emergencies. Then he and Dudley had to go over things, and so it went on. The night before, they were having a technical run through, and Dan asked if I wanted to go. Francis Heyward wouldn’t be there, just the staff checking that everything was as expected.

Coming up the drive, my first thought was ‘Did they have to?’. The house was illuminated; the pillars of the portico and the rather anaemic pilasters that dotted the façade were picked out in a combination of mauve and taupe. Undoubtedly dramatic, but bilious in a Blackpool-illuminations sort of way.

The steps leading up to the portico were similarly highlighted, making ascending a curious experience. Thankfully, the Marble Hall was let be, bar a few dramatic uplighters that, if anything, strengthened the architectural elements. Beautifully lit, the Norman James painting looked spectacular.

A young black guy, tall and rangy, dressed in shapeless, loose, black sweatshirt and jeans was fiddling with what looked like extra cabling, and being given grief by a man I recognised as Dudley and another man, I found out later he was a professional party planner. Dan went to check in with them and I wandered off on my own.

Two young women in logo-ed overalls, hair neatly tied back, were putting final touches to tall tables in the staircase hall their crisp white cloths hardly evoking the party’s theme but looking striking with more creative lighting. Thankfully the Donald Mitchells were all well lit with spotlights.

One of the women noticed my interest, “What you reckon on them? Quite something to have in your hallway.”

The other, younger of the two women giggled, “Wouldn’t mind having him in my hallway.”

I smiled, “Well that’s what the sequence is about, Michell having young Greg.”

“You some sort of expert?”, the older one glared at me.

“Of a sort. I write about art”, this got a dismissive look, “and I know both the artist and the model.”

“Fancy. So…”

Thankfully we were interrupted by a man, I presume their manager, come to chivvy them along.

You couldn’t take your eyes off Greg and seeing him so expertly lit was an experience. I had just finished my contemplations and was thinking about exploring further when the music started, Maurice Jarre’s soundtrack from the film, belting out at an unpleasant volume. What with the general level of gloom and now the noise, you couldn’t imagine either seeing to eat or being able to have a conversation.

Entering the drawing room was to go into a different world. The whole had been draped in fabric emulating a tent. Lighting was simply from lanterns that emulated tole, atmospheric but providing no real illumination. Scattered across the floor were piles of cushions of all colours and sizes. Visually a rich feast and an invitation to lounge. I had the room to myself, so I tried them out and decided the cushions looked better than they felt.

The dining room and its anteroom were similarly laid out, but the gardens were dramatically lit, providing interest, colour and light. Someone had gone to town, trees and large shrubs highlighted with brilliant colours, a striking panorama of shadow, colour and light that seemed more colouring book than garden.

Another young man, checking the draperies, disappeared and I felt a pair of hands on my waist and a familiar voice in my ear, “Getting ideas for your garden?”

I snorted, “I don’t think so.”

“Quite something though, isn’t it?”

“In a kitsch sort of way.”

Dan considered, “Suppose it is, really.”

“Perhaps if we got you a shed, we could light it like this, make it a highlight.”

He laughed out loud, then.

“I’ll grant, it’s clever and a technical achievement.”

“But you don’t rate it?”

“Do you?” I regretted the question immediately, putting him on the spot, almost demanding that he agree with me. We didn’t have to like the same things.

“Bit much. Bit artificial. Sort of prefer the plants natural, like”, then he nibbled my ear. “Something romantic like the Villa Torronia at dusk.”

I laughed and we had a moment, enjoyable and surprising.

“You seen the long gallery, yet?”

“No, why?”

“Come on, Joey’s testing it all now, it’s another treat”, and he gave a leering grin.

The gallery was bare, the long wall was covered in plain fabric, smooth not draped and on it were being projected scenes from the film, some movie clips others slowly changing sequences of stills, but mixed in were clips from an Arab-themed gay porn film, the visuals blended into each other creating a weird Lawrence of Arabia porn mirage, whilst in the background the film’s music played, low this time.

“Quite something, isn’t it?”

I shook my head, “It’s unbelievable. Clever. You know it’s a fake, a cut and paste job, but it draws you in.”

“Fancy it, do you?” He leered at me.

“Well, those two”, I nodded at two burly men going at it, “bit too bulky and hairy for my taste but it really brings out the Lawrence of Arabia gay fantasy.”

He smiled, “Yeah, reckon we agree on that.”

I laughed, “You know, we don’t have to agree on things.”

He nodded, “I know that. It’s just that sometimes, I don’t have strong opinions and like to know yours.”

“Fair enough. But I’m happy if we disagree, it’s all part of the fun.” He nodded and we stared at it for a bit, “I wonder whether Amanda would be up for displaying it at the Tramshed?”

“Lawrence of Arabia porn as art, priceless.”

I pulled a face, “Copyright would be hell, though.”

We didn’t spend much longer there. Dan had checked in with all the tech staff, massaged the Party Planner’s ego and soothed Dudley’s. So, it was job done. Early night with supper in front of the TV.

“How would you have done it, then?”

“The party?”

“Yeah, how it looks and that. If you had The Manor.”

“And Heyward’s budget?”

He rolled his eyes, “Of course.”

“Nothing like putting me on the spot.” It was a fair enough question. On the journey home I’d commented about the party seeming to give the lie to Francis Heyward’s innate sense of taste.

“Get a light artist to create an installation on the house’s front.”

“Like those things in London, projected onto landmarks?”

“That’s it. After all, the basic house is quite plain.”

“Plenty to project on, OK. But what?”

“Give them a free rein, just Lawrence of Arabia as the theme. Then inside, keep the Marble Hall and Staircase Hall lighting at an acceptable level, can those tables, keep the spotlights on Greg, have sofas, easy chairs.”

“A chill out space?”

“That’s it. Then turn the drawing room into a sort of souk, even spread out onto the terrace. Stalls of food, waiters in Arab costumes as the stallholders, keep the dining room as is, perhaps drop the film music in place of something more genuine, with street noises and enticing smells.”

“Incense?”

“And spices, the lot.”

“Nice.”

“Oh, and naked boys”, I grinned, “with a couple of masters, with whips to make sure no funny business.”

“Fucking hell.”

I grinned, “Keep the long gallery as it is.”

“Not much then?”

“Well, you asked.”

“Quite some imagination you’ve got. Perhaps we should tell Mr H.”

“Bloody hell, no. Don’t you dare.” Dan gave an evil laugh, winding me up, “I do not want to add Heyward’s party planner to my resume, thank you very much.”

The evening itself seemed set to be pretty much business as usual. Dan was going to stay with me, but I wouldn’t stay up. At least, that was what I said, but I was restless and, if truth to tell, a bit nervous, jealous even. I tried to pretend that I was totally relaxed, but with Dan wandering around with guys in jockstraps, scantily clad waiters, and such. Not to mention Francis Heyward; in my mind’s eye he loomed, predatory. So, I was still up when Dan got home and his face, his delight, when he saw me, made it worthwhile. Over a drink, he recited evening’s events, though I never did find out who was actually present at the party, Dan’s only hint was that there were folk whose names I would recognise.