King for the Night

After thirty-two years of loyal service at Warburton, Flickwick and Featherstone Inc., Charles Swinburne had run out of excuses for avoiding the annual Christmas party.

For over three decades, he’d missed the event by wriggling out of arrangements, dodging invitations and feigning the symptoms of every non-fatal virus known to humanity. Not that Charles disliked or shunned his workmates; he just didn’t like large social gatherings. Two was company and three gathered at the water cooler was a crowd, by his reckoning. On a one-to-one basis, he exuded confidence, but otherwise he sensed the walls caving in and his knees trembled like jelly on a plate. 

#

Last Christmas, the government’s pandemic rules were coming into force for the first time and the social-distancing arrangements meant restaurants and party venues had to close over the festive period. For Charles, it was as if a great black cloud had ascended to the heavens to reveal a bright blue sky. He was the only member of staff to display a carefree demeanour as the festive season approached. His work colleagues caught him humming carols out loud and even whistling the Hallelujah Chorus as he walked into work. Circumstances had conspired in Charles’ favour for once; the company party wasn’t going to happen. This time he needn’t fake any illnesses nor invent unavoidable appointments. 

#

Mr Warburton’s assistant, Daisy Crowther, had struggled to confirm any bookings for the staff party. It wasn’t her fault, however, her employer wanted to host his ever-popular celebration by any means. Despite the lockdown, Mr Warburton’s staff had worked hard and performed well from home, maintaining a steady income stream and happy clients. He intended to show his appreciation by treating everyone to a party they’d never forget. All personnel had been vaccinated and any restrictions wouldn’t deter him.

“What news, Miss Crowther?” Mr Warburton said, as Daisy entered his office.

“There’s nowhere that’s willing to accommodate us, sir.” 

“Well, that’s not good enough, my dear,” he said, reclining in his chair as she shrugged her shoulders and sighed. 

“What about the West End? Any fancy restaurants or sizable eateries for hire?” 

She shook her head. 

“Perhaps a hotel somewhere out of town?”

“We have the boardroom and downstairs suite, sir, but I don’t suppose that’s---”

“Genius, Daisy!” he said, rising like a cobra preparing to skewer its quivering prey. “That’s why I pay you good money, my dear.” 

Daisy braced herself, turning over her note pad in readiness. 

“Cancel all my meetings this week and set about transforming downstairs for Friday.” 

Eyes lowered, Daisy scribbled down his instructions. 

“I can see it now,” he said, painting a picture in mid air with his wizened fore finger. “We need twinkly lights and we need lots of drink and music too and---”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“All to attend and no excuses.” 

“Don’t you worry, sir.” 

“That’s the spirit, Miss Crowther.”

#

Miss Crowther was a woman on a mission and undaunted by the rapid turnaround. She organised a plan with aplomb, submitted her scheme of works and received an immediate go-ahead. The senior partner at the law firm gave her the authority to use whatever resources were necessary to fulfil the task. Within twenty-four hours, she’d drafted a team of twelve assistants to help her decorate the boardroom and repurpose the open-plan basement to prepare for the big event. They erected a noble looking spruce beside a powerful music system and decorated the entire suite of rooms with strands of holly and ivy, thousands of glittering baubles and hundreds of strings of miniature lights.  

On the day of the event, six men marched into Charles’s office to commandeer his workspace as a hospitality area. 

“Set up the bar beside the door, guys and---”

“I understood they cancelled the party, Miss Crowther.”

“Mr Warburton’s got a change of plan,” said Daisy, searching for power points.

“Can we stack the desks to make space for the beer, wine and spirits?”

“Yes, and shift the filing cabinet if you need to,” said Daisy.

“Nobody told me you required my office and---”

“I need you to clear your desk, Mr Swinburne.”

“But I’m half way through and---”

“You’ve got an hour, Charles,” she said, checking the time on her iPhone.

“Where are the fridges going, Daisy?”

“Over in the corner,” she said, pointing at the office machinery. “You can disconnect the printers and stash them next door.”

Daisy handed Charles an official invitation and plan for the evening’s celebrations. 

#

The idea of karaoke was anathema to Charles. He’d heard about it, of course, but it was an activity he associated with drunken weddings and corporate nights out. As much as he liked to sing in the bath and enjoyed a wide range of music, brazen exhibitionism was abhorrent to him. Besides, he wasn’t familiar with today’s music; it was all just loud noise and lots of shouting. 

Charles was conscientious by nature and felt compelled to complete his current spreadsheet. He continued the task at hand despite the party preparations continuing around him. Alas, he hadn’t counted on his fellow office workers being keen to call an end to the day and start their weekend early. On reaching a satisfactory conclusion, he paused to consider an escape route, only to discover the basement filling up with colleagues wearing their glad rags and finest party wear.

“How are we getting on, Charles?” said Daisy, standing at his doorway in a little black strapless number.

“I’m all finished here, Miss Crowther,” said Charles, looking around for his coat. 

“Lost something, sir?”

“I seem to have misplaced my---”

“Overcoat, by any chance?”

“Why, yes,” he said, his eyes darting about the room. “I had it before and---”

“You’ll not be needing that for a while, sir---”

“No, but I must leave,” he said, wringing his damp palms. “I didn’t know about---”

“The party’s just getting started, Charles.”

“Yes but, no but, I need---”

“Courage?” she said, smiling. “A drink will relax you after a hard day’s work.”

“Well I don’t know about that, Miss Crowther, I need---”

“A vodka, maybe?” she said, raising a frosty glass with condensation dripping down the outside.

“A vodka?” His arm reached out as if it had a life of its own. “Maybe, just one drink would be a good idea.” His trembling fingers encircled the glassware.

“Just one won’t hurt, Charles,” she said, a brief scintillation catching her dark pupils.

“As long as it’s just one, I suppose,” he said, receiving the clear vessel with both hands as though it was a chalice filled with sacred elixir. 

“You take your time, sir,” she said, as he sipped the liquor. “I’ll look for your coat.”

#

The music wasn’t what Charles had expected. There were tunes he recognised and lyrics that he could hear. In fact, they were playing songs he liked, although popular music wouldn’t be his choice, of course. Daisy returned to invite him into the boardroom and his jaw sagged open as they wandered past all the decorations. It was as if she’d transported him to a jungle full of knotted vines and wild plants, and exotic creatures in fancy dress illuminated by a million bright fire-flies fluttering overhead. He was on a mysterious journey in a building that had become unfamiliar and he wondered what else he’d missed over the years. Were all the parties like this one?

“You have been busy, Miss Crowther,” he said, as she attempted to top up his glass. “Oh, no, no, no, I mustn’t, I have to---”

“Call it one for the road, Charles,” she said, smiling and taking his hand.

The vodka settled his nerves as it swirled around his insides. Its powerful ingredients were taking the edge off a hard month in front of his laptop. Endless hours of calculating business expenses and filing Inland Revenue return forms were becoming hazy recollections as Miss Crowther escorted him into the throng.

As they neared the source of the music, the crowd shifted around and caught Charles off guard. He spilled his drink as he raised his glass and saturated his shirt. 

“Listen, Miss Crowther, I need to go---”

“Follow me, sir, I have just the thing.”

#

Gold lamé wasn’t at all what Charles had expected. A towel or a change of shirt would have suited him just fine. He’d never gone in for fashion items, and this wouldn’t be his natural choice. Daisy had thought of everything and she insisted that he’d feel even more relaxed in this new attire. No one would raise an eyebrow; after all, they were all dressed up as well. 

#

Daisy adjusted Charles’ collar and brushed down his lapels. His trim figure felt at home inside his costume and there was room for manoeuvre. He didn’t see himself dancing, but maybe that wasn’t the point. Charles’ glass never appeared to empty despite his frequent sips. He’d had enough to drink as Daisy topped it up once again and they rejoined the congregation in front of the stage and video screen. The music had continued without a break and it took his befuddled mind a few songs to realise they were passing a microphone around the group. 

Charles’ eyes flashed around the room as he struggled to locate an exit. The once familiar boardroom with its wood panelling and framed portraits of former partners was beyond recognition. Disorientated by the surroundings, he was at a loss to know how best to retreat. He tossed back the remaining vodka and Daisy took charge of the glass. 

“I need to get back home---” he said, as she replaced the glass with the warm metal casing of a vintage Shure 55sh microphone. Its sleek metal grill glinted as the spotlight shifted its axis to catch Charles in its bright beam. The backing track played an introductory turnaround and the words for the first verse appeared on the screen.

“It’s Elvis, Charles,” she said, with a cupped hand raised to his ear. “I bet you know this one, everyone knows it.”

“Blue Suede Shoes?” he said, drawing breath as the twang of an electric guitar played a repeating riff before the first line.

“Well, it’s one for the money,” she sang into the mike and pinched his arm.

“Three, to get ready now. Go, cat, go,” they sang together.

#

The next morning, Charles woke up with a sore throat. 

What had possessed him to take hold of the microphone?

He didn’t know any of the other songs he’d been singing. 

Why hadn’t someone taken the microphone off him? 

Never again. 

He’d never do it again. 

Never ever.

The End