From How (Not) to Have a Perfect Wedding
“Anne, the caterer wants to know what time to send out the servers with the champagne welcome.”
“Anne, the toiletries baskets for the restrooms—is the bride supplying them or should we get ours?”
“Anne, the photographer’s in a snit because the waiters are still setting up in the ballroom, and he says he needs everyone out so he can get an uncluttered shot. We told him he’ll have to work around them, but he’s being an asshole about it.”
“Anne, the bride’s father just arrived with his Barbie doll, excuse me, his new wife.”
“Okay.” I point a finger around the circle, delegating tasks. “Tell the caterer we’re expecting the first guests around five-thirty and we’ll give him a heads up to send out the champagne. The bride’s supplying the toiletries baskets, look in the upstairs office, one of the bridesmaids brought them to the rehearsal last night. Ignore the photographer, he’ll get over it. I’ll go greet Mr. Hollingsworth. Where’s Allison, our bride? Still upstairs in the suite?”
“With a gaggle of bridesmaids.”
“Good, keep them there. And someone quick go tell Glen and the band they’re absolutely not to announce a special dance for the parents of the bride and groom or to play ‘The Anniversary Waltz’ tonight.”
“Anne,” says Leon, our head butler and my second-in-command, and we all pause at his deep, barrel-chested voice. “I presume you’d like me at the front door?”
“Yes, thank you, Leon.”
He nods and departs, and the others dart away on their assignments, my battle-tested troops. Usually, I try to conceal from them a VHM code, not wanting to prejudice them against the wedding party and guests before the evening starts. But two hundred fifty is the maximum head count for Rosecourt, and they already know it’s going to be a long, hard night. They reported at three o’clock for set-up, cleaning and vacuuming the entire first floor, ferrying the more valuable antiques upstairs to safety, and arranging the rented ceremony chairs on the back lawn. Then they manually hauled another two hundred fifty chairs and twenty-five six-foot round tables up the narrow basement stairs to the ballroom, Rosecourt’s original investors having neglected to install any kind of elevator, let alone a helpful freight elevator, in their historically accurate nineteenth-century house. By the time set-up was complete, the staff had fifteen minutes to change from their sweaty work clothes into their uniforms, formal butler’s suits with black tailcoats for the men, and for the women, long black skirts, white blouses, and gold vests embroidered with the Rosecourt crest.
Now they’ll be on duty for the ceremony at six, the cocktail hour at seven, the formal dinner and reception from eight until midnight. Then they’ll re-don their work clothes and break down the party, hauling tables and chairs back to the basement, repositioning antiques, mopping floors and vacuuming the debris left by the mob of eating, drinking, dancing guests. If they’re efficient, they’ll have the last stain out of the carpet by one-thirty or two a.m., an eleven-hour day spent mostly on their feet. And for many of them, it’s a second or third job. If I could share one trade secret with our unsuspecting guests, it is this: my staff hates you. You are the only thing standing between them and a paycheck.
