Playing the Game. Barbara Taylor Bradford

his name. Trying to be heard above the clamour. Swinging his head, he spotted her at once. An old friend. It was Margaret Mellor, the editor of the best art magazine in Europe called, very simply, ART. She was waving to him.

      Catching hold of David’s arm, he said, ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? Margaret Mellor’s beckoning to me. Go ahead, chat to Johnny. I’ll join you both shortly.’

      ‘No problem.’ David pushed ahead, moving adroitly between people, edging his way forward.

      Malcolm went in the opposite direction towards his friend. When he finally reached her, he grinned. ‘I almost didn’t hear you above the din.’

      ‘It’s bedlam. I was just with Annette, she wants us to go and see the ballroom before it fills up with guests. She says it’s charming.’

      ‘Then let’s go now, before we get trapped in this corner. The place is suddenly milling with old friends and colleagues. Plus loads of photographers, I notice.’ He frowned.

      ‘Don’t tell me. The press are swarming all over the place!’

      Malcolm sighed. ‘That’s Marius, he never does things by half and he does love the media. As far as he’s concerned, the more the merrier.’

      ‘He’s a glutton for punishment.’ She sounded sarcastic.

      Malcolm laughed. That was Margaret. Spot on with her comments. He put an arm around her shoulders, guided her through the crush. Behind them, flashbulbs were already popping; it seemed to him that the crowd was swelling, getting bigger by the second. How many people had they invited? The whole world, he decided, and hoped the huge crowd wouldn’t ultimately spoil the event. Why do I worry? She knows what she’s doing, even if he doesn’t, sometimes. Marius. Such an enigma.

      Finally, Malcolm was pushing open the door into the ballroom. Instantly, a waiter confronted them. ‘I’m very sorry, but you can’t come in. Mrs Remmington doesn’t want anyone in here for another half-hour. She was very precise.’ Polite but determined.

      ‘Yes, we know. Mrs Remmington sent us to see the ballroom before it fills up. I’m Margaret Mellor of ART magazine, and this is Mr Stevens, a colleague and friend of Mrs Remmington’s.’

      The waiter inclined his head but didn’t budge, blocking their way. Still determined – to do his duty and keep them out.

      ‘My chief photographer Josh Brady was here earlier,’ Margaret added. ‘Taking pictures for the magazine. You must be Frank Lancel. Mrs Remmington told me to speak to you.’ Charm, a warm smile. Her tools.

      ‘Yes, I’m Frank,’ the waiter answered, relaxing, but only slightly. ‘And I did help Mr Brady a while ago, when he was taking his shots. So please, come in, look around. I have to stay here at the door. Stand guard. Mrs Remmington’s instructions.’ He sounded droll.

      ‘She explained that,’ Margaret answered. Taking hold of Malcolm’s hand, she led him forward. The two of them finally stood at the edge of the ballroom floor near the orchestra stand, their eyes sweeping around the room with interest and anticipation.

      They were both taken aback by the unique beauty of the magical scene that Annette had designed. The room was a sea of pale green – that peculiar pale green with a hint of grey, so often found in the interiors of French châteaux, which seems to create a misty look. This pale green silk rippled down the walls from the ceiling to the floor, and was repeated for the tablecloths, napkins and chair seats.

      But what was so unusual and wonderful about the setting were the green dendrobium orchids with pink centres. These were massed in banks in front of mirrored, folding screens, and also stood on mirrored consoles, Venetian style, placed against the green walls. There were literally hundreds of orchid plants in pale celadon green pots, and those banked in front of the mirrored screens instantly appeared to be twice the quantity because of their reflections. Centrepieces on the tables were crystal bowls filled with stems of green orchids, surrounded by lots of votive lights. Tall crystal candlesticks holding tall white tapers were on either side of the bowls of orchids. Everything glistened and sparkled in the candlelight: the crystal wine goblets and silverware, the silver service plates.

      The two of them stood there for a few minutes longer, endeavouring to take everything in. Then Margaret said slowly, ‘It’s almost ethereal, dreamlike. What an effect Annette has created … it’s a garden … a garden of orchids. How clever.’

      Malcolm turned to her, exclaimed, ‘Yes, it is. And you can be sure of one thing. It’s going to knock everybody’s socks off.’

       TWO

      Marius was happy. Annette could tell from the expression on his face. He was beaming, relaxed, leaning back in his chair at the head of the table positioned directly opposite hers. They faced each other, were in each other’s line of vision, could communicate, at least visually, whenever they wanted.

      The party was a success. She knew that even though it was only halfway through. There had been a feeling of excitement right from the beginning of the evening. During the cocktail period, a trio played low music in the background, champagne and wine flowed, there was an open bar for other drinks, and an array of delicious canapés was passed around, nonstop, by the busy waiters.

      Now, in the ballroom, she was feeling an enormous surge of energy and vitality amongst the guests. They were getting up to dance to the popular music, and she glanced around, noted the hilarity, heard the laughter and the high-voltage babble of conversation. It seemed to her that they were all enjoying themselves, having a great time.

      Marius caught her eye and got up, walked over to her table. A moment later he was escorting her out on to the dance floor.

      Taking her in his arms, he looked down at her and smiled, his black eyes warm, loving. ‘You’ve pulled it off again,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a fabulous party, everyone’s enjoying it immensely. Are you?’

      They began to move around the edge of the dance floor. She cocked her head, looked up at him, an amused smile in her eyes. ‘You’ve always told me that a hostess who enjoys her own party isn’t being a good hostess.’

      Marius burst out laughing. ‘Touché, Mrs Remmington. But in that instance, I was actually referring to parties given at one’s home. Not in a public place. So are you?’

      ‘As a matter of fact, I am. I was a bit uptight at first, when we came into the ballroom, but then I noticed that everyone quickly found their seats, looked happy where they were sitting; also they’d enjoyed themselves during cocktails so they were in the right frame of mind.’

      ‘Very true. Well oiled. I didn’t see one glum face. But I must admit I did see a lot of astonished faces when they began to realize they were in the middle of an orchid garden.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘The setting is a triumph, darling, you were inspired.’

      ‘I’m glad you like it,’ was all she said, and drew closer to him, following him as he moved smoothly away from the edge, across the floor to the middle of the room. He was a good dancer, easy to follow, and she found herself relaxing even more, enjoying dancing with him. Eventually she became aware all eyes were on them and she smiled inwardly. She was proud of Marius, proud to be married to him, and also, deep down inside, proud of herself, proud of her hugely successful auction. The Rembrandt had changed her life. And she was glad of that.

      She didn’t stop dancing for the next half-hour. When she was back at her table, Malcolm came and claimed her, then David Oldfield, followed by Johnny Davenport, all pals of long standing who had worked for Marius, were part of the Marius Mafia. And then, unexpectedly, Christopher Delaware was tapping Johnny on the shoulder, cutting in. This surprised her. Christopher was rather shy, reticent, and certainly not given to bold moves.

      They glided around the floor in silence for a moment or two, and then he said, ‘The room looks stunning, it reminds