Christmas Party: Prologue

The caterers had been working around the clock. Finally, it was half-past-six in the evening and the last sprig of mistletoe was in place. The arrangements looked spectacular, and David Harber was impressed as he paced the spacious lobby. The dark cranberry of the walls complimented the festive feel, and AWC had spared no expense on the decorations. What had been a simple (though highbrow) reception area had been transformed into a warm, welcoming, classy yet fun entrance room for a party that Harber was determined to implant firmly in the minds of his employees. What was great about Christmas was that it came around every year. The early months of his tenure as the promotion’s Entertainment Manager had been fraught with abbreviated spells in the promotion by erratic in-and-out wrestlers who had promised the world and delivered little. Now, things were improving – though the man they called Pearl hastened to point out that things had already been on the rise before the appointment behind his back of the Russian lady Sasha Volkyeva, or Mother Russia as some called her but never to her face, as his Co-Manager. But Pearl was a firm believer in the principle that incentivising workers led to productivity growth. Amsterdam was a good place for a party. And it had to be. He wanted next year’s Christmas party to be the factor keeping his workers tied to AWC. Nowadays, all these international wrestling promotions were the same apart from the fine details. And David “Pearl” Harber’s Christmas party would be a very fine detail indeed.

Clack, clack, clack. Heels on tiles. Harber turned round, smiling.

“But David, it’s wonderful!” Sasha Volkyeva exclaimed. She was resplendent in a floor-length burgundy dress, a traditional Russian brooch affixed above her left breast and her sumptuous blonde hair done up above her head. Long silver earrings dangled from her reddening lobes, uncomfortable with sustaining such a weight. They’ll be gone within the hour, Pearl thought to himself, as usual looking for the negatives in the woman whose hostile intrusion into his working life had not exactly been welcome. But tonight, he reflected with surprise, the smile on her face looked genuine.

“This will be such fun!” she beamed, walking over to him and casting her eyes up at the high ceiling, at the centre of which there was a large chandelier with red tinsel snaking around it for the night. Offering out her hand almost as second nature, she sniffed. Harber, slow on the uptake, took it clumsily and after a moment’s thought planted a kiss on it. His lips smacked too loudly but Ms Volkyeva didn’t notice, already striding on to inspect the buffet.

“You organised all this yourself?” she marvelled in a murmur. The question was rhetorical, but David Harber had suddenly realised how beautiful Russian women really were, and he now walked mechanically over to her.

“Yeah, it’s been a struggle,” he breathed huskily, looking up to the ceiling in what he hoped was a broody pose. He’d been single too long. His daring white suit and open claret shirt – both on the insistence of his sister and fashion adviser Rachel – might do something to fix that tonight. He could only hope.

“Pretzel?” she enunciated, and with a devilish smile Harber would never have thought capable of his rival popped one into his mouth. Pearl chewed slowly, Sasha watching intensely. At last, he swallowed, and turned to look down at the picture of magnificence next to him.

“I freakin’ hate pretzels.”

She giggled.

---

The ladies had, for the most part, arrived early, eager to make use of the five-star Bilderberg Garden Hotel’s facilities to get ready in style. Besides, what self-respecting woman can prepare for a party without the help, advice, and most importantly gossip of her girlies?

“You look fabulous!” Megumi “Butterfly” Hamada told her friend Jin Osaka of the AWC medical team with a glittering smile. Osaka was attired in a simple red top, turtle-necked and long-sleeved, and white trousers. Her hair, layered specially for the occasion, was being given some lift by one of the stylists hired for the night as a joint venture by the ladies of AWC. Jin Osaka certainly did look a lot more glamorous than her usual wear as a nurse would indicate.

“I didn’t want a dress,” she sniffed as the stylist applied rouge to her cheeks. “Not at all functional. With all these alcoholic drinks around...” A pause for another sniff. Clearly, Jin Osaka was not a fan of drinking. “There are bound to be some accidents.”

Hamada, looking amused, sat herself next to Osaka and placed a hand on her arm.

“But Jin, you’re not on duty tonight! This is your night off – a chance to have some fun!”

The nurse gave a smile that, while warm, reminded Butterfly that Jin was the older and wiser of the two. Belittling, but in a kind way.

“Megumi, I fear that my chances of having fun with a rowdy group of men ruled by machismo are a little limited.”

Another stylist trooped over, sparking up the GHDs and taking to Hamada’s hair like a fish to water.

“We don’t have to join in their stupid games!” Hamada asserted, looking Osaka in the eyes. “We can have our own fun without making fools of ourselves.”

“Oh, no!” Jin tutted. “You don’t have to hang around with me tonight, Megumi. You’re young! Enjoy yourself! There must be a man coming tonight who you’d like to talk to... dance with, maybe...”

Hamada looked at her feet modestly. “Well...”

“Don’t play games with me, young lady, I can see you blushing!” Osaka ruffled Hamada’s hair affectionately. The stylist behind her let out a huge sigh. “Oh! I'm sorry!”

---

“Hey, you’re late, guys!”

Babyshambles collectively piled through the door, looking very much the worse for wear.

“Sorry, mate,” Pete Doherty mumbled to David “Pearl” Harber, not looking apologetic in the slightest as he sucked on the roll-up at the corner of his mouth.

“And I don’t want paid entertainment smoking or drinking. Not until after the performance,” Harber went on sternly, plucking the homemade cigarette from between Doherty’s lips. “What’s that smell – that’s not tobacco –” But nobody’s been listening since hearing Harber’s announcement that there will be no smoking or drinking. In fact, they’re all staring at the Entertainment Manager, incredulous.

“Fink we’ve already broken yer rules, mate, so if ya don’t mind...” Doherty made to grab his roll-up back, but Pearl held it at arm’s length and stared down at the band’s highest-profile member with disgust.

“Just go and get ready, would you? You’re on in half an hour.”

“Half a – half a bloody what? Party doesn’t finish till... wait, when does the party finish?” Doherty questioned, looking back at his colleagues. “Adam, when’s the party finish?”

Shrug.

“Pat, when’s the party finish?”

Shrug.

“Drew, when’s the –”

“The party finishes at two o’clock,” Pearl interjected wearily.

“Yeah. Yeah exactly mate,” Doherty said, looking confused. “We won’t be on until – what, half-one? How long’s the set? Adam, how long’s the –”

“You’re on at seven-thirty,” Harber growled, “and the set is a half-hour max.”

“You what?” Doherty stared back at the Entertainment Co-Manager and tonight’s host, unbelieving. “We ain’t playing no support slot.”

“No no, this isn’t like a rock concert, guys... you’re opening the show, that’s the main thing...” Pearl became distracted as Doherty pointed his finger at something, and then followed it with his finger to the ground, a look of wonder on his face.

“Whassat I can see mate? Whassat? Oh yeah, it’s the bullshit flowing from your mouth. We’re not playing support, mate, end of.”

“Look, you’ve been paid,” Harber offered awkwardly, but Doherty shook his head wildly.

“Nah mate, thass not what it’s about. It’s about principle,” he spat, planting a sweaty finger on the lapel of Pearl’s suit. “It’s about – alright, love?”

“Is everything okay?”

Totally distracted, Doherty stared over Harber’s shoulder at the slender blonde who had just appeared behind him.

“Everything’s more than okay, love...”

Sasha Volkyeva surveyed the motley crew with disdain. “Good, good. You are scheduled to open the party in twenty-seven minutes, so I suggest you hurry along to the dressing room.”

Doherty stared at her, then nodded. “Alright, love, alright. Only ‘ad to ask.” Turning to Harber: “’Ere, find me an ashtray, eh?” He forced the remains of his cigarette into Harber’s hand and then marched off, stealing a less than surreptitious glance at the swell of Volkyeva’s breasts beneath the fabric of her dress as he went. After a moment, his bandmates followed.

Sasha walked primly over to Harber.

“Are you sure you can handler all this, David?” she asked quietly with a sly grin. Red-faced, Pearl let the used roll-up fall to the floor and ground it into the floor with the heel of his shoe. Volkyeva gasped in horror, the flawless carpet her concern, but her attention is quickly diverted by the clearly audible “She ain’t wearin’ a bra, either” comment from Pete Doherty to his bandmate Drew McConnell.

“Scum,” Pearl muttered, wiping a weary eye with the back of his hand.

“Why did you hire them?”

Harber shrugged. “I gave Shipley a list of a few bands who had expressed interest – Shipley knows his music. His choice...”

Volkyeva pursed her lips and blew out a dash of minty air.

“It’s going to be...”

“Interesting?” Harber finished the sentence for her. And she smiled.

---

“Yeah, hit me again, man,” was the slurred request from AWC security man Taz Yorke as he slammed his empty beer glass back onto the bar.

“Ditto,” burped the 6’10” Bruno Hague, Head of Security for AWC. But being the chief in a tribe of monkeys doesn’t make you any better than a monkey.

“Ditto?” Butch Radder groaned. “Hell’s that mean?”

Hague turned his head to face him, struggling to make his eyes focus.

“Dude... ditto. It’s just like... same again... kinda... well, not really...”

“What is it then?” Radder insisted.

“It’s... it means to repeat what’s above it.”

Radder looked upwards.

“The ceiling?”

“No... you never seen those little ditto marks?”

“What’s a ditto mark?”

“It’s like a speech mark.”

“What’s a speech mark?”

“Uh...”

Moistening his finger, Hague drew one on the bar for him.

“Oh. What does that mean?”

“Ditto.”

“Shut up man, you know I don’t underst-“

“No, THAT MARK means “ditto”.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Radder turned to the bartender.

“ “ “.

They drank. Then Bruno Hague turned to his right, squinting.

“Hey, Taz?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Isn’t it your shift out front?”

“Buh-wha?”

“We’re taking shifts out front with the door guy. What’s his name?”

“I dunno,” Radder interjected, “but he sure looks like some guy who was in WMW.”

Yorke laughs heartily.

“Seriously, man,” Hague insisted, “it’s your shift.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh... ya.”

“Buh-wha?”

“Grraah!”

“Uh?”

“Blah...”

“Meh.”

“DON’T MEH ME! IT’S YOUR FUCKING SHIFT!”

Yorke looked at Hague, hurt.

“Man... chill. The doorman can handle it JUST fine.”

A yell is heard from outside.

“Dude...”

“Ya?”

“Was that...”

“Nuh.”

“...the doorman...?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Buh-wha?”

“Huh.”

“Can you...”

“Nuh-uh.”

“But...”

“Huh?”

“We need...”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Fine...”

---

As the last caterer left the perfect lobby to try and scramble together some kind of decorations in the dining room, which was really the main party room anyway and where the event would open with Babyshambles’ performance from a stage erected at one end of the expansive hall, David Harber sat glumly on a chair wedged in between two buffet tables and put his head in his hands. Really, this was just a cover so that he could give the front of his hair a last-minute touching-up, but a moment later Sasha Volkyeva drew up a chair from nowhere and joined him. Harber stiffened. Nobody spoke. She sortied a lipstick from her so-small-it’s-really-quite-impractical handbag and reapplied the same shade of crimson for what must have been the dozenth time.

Dozenth isn’t a word.

Regardless, she applied her lipstick, and nobody spoke.

Harber scratched the back of his head, and nobody spoke.

Volkyeva dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue, and nobody spoke.

Harber let out a sudden sigh and Volkyeva jumped right out of her seat.

“Er...”

She sat back down again. She sighed too.

And Harber spoke.

“You know that feeling?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Pearl turned to this time address his musing to the lady next to him, but his words were lost in her eyes.

“You know...”

She waits.

“What?”

“Oh, erm...”

Harber looked at the floor again and tried to remember what he had to say.

“Never mind.”

Volkyeva looked away again.

“I forgot what I was going to say.”

Pearl’s comment redundant, Volkyeva didn’t respond to it.

“I hate when that happens.”

See above.

Nobody spoke.

Then they both sighed, at once.

Pearl coughed uncomfortably and checked his watch.

“I feel like nobody is going to turn up!” Sasha joked apologetically. Harber’s eyes lit up.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed. “That’s what I was going to say.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was going to say that I had the feeling that no one was gonna turn up.”

“Oh.”

Pause.

“When?” Volkyeva asked curiously.

“Excuse me?”

“When were you going to say this?”

“When... when I said I had a feeling, and then stopped, and then forgot what I was gonna say.”

Pause. “Oh.”

Pause. “Yes, I know the feeling.”

---

“You guys came all the way from England?”

“’S only across the North Sea...”

Pete Doherty’s grasp of Geography was exemplary as he sat down on the edge of the stage to talk to the young lady who’d been watching the sound check in awe. She was Pearl’s sister, though not to the Babyshambles lead man’s knowledge. Her name was Rachel Harber and she. Was. Stunning.

“An’ anyway, Amsterdam fucking ROCKS,” Adam Ficek added as he wandered over from behind the drums to seat himself next to Doherty.

“S’ what brings you ‘ere so early, Miss...?”

“Harber,” Rachel responded graciously to Doherty’s slurred speech. “I... well, my brother runs this show...”

Doherty gaped at her. “You mean – that git in charge is your brother?”

She giggled loudly.

“That’s Dave!”

Then a frown:

“What is a “git”, anyway?”

“Well –”

Doherty was about to tell her, but fortunately the drummer interrupted.

“May I say you’re lookin’ lovely tonight, Miss Harrow.”

“Thanks,” Rachel replied, but her smile was plastic – she had eyes only for the troubled rock star she’d been talking to to begin with. Her hand was dangerously close to his knee as she stood before the stage...

“Rachel!” came a delighted exclamation from behind her, and Rachel whirled around to see her brother hurrying towards her with his arms extended. “You look great.”

“Thanks, big bro,” a hug, “but of course you’re looking way cooler. My compliments to the stylist!” A proud smile.

“Haha, always modest, that’s my little sister... hey, you’re getting pretty skinny...”

Pearl frowned, having attempted to give her waist an affectionate squeeze.

“I'm fine,” she muttered thinly, and turned back to Babyshambles.

“I see you’ve met our entertainment!” David Harber announced, nodding a hidden warning sign to Doherty, who said nothing but reached into his pocket and systematically began to roll another Rizla.

“Yeah, I was watching the sound check; you guys sound great!” she smiled, turning to Pete. Was there a subtle wink there...? Pearl was wondering the same, but he got no closer than us to finding out as Rachel whipped her head back towards him. “So, should be some party...”

“Yeah,” Pearl breathed, running his hands together. “People should start arriving right about now...”

“How many are coming?”

“I – I can’t actually say for sure,” Harber told his sister apologetically. “There were a lot of corporate invitations –”

“By that you mean wrestlers,” Rachel confirmed, a touch of disappointment in her voice.

“That’s right,” Pearl agreed, not having noticed Rachel’s change of tone. “But it’s really quite variable on how many of the corporate invitations are actually taken up, and –”

“Well I’d love to stay and discuss semantics with you both,” Doherty breezed, “but we’ve got a set to play. It was nice meeting ya, Rachel,” and from the musician a definite wink, and a slight reddening of the cheeks from Ms Harber. “I’d move away a bit, unless the mosh pit’s your thing... don’t want any feedback damaging those delicate ears...”

Doherty stuck his tongue out audaciously, and Pearl instinctively threw an arm around his sister’s shoulders.

“Come on, Rach, let’s go to the lobby and do the whole welcoming thing...”

“But you’ve gotta tell me who people are, I don’t want this to be the last time,” Rachel asserted with a grin as she let her brother lead her away, Pete Doherty suddenly forgotten, and the singer watched her go with a pang of regret.

“Now that is a fine arse,” he suggested to guitarist Patrick Walden, who nodded but then covered his ears suddenly as feedback issued. Doherty stared at his microphone in shock.

“Oh, shit.”

Let's party!