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I skirt round the edges of the writhing sea of beautiful people. A handsome man in a dinner suit steps backwards into my path and I almost fall into the twelve foot, tastefully tinsel festooned Christmas tree gracing the corner of the hall. The man apologises and takes my arm to steady me. I smile and nod and scurry on my way. The last thing I want is for anyone to talk to me. I don’t think I could put together a coherent sentence. I’m still trying to process what I’ve walked into. I try to keep my face relaxed as I make my way through the crowd, taking in the Christmas-themed wonderland, not wanting to show how awestruck my poor-student soul is.
This place is unreal. It is a maze of plush carpets and deep, squashy sofas, and tables made of gleaming dark wood, and countless doorways, and endless hallways. It is a palace. A glittered, baubled, sparkling palace. A peek round one corner reveals a lady in a stunning golden ballgown tinkling very proficiently on the keys of a grand piano to the delight of the crowd gathered round it.
A glance into another room reveals a full-sized casino set up, with roulette wheels and blackjack tables, and croupiers in fancy livery dealing cards to groups of glamorous looking young men and women whose facial expressions swing between elation and despair with each roll of the dice.
I need to leave. I have no idea who Alistair Whyte is, or how I’m supposed to find him. I hope he is having a wonderful birthday, and I am absolutely sure it will not be in any way diminished by not meeting me. I will leave his birthday card in a safe looking place on my way out, then I am heading home. I am fully prepared to risk Aunt Molly’s wrath. There’s no way she could expect me to effectively gate-crash such an event. A normal party, fair enough, but not this. Surely not this. This is aDo.
I stumble through a door to my left and find myself in an enormous, gleaming kitchen. The light from countless ceiling spotlights reflects off the white marble work surfaces and the shining glass faces of endless rows of appliances. The place is heaving with staff: chefs in white jackets, waiting staff in tartan waistcoats. There is even a team washing dishes. The waiting staff buzz from the room bearing silver platters of the most delicious smelling hors d’oeuvres. My mouth waters, but I press on. I’ve got to get out of here.
Thankfully no one gives me so much as a glance as I effect my escape through the back door. Perfect. Much as I’d like to stay and feast my eyes on the spectacle that is Alistair Whyte’s twenty-first birthday party, I am conscious of sticking out like a sore thumb. And if I don’t leave of my own volition, someone is surely going to ask me to leave. I clearly do not belong, courtesy invite or not.
I make my way through the back garden, looking for a path that will take me round to the front of the house. I round a hedge and a brilliantly lit vista of blue water surrounded by dark granite tiles opens before my eyes. I halt, letting my eyes adjust to the light. The Whytes’ pool is stunning. Wisps of steam rise gently from its surface. A jacuzzi is set off to the side, sunk into the granite, its bubbling expanse offering space for at least twelve people.
These people know how to entertain.
The poolside is empty for now, but I can’t help but think that might change as the evening goes on. I’m glad not to have to run a gauntlet of drenched merrymakers as I skirt round the pool house, looking for my escape route. The glass fronted building is the size of a small house. Despite myself, I pause and peer in at the tastefully decorated ground floor. The soft lighting reveals a kitchen, a bed, and a sitting area with large, soft couches.
There is also a man lying motionless on the floor.
I avert my eyes and take a step forward. This is none of my business. People lie on the floor at parties all the time, right? No need for me to getting myself involved.
But try as I might, I cannot take the next step forward.
I need to know if he is okay. I can’t just walk away without knowing.
I knock on the window.
The man remains motionless.
I knock again. Still nothing.
Damn it.
I open the door. Dropping the birthday card onto a nearby table, I kneel at his side. I take his wrist between my fingers. Pulse? Check. Breathing? Check. Any obvious signs of injury? No. He is breathing deeply and snoring occasionally. I stand up, looking down at the supine stranger. I’ll go and alert someone in the house, let them know he is there. Then I’m heading home.
I turn to collect Ali’s card. As I move to lift it, I notice an open bottle of whisky on the table, accompanied by a glass containing a generous measure. I crouch back down beside the fallen man mountain and sniff. There is a faint woody smell to his breath.
Drat. Don’t want to risk him choking on his own vomit.
I attempt to put him into the recovery position. He is 6’4” if he’s an inch, and not a pound under 220. I’m 5’2” with big boobs and a seriously curvy ass, but even with my strong glutes, I struggle to move him. With a bit of an ungainly shove, I manage to roll him into position. I place his arm to stop him rolling forward and stand, taking a moment to recover my breath.
I turn to the table once more and reach for the birthday card.
“Wait,” a groggy voice entreats. “Don’t go. I’m just getting up.”
The man I have just laboured to put into the recovery position is climbing to his knees, rubbing huge hands over bleary blue eyes. His blond hair is tousled and standing straight up at the back. He looks as confused as hell. And incredibly cute.
Sera, no. Home time.
If I go, will he remember that I was there? I’ve got a fraction of a second before he properly comes to. If I’m going to make my escape it needs to be now.
The stranger lurches to his feet. He stumbles over towards the bed.
“Careful!” I warn as he sits down, but it is too late. The bedstead breaks under him, sending the mattress and the stranger to the floor with an almighty bump.
“Not again,” he groans.
He stretches out his long legs and looks up at me.
