Spending the evening at a "Masked Black and White Ball", especially one given by somebody I consider to be a pretentious prat, is not high on my list of pleasurable events.
Unfortunately, my lovely wife Maeve was looking forward to the event. And I found out years ago that when Maeve sets her heart on something, it's easier to give in and agree from the start.
"So.' She asked over breakfast. 'What are you going to wear for the ball? Got anything in mind?"
Without being a mind reader, I could see she had something in mind for me. So I answered quickly.
"Oh, yes. I'm going as James Bond. OO7.' I tilted up my chin and ran my fingers over my cheekbones. 'Of course, I do have the advantage of being a dead-ringer for Daniel Craig.' A glance at Maeve told me she was prepared to argue, so I went on quickly. 'It is a black and white ball, so all I need to do is take my tuxedo to the dry cleaners, maybe buy a white carnation for the button hole, and voila! Instant license to kill.' It was obvious she was still not convinced, so I added hurriedly, 'what are you going as?"
Maeve folded her fingers beneath her chin and smiled smugly.
"Little Bo Peep."
I choked on my coffee. When she had stopped laughing, she said,
"You should have seen your face! Priceless! Actually, I'm going as the Scottish Widows' Woman. You know, the one on the advert who wears the swirling black velvet cloak with the hood drawn around her face. That should be pretty dramatic, worn with a white Venetian carnival mask."
She was right. She would look wonderful.
"Great. The only problem is that it's going to be held on the last Friday of the month. You know that's the one day where I'm always late home from work ..."
I tailed the words off suggestively. I needn't have bothered.
"Of course it is. How clever of you to decide to wear a tuxedo. You can take it in to the dry cleaners the day before, and collect it at lunchtime. That way you can change into it at work and nobody will think anything of it.' Before I could point out that that would make both of us very late, she added, 'don't worry about coming back here to pick me up. Suzi's been invited as well. I'll get a taxi to her place and get changed there, and she says she'll drive us both to the ball."
I know when I'm beaten.
"Great." I said.
At least it meant I could have a drink. Or two.
Grudgingly, I had to admit I was impressed by the venue. A fabulous barn conversion with a huge, open-plan lower floor and a mezzanine I assumed held bedrooms and bathrooms. As soon as the door was opened, I was met by the sound of music -- something that sounded like jazz/classical fusion to my uneducated ears -- played by a quartet of pretty young people on a raised dais, competing with the hum of people laughing and talking.
I stared round, searching for Maeve in the crush. I didn't see her so I made for the bar.
"Vodka martini, please. Shaken not stirred." What else, I thought complacently. One had to keep in character, surely!
I propped the bar up and glanced around, still looking for Maeve. Through the sea of people who filled the room, I finally caught a glimpse of her in front of the French doors. But by the time I had politely pushed my way through the guests (and who, I wondered, had thought it was a good idea to dress up as Charlie Chaplin's 'Little Tramp' in a dusty old black suit and white shirt? Or even worse, the Arab sheik in flowing white robes and a black keffiyeh? I began to feel quite smug about my own stylish tux) and reached the French doors I was taken aback to find Maeve was no longer there.
A quick scan of the room found her talking to a small, plump woman dressed as a nun. I had to admit that Maeve's choice of costume worked brilliantly. The sweeping cloak made her look tall and elegant, while the white carnival mask added a touch of mystery. She glanced up as I approached and smiled; her lips were as perfectly scarlet as a geisha's against the white mask. Immediately, I wanted to kiss those lips.
Hard.
I didn't get the chance. A man and a woman dressed, I assumed, as a Roman and his wife in trailing white togas, got in my way. By the time I had skirted them she had gone again.
I smiled at the nun, said "Great party!" and moved on before she could answer. I lost Maeve for a few minutes; just long enough to get a refill from the bar. As an afterthought, I asked for a second martini.
"It's for my wife." I assured the surprised barman.
This time, Maeve was harder to find. I stood on tip-toe and scanned the room. There she was, by the staircase. I lifted my hand and waved at her, and she raised her hand in return.
I thought I had been married long enough for nothing to surprise me about my own wife, but that night proved me wrong. Maeve held her hand up, palm inward, and then slowly and deliberately crooked a single finger at me in invitation. The gesture was so intimate in a room full of people it was deeply erotic.
A second later, she turned in a swirl of cloak skirts and seemed to float up the stairs. I looked at the second martini in my hand and resisted the impulse to down it in one gulp.
The mezzanine was dimly lit with glowing lights at floor level. I walked down slowly, feeling oddly light-headed, although that may have had something to do with the effect of two powerful vodka martinis on an empty stomach. All the doors I passed were firmly shut, until I almost reached the end of the corridor. The final door was slightly open. Invitingly open. I paused and then pushed it fully open quickly.
"Hello, there. It's a long way down to the bar. I wondered if you might like a drink?"
Maeve was lying full-length on a king-size bed, propped up on a mound of pillows. Her scent hit me at once; spicy and heavy, totally unliked her normal light, floral perfume.
Immediately I remembered the days after I first met her, when I couldn't even think about her without getting an erection. Just like I had now, so stiff it was tenting out the front of my trousers.
"Thank you. What is it?"
Maeve's voice was as husky as I felt.
"Vodka martini. Shaken not stirred." The cliché sounded quite appropriate.
