few yards in unless you were some kind of masochist. Just covering the distance from the guesthouse to the taxi, then from the taxi to the foyer of the country club, had been enough to raise a blister on her heel.
Why did women insist on inflicting this kind of bondage on themselves, she wondered as she tottered over to the desk to give her and Amal’s names to the receptionist. They were checked against the guest list, then waved through a doorway with a smile and a warm ‘enjoy the show’, and found themselves in a gigantic ballroom that echoed to the buzz of a three-hundred-strong crowd.
Sam hadn’t been kidding about the place being swish. At the far end of the room, a podium stood on a low stage in front of a big screen; to its left, an area had been curtained off. A gleaming dance floor separated the stage from forty or fifty tables, each surrounded by red velvet chairs. For the moment, though, most of the attention was centred on the bar, around which a couple of hundred people were bustling to grab their free drinks. The catering staff couldn’t hand out the complimentary canapés and dainty little sandwiches fast enough.
Over the background muzak came a piercing squeal from across the room. Brooke would have known that voice anywhere. She turned to see Sam running over, or trying to run, her stiletto heels clattering on the floor. She’d dyed her hair a couple of shades blonder since the brief break the two of them had taken in Vienna before Christmas. Her crimson strapless dress appeared to be in some danger of slipping down, but Sam didn’t seem to care too much, and the assorted men ogling her with varying degrees of discretion certainly had no objections either.
‘You made it!’ Sam beamed.
‘You left me very little choice,’ Brooke said as Sam pecked her on both cheeks with a pronounced ‘ mwah – mwah ’, something she’d taken to doing now that she moved in higher social circles.
‘I’m so pleased.’
Of course you are: it was your idea , Brooke said inwardly. Out loud she said, ‘You know my friend Amal Ray,’ putting a subtle emphasis on the word ‘friend’ that only Sam would be able to detect.
‘Of course, the playwright,’ Sam cooed, ignoring the warning look that Brooke shot at her. ‘Amal, that’s a lovely name. Tell me, are you very famous?’
‘You might say I’ve recently shot to notoriety in certain quarters,’ Amal said graciously. ‘But we won’t talk about that.’
That’s a relief, Brooke thought.
‘Come and meet Sir Roger.’ Sam motioned for them to follow, and led them through the throng. At the heart of a large cluster of people in the middle of the room, a tall, stately silver-haired man in a sombre suit and navy tie was doing the grip’n’grin routine with the mayor and the other local officials for the benefit of the photographers.
‘It’s such a boost for the local economy,’ Sam whispered in Brooke’s ear. When the cameras stopped flashing, she did the introductions: ‘ Dr Brooke Marcel; Amal Ray the award-winning playwright: my boss, and the CEO of Neptune Marine Exploration, Sir Roger Forsyte.’ She made it sound as though Brooke had found the cure for cancer and Amal had a Pulitzer Prize for literature in his pocket. Brooke noticed Amal’s sharp wince.
Forsyte was about sixty, though he was in better shape than many men half his age. His manner was smooth and dignified, if a little cool. He welcomed Sam’s guests, expressed his pleasure that they’d be attending the private party afterwards, and insisted they should help themselves to drinks and snacks before the presentation began. ‘Speaking of which,’ he said, glancing at his well-worn Submariner watch, ‘I have a few things to attend to before we kick off, so if you’ll excuse me …’
Sam shot a grin back at Brooke as she followed her employer towards a door marked PRIVATE. ‘You heard the man,’ Amal said. ‘Let’s grab something before this lot drink the bar