Marriage and Other Games (4 page)
She sat up, sliding her arms around his waist and kissing his chest. She could still feel his heartbeat against her lips. She knew how much it had torn him apart every time the news had been bad. Not so much for himself, but for her. She could feel him desperately trying to control his rage every time the scan came up blank. She could sense him wanting to pick up the monitor and throw it across the room, fighting back the temptation to punch the sonographer. She did tears, while he did anger, but never directed at her.
‘I am happy,’ she told him, but he looked agonised.
‘Anything,’ he repeated, his eyes stormy.
She pressed her forehead against his.
‘There’s nothing you can do,’ she told him. ‘It’s just you and me, and I’m happy with that. I love you, Ed . . .’
He pulled away from her and stood up.
‘We better get going,’ he said curtly, as if he was embarrassed that, after all this time, he had actually shown his vulnerability and that it still mattered.
Just when she had decided that it didn’t.
She looked at the clock on the wall. Six thirty-five. Their car was collecting them just before seven.
‘Oh my God, look at me. I’m going to have to do my make-up all over again. And my hair—’
She scrambled to her feet. Ed put his hands on her waist and looked down at her.
‘Don’t you dare change a thing. You look stunning.’
She glanced in the mirror. She did. Her pupils were huge and dark; her hair was tousled; her skin glowed where the blood had risen to the surface.
‘I can’t turn up looking like this!’ Charlotte grabbed her comb and tried to smooth her once immaculate chignon back into place.
Ten minutes later, Ed zipped her into her dress. They stood in front of the mirror, him behind her, his hands on her shoulder. The perfect couple.
The doorbell rang. Ed dropped a kiss on her neck and went to answer it.
Charlotte stared at herself for a few more moments. She felt different, somehow. Ripe. Womanly. Was it just the sex? Or was it something more . . . ? What if a miracle had happened in that second? What if, because she had been relaxed and hadn’t been giving it a second thought, the right conditions had presented themselves for once? What if one, just one, of Ed’s sperm had inveigled its way into the wall of a waiting egg? What if the cells were reproducing now, this second, multiplying into a little person—
‘Chaz!’ Ed’s voice came up the stairs.
Charlotte snatched up her evening bag, scooping her lipstick and mobile into its satin depths, furious with herself. She mustn’t think like that. She wasn’t supposed to torture herself any longer, or allow herself to fantasise. After all, she’d 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 the tiny pearls on her tongue, took a sip of the rich but subtle truffle sauce, and finished with a spoon of boozy cherries.
‘Wonderful!’ she told the chef, who beamed with delight.
The heat of the kitchen was making her feel quite faint, so she hurried into the ballroom, keenly aware that in fifteen minutes the first of the guests would start trickling in. Straight away, she spotted Ed’s personal assistant, Melanie, who’d been helping them with the administration.
Charlotte narrowed her eyes, not quite able to believe what she saw. For Melanie was in white. Bright, white, skin-tight satin. In a nod to the theme, she had stuffed her fat little arms into elbow-length black gloves. Charlotte marched over, anger bubbling up inside. Melanie had always reminded her of a lap dog: small, self-important, with bright, slightly bulging eyes that didn’t miss a trick. In her opinion, Melanie was over-confident for her age and position, with a tendency to be outspoken and opinionated. This was yet another example of her not quite knowing her place. A little voice inside her told her not to make a scene, as Melanie had only flouted the dress code in order to get attention, so she paused for a moment to compose herself.
‘Which bit of “black” didn’t you understand?’ she finally asked, as sweetly as she could manage.
‘I can’t believe it!’ said Melanie, looking at her with her round pug eyes. ‘I tried on my dress last week and it fitted perfectly, but I couldn’t get into it today. I am such a yoyo. I knew I shouldn’t have had that Indian on Thursday. Honestly, Charlotte - I’m so sorry. This was the only smart dress I had in my wardrobe. I am so embarrassed.’
The dress in question looked brand new. In fact, Charlotte wouldn’t be surprised if the price tag was still swinging off the label. Melanie was the type to buy a dress and return it the next day pretending it had never been worn. Charlotte could just imagine her hustling for her money back. But she gritted her teeth, and told herself not to rise to the bait.
‘Could you do the seating plan for the top table?’ she asked, handing Melanie her diagram and carefully written name cards. ‘Then make sure all the auction prizes are laid out properly so people can have a look before they start bidding. And check all the goody bags; make sure no one’s nicked anything.’
Melanie flashed her a glance. For a moment she thought she was going to tell her to stuff it; that she was Ed’s assistant, not Charlotte’s. But something made her think better of it.
‘Of course,’ she replied, oozing saccharine. ‘And by the way, you look stunning.’
Charlotte felt suitably chastened. She shouldn’t over-react. She supposed she was just nervous about the evening ahead. Across the room, she could see the chief executive of the hospice arrive with his wife, and Ed walk over to greet them. He looked knee-tremblingly handsome in his dinner jacket, as if he should be striding across the moonlit terrace of a Monte Carlo casino. Charlotte swallowed down a lump that had appeared mysteriously in her throat. The evening probably mattered even more to him than it did to her, yet he was managing to stay calm.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled, touching Melanie lightly on the shoulder in a gesture of forgiveness. She shouldn’t be such a bitch. Melanie was harmless enough.
Less than an hour later, the room was heaving as guests knocked back Black Russian cocktails. A magician moved stealthily among them, performing card tricks and sleights of hand. Everyone had pulled out the stops to look gorgeous: bare backs and décolletages that were usually hidden revealed themselves buffed and golden, hair was glossy and flowing, wrists and necks throbbed with exotic scents. Jewels had been extricated from velvet-lined boxes; unfamiliar high heels made the journey across the room treacherous but exciting. The walls resounded with chatter, gossip, greetings, kisses, laughter. Cheeks met, lips puckered, warm hands were placed on upper arms, shoulders, waists . . .
Charlotte allowed herself a moment to take it all in. This was her world: a
mélange
of influential, wealthy, attractive people who had come together for a good cause. Yet suddenly she felt a flash of doubt. The cost of it all didn’t sit easily with her. The flower bill alone would go a long way towards equipping the new unit. And the guests weren’t really here for the chance to change lives. Wasn’t this just an opportunity for them all to show off their money, taste, good looks and dress sense? Would they have responded so enthusiastically to a simple request for a donation, without the chance to spend the evening guzzling, drinking, dancing - and, no doubt by the end of it, flirting and groping?
mélange
of influential, wealthy, attractive people who had come together for a good cause. Yet suddenly she felt a flash of doubt. The cost of it all didn’t sit easily with her. The flower bill alone would go a long way towards equipping the new unit. And the guests weren’t really here for the chance to change lives. Wasn’t this just an opportunity for them all to show off their money, taste, good looks and dress sense? Would they have responded so enthusiastically to a simple request for a donation, without the chance to spend the evening guzzling, drinking, dancing - and, no doubt by the end of it, flirting and groping?
She told herself to stop being so prim. This was how the world worked. If thousands of pounds had to be spent in order to lure people into parting with more, then so be it. And why shouldn’t they have fun in the meantime? No one was being exploited. The chief exec of the hospice looked quite happy with the deal. Besides, who was she to question the morality of it all? She wasn’t exactly grubbing about saving lives in a war-torn sub-continent for a living. She peddled dreams; convinced people they needed things they absolutely didn’t, seducing them into wanton spending in order to create luxurious, opulent and utterly profligate surroundings, some of which bordered on the indecent.
Charlotte swiped a cocktail from the tray of a passing waiter, took a hefty slug and decided to stop being such a bloody hypocrite.
After dinner, Ed stood up and tinged the side of his glass to call the room to attention. Cupping his brandy in one hand, he smiled round at the guests, thanking them for their attendance, and also name-checking all the people who had given their time to make the evening a success. But it soon became clear he had lulled them into a false sense of security and that he had another agenda.
On the wall behind him flashed up a photograph of Simon’s son, the pitifully brief dates of his life in white underneath. Ed proceeded to outline the role that the hospice had taken in the boy’s last few weeks, and described the strength and hope it had given his loved ones, making his eventual death a positive and uplifting experience - as far as it was possible, anyway - and how his family wanted to be able to replicate that experience for more people by expanding the accommodation the hospice offered. It wasn’t a mawkish speech, but there were few guests who didn’t have a tear in their eye by the end of it. By tugging on their heart strings, he was also tugging at their purse strings, for the auction was about to start.
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