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Her eyes say clearly that she would punch me across the face if there weren’t so many witnesses.
“I’m in my seat,” I say, loudly enough for security to hear me. “The attendant sat me here.” I pick up the card in front of my plate. “This is my name.”
Miranda’s mouth flaps; the security guards exchange a nervous look. Apparently Miranda was under the impression that I’d just snuck in here and sat down.
She doesn’t know she’s dealing with a professional.
“What’s the problem?” Selina asks.
Everyone’s eyes go to her. I’ve lucked out. Nobody here wants to make a scene, doubly so under the curious gaze of two Hollywood celebrities.
“My apologies, Ms. Marlo,” Miranda oozes. “But Ms. Slate was erroneously seated at this table.” She turns back to me. “And she needs to leave.”
Propriety should force me to stand and genuflect to Miranda, asking for the situation to be rectified immediately. Sadly for Miranda (and propriety), I have a job to do.
“I don’t believe I am,” I say. I pick up the card at the setting beside me and read it as if making sure. “Yes, see. I’m here with Mr. Westing. This is his place card right here.”
“There’s been a mistake,” Miranda growls. “And I’d like you to come with me. Otherwise—”
Now we’re negotiating. I drop the troubled confusion and replace it with what my friends have described as unnerving calm.
“You’ll have security drag me out of here?” I pause. “Now that would be a scene, wouldn’t it?”
The line has been drawn: the only way to get me out of this chair is to drag me out of it.
“And who are you?” At the sight of potential drama, Marmie’s hearing aids have flown magically back into her ears. She eyes Miranda suspiciously. “What do you want? Why are you leaning over me?”
Miranda is ten feet away from Marmie, but that fact seems beside the point.
Miranda looks between me and the expectant Marmie, sensing that her power over the situation is slipping. Unfortunately, just when I think she’s going to back down, her backup arrives.
“Just what the hell is going on here?” Paul’s tux doesn’t fit him very well. He looks like he’s packed into it, his neck pink and straining like a newly-stuffed sausage. But I suspect his flush is less due to poor circulation and more because his orders aren’t being obeyed.
He pushes around the security guards and does a double take at my face. “What are you doing?” he demands. “Where are the Waltons?”
Miranda and I turn as one to Table 107. It’s too far away to fully make out, but there appears to be a seating attendant being verbally abused by two geezers in cummerbunds.
Miranda turns back with a triumphant smile; my own resolve weakens.
“This is where I was seated,” I repeat. “It’s where my place card is. And Mr. Westing’s.”
The situation is looking dire. I’m surrounded by unfriendly faces and even Selina has taken a hesitant step back, unsure of what’s happening and if she should insert herself into it.
Paul reaches over and grabs both our place cards and chucks them over his shoulder. “There. Now they aren’t. Get up.”
His voice is raising and the commotion is attracting the attention of nearby tables. Miranda is looking very much like she wants this to not escalate any further, but it’s a little too late for that.
“I’m not moving,” I say. “They’ll have to drag me out.”
“Fine,” Paul says without a moment’s hesitation. He snaps his fingers at the security guards. “Take her out of here.”
The guards look between Miranda and Paul. I’m not sure if Miranda comes to the conclusion that a loud but rapid end is better than a sustained argument, or if maybe she doesn’t want to contradict Paul, or perhaps she just wants to see me get carried out of here like a piece of pavement, but whatever the reason she gives the guards a little nod and my stomach sinks.
Okay, fine. If it’s a scene they want, then it’s a scene they’ll get. Nobody has ever accused me of going quietly.
The security guards move forward and put their hands on my arms and I’m just about to get loud when a voice rings out over mine.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
