Free Undeniable by Liz Bankes Page B

assuming that is supposed to be
poet
but she ran out of room.
    ‘Storm.’ She puts her hand on Spencer’s chest as she reads his name badge. ‘That’s a serious name for a clown.’
    ‘He’s not very funny,’ I cut in.
    ‘I aim to invert the idea of a clown by trying not to make people laugh, but to make them weep,’ Spencer says, completely deadpan.
    She nods. ‘That’s really interesting.’
    She is gazing at him a bit too adoringly for my liking. So I chomp down on a cocktail sausage with deliberate force. She starts a little and turns to me.
    ‘So you’re . . . Cornelia Beard.’
    I nod.
    ‘And you work as a “fluffer”. What’s that like?’
    ‘Very stimulating,’ I say.
    Spencer snorts into his drink.
    ‘What exactly do you do?’ says Helen, her smile slipping slightly, but still alarmingly big.
    ‘I . . . Oh, I can’t do it! It’s a joke,’ I tell her. ‘I’m actually a runner.’
    ‘Oh,’ says Helen. The smile has dropped.
    ‘Yeah, it’s—’
    But she’s gone. Apparently being a runner isn’t very impressive to a performance pot. I turn to the side to see that Spencer has been ambushed by a man in a suit. I sidle up and tune
in to the conversation. Spencer has his arms crossed, covering his nametag.
    They are talking about a filmmaker who is controversial, apparently, and they keep using the word ‘zeitgeist’.
    ‘Are you familiar with his work?’ the man is saying.
    ‘Oh yeah, yeah,’ says Spencer, ‘it’s fascinating.’
    ‘And you?’ the suit man asks me.
    ‘No,’ I say. ‘What’s it like?’
    ‘The last piece was a silent short film of a performer, naked, with feathers and bells tied to his genitals. You watch as he slowly drowns in air. It was . . . incredible. Really
encapsulated the circus of our lives.’
    ‘That sounds awful,’ I tell him.
    Spencer’s eyes go wide and the man jolts in surprise at me.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I add, ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I prefer stories with characters. And relationships. And words. And clothes.’
    ‘Your taste is clearly more for the commercial,’ says the man icily. He turns back to Spencer and they continue their discussion. Their conversation is so boring I want to poke my
own eyes out.
    I spot a friendly-looking waitress with a tray of canapés and make my escape. I chat to Anya, the waitress, for a while and she lets me have three mini Beef Wellingtons. She tells me
about her husband and son in Poland and that she only sees them every six months. I feel silly remembering the time Max and I said we couldn’t possibly go to different unis and only see each
other every couple of weeks. I tell her that I am supposed to be networking in order to start my wonderful career in television, but I am not very good at it. She says not to worry as she has
waitressed at lots of these things and most of the people are mentally deficient.
    I look over at Spencer again and now he is talking to a smart-looking woman with a severe bob haircut. He’s got rid of his nametag. I am wondering if I should go over and instigate our
get-out plan of tapping him on the shoulder and saying, ‘We have to be there for eight, you know,’ – like we are off to some other important event. I realise I may only be
thinking of doing that because he looks so engrossed in conversation with the woman. Then Anya gives me a nudge.
    Angry Skull is making a beeline for me. There’s a thump in my stomach as I remember my nametag, so I cover it with my hand, even though it does look a lot like I’m holding my
boob.
    ‘Hello, Gabi.’
    ‘Hi Angry— hiangry . . .
Hungry
. Are you . . . hungry?’
    His skull eyes narrow. ‘No.’ He’s twirling a cocktail stick in his fingers, a bit like he might be going to stab me with it. ‘I’ve been hearing good things about
you.’
    ‘Oh, I . . . What?’
    ‘Yes. Nina, the location manager, is a fan. She says you’re well organised and gave them a lot of help getting the set