Marriage and Other Games Read Online Free PDF Page A

got over it, hadn’t she?
     
     
    The Black Ball was being held at the sumptuous and newly revamped Askew Hotel. Breathtaking Designs had masterminded the interior, and so Charlotte had been able to negotiate the use of its splendid new ballroom for next to nothing, especially as it was in a good cause.
     
    Ed had a schoolfriend, Simon, whose young son had tragically died of a rare form of leukaemia at the age of six. When Simon expressed a desire to raise money to build a new unit for the hospice where the boy had spent his final days, Ed had taken up the challenge on his behalf. The target to be raised was a hundred thousand pounds - a daunting sum for just one night, but Ed and Charlotte and a team of supporters had been working tirelessly on the project for over a year. At a hundred and fifty pounds a head, it necessarily attracted a certain calibre of guest, but nevertheless they had sold five hundred tickets by ruthless networking and the promise of a glamorous evening out. This in turn enabled them to attract high-profile advertisements in the programme and elicit luxury prizes for the auction, ranging from a week in a five-star hotel in Koh Samui down to an organic food hamper.
     
    They had chosen the theme because it was simple. People’s attitudes to fancy dress ranged from enthusiastic to horrified, but even the biggest party pooper could manage black. At one point Charlotte had worried that the overall effect might be a little funereal and sombre, but she worked hard with the hotel and the florist to soften the impact. They kept the tablecloths, napkins and crockery white. On each table was a black glass candelabra stuffed with fat, mellow beeswax candles, and a bowl of deep, dark velvety Bacarra roses intertwined with green ivy. Elegantly beaded table mats and napkin rings glittered in the candlelight. By the time they had finished, the ballroom looked chicly monochromatic rather than starkly Gothic.
     
    Now, as they pulled up outside the hotel, Charlotte felt nervous. If the evening was a flop there was no one but themselves to blame. Everything had been checked and double-checked. She had spoken to the band and the DJ and the magician earlier that day, none of whom had so far been struck down with laryngitis or food poisoning or stage fright. Nevertheless, she clutched her leather-bound notebook to her: it held lists, telephone numbers, contingency plans, timetables.
     
    Ed leaned across and squeezed her shoulder.
     
    ‘Hey,’ he said softly. ‘It’s going to be fine, Chaz. Nothing can go wrong now. And in an hour’s time, everyone will be too drunk to notice.’
     
    Charlotte tried to smile. She always panicked at the eleventh hour. She was like this when she showed clients the finished results of her work, terrified that they were going to throw up their hands in horror and demand a refund as well as compensation. Of course, that had never happened. They were always delighted, and the ensuing elation was always worth the agony. Deep down, she knew in four hours’ time she would be able to bask in the glory of success, but in the meantime the responsibility lay heavy upon her and she felt the tight knot of uncertainty expand and contract in her stomach.
     
    The taxi drew up and she shot through the entrance of the hotel like a rabbit out of a trap and into the kitchen, where the chef reassured her that everything was on target. The two of them had spent hours debating the menu, black not being the most inviting of food colours, but with some careful research and a bit of artistic licence they had settled upon caviar with Melba toast to start, then chicken with black Périgord truffles, finishing with individual Black Forest gateaux, the gleaming cherries drenched in kirsch and wrapped in a feather-light chocolate roulade. And judging by the wonderful smells wafting from the ovens and the pots, it was going to be delicious. Charlotte sampled a dollop of salty sevruga, savouring the sensation of