Читать книгу The Armada Legacy - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 8

Saturday evening, and the vehicles were arriving in droves through the gates of the grand-looking Castlebane Country Club. Brooke and Amal got out of the taxi that had brought them from the guesthouse, and joined the stream of smartly-dressed people filtering towards the illuminated main entrance.

The night air was sharp and cold. Brooke could smell the sea and hear the whisper of the waves in the distance. It was clear from all the press IDs on display and the prevalence of cameras everywhere around her that Sam had done a fine job of whipping up media interest in the event. A paunchy white-haired man who appeared to be the local mayor, judging by the gaudy chain and badge of office that dangled like a cowbell from his neck, was stepping out of a car and straightening his jacket, flanked by official minions.

‘This ought to be interesting,’ Amal said without any great conviction as they approached the gold-lit facade of the building. But if he’d been having second thoughts about abandoning his Richmond sanctuary for the wintry wilds of Donegal, he was far too polite to show it. As always, he was fastidiously groomed, and had swapped his travelling clothes for an elegant grey suit that looked tailor-made.

It had been a while since Brooke had been to any kind of party, and she’d had to dig deep in her wardrobe back in London to search out the knee-length black cashmere dress for the occasion, which she was wearing over fine black silk leggings and cinched around her waist with a wide belt. Her only jewellery was the little gold neck chain, Ben’s gift. The shoes were Italian – a pair of her sister Phoebe’s cast-offs – with heels that made her feel perched ridiculously high. They were strictly not for walking more than a 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 dry.’ They pressed their way through the swarm and had to shout their orders to be heard by the harried bar staff.

‘I didn’t know you were a gin and tonic type of guy,’ Brooke said, once they’d escaped the chaos and found a quieter spot on the far side of the ballroom.

‘I’ve decided to become that type of guy,’ Amal replied, knocking back a slug of it, ice clinking in his glass. ‘Starting right here, right now.’

She touched his arm. ‘You’re okay, aren’t you?’

Amal swallowed a handful of peanuts, washed them down with another long swig, then gave a shrug. ‘I’m not about to go hurling myself madly off the cliffs, if that’s what you mean. What’s a bit of salt rubbed into the wound, between friends? Award-winning playwright,’ he added in a sullen undertone. ‘Like I really needed that.’

These artists. She wished he didn’t have to be so sensitive. ‘Sam didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just her way.’

The crowd was rapidly drifting away from the bar to gather at the foot of the stage. People were checking their watches in anticipation of the start of the show. The mayor and his little entourage had positioned themselves right at the front, where a photographer took a few more half-hearted snaps of them for the local news. There was a stirring behind the curtain to the left of the stage, as if someone was putting the finishing touches to whatever exhibits lay behind it.

Sam reappeared through the door marked PRIVATE, spotted Brooke and bustled over to join her, diverting her attention for a few minutes with her animated chatter. When Brooke was able to tear herself away for an instant, she saw that she’d lost Amal in the crowd. Peering through the milling bodies she caught a glimpse of his back as he slunk over towards the bar for a refill. He didn’t look very happy. Shit, she thought. Maybe this whole thing had been a bad idea.

‘It’s so great you’re here for this,’ Sam was babbling happily for the twentieth time, clutching her champagne. ‘Should be starting any moment now … yes! There he is. Here we go. Shush, everyone.’

To enthusiastic applause, Sir Roger appeared under the lights, stepped up to the podium and launched into his speech as the glittering Neptune Marine Exploration corporate logo flashed up on the big screen behind him.