Cotion, The Grand Ball
Jenny and Art invite you to a ceremonial gathering. Bring a bottle.
Carriages at midnight.
I opened my front door at midnight on the dot and, as promised there sat
the full gold-trimmed coach like something straight out of Cinderella,
White horses, top-hatted coachman, gilty as charged.
I’d met Art on a company sponsored bender several years earlier, back
when I was going out with the finance whizz, and we hit it off straight
away. He is, to my observational ability, richer than it is possible for
any one person to be. He travels an awful lot, but we meet up for a
drink and a chat every so often. He’s always seemed supremely interested
in my work (Which isn’t very interesting, I’m a dev for a web
application I can’t tell him many details about), but this is really the
first time I’ve gotten the chance to meet any of his other friends. I’m
pretty sure they’re all going to be so far above my level I’m going to
need a periscope to keep up, but that isn’t worrying me at the moment.
What is worrying me at the moment is that I live on the fifth floor of a
tall block of one to two bedroom flats (of which mine is the former)
and, as I know to my cost, the hall outside my flat is not wide enough
to wield a sofa in anger, let alone an entire horse drawn carriage. Yet
this is, apparently, what is outside my front door.
“I’ll send someone to pick you up around midnight”
The coachman gets down from his seat and, with a practised elegant
motion, opens the door and causes a step to drop to help me get in. I’d
estimate that the top-hat and tails he’s dressed in cost roughly twice
my own hired suit’s creation cost, and it is sharply in my mind that he
is a coachman. The windows are blocked out, and I so I can only hear the
echoing click of the horses hooves as we clip down the hallway before it
fades out to a more rhythmic thudding as we appear to be cantering
across a less metalled road. After about twenty minutes, most of which I
spend in abject fear, we stop, and after a short pause the door is
opened again, this time to let in the next passenger.
“The master sends his apologies” said the coachmen, “but each coach is
to pick up two guests tonight”. To be honest, I have absolutely no
intention of objection.
The vision who is stepping up into the carriage is dressed in a
ball-gown whose skirts squeeze though the narrow door like sands though
an hourglass. As she sits on the bench opposite mine, the hoops of the
skirt point up at me like a petticoated megaphone.
“Damn thing” says my travelling companion. “If I’d known about this I’d
have… well, I’d have still gone with this dress, but I’d have thought
more carefully about it. I’m Emma, by the way, went to uni with Jenny.
You are?”
“Er, Simon.” I said, just about, “Friend of Art”. My feeling of
confusion appears – to my horror – to have registered on my face and she
says:
“Ah. First time at one of Art’s bashes, yes?”
I nod.
“Right. Well, I won’t spoil it for you, but at all times remember you’re
not actually dreaming, and the amber stuff is more potent than it
tastes.” She looks at me somewhat critically, and pulls out a mobile
phone from some well hidden pocket of the dress, and presses a couple of
buttons.
“Hey. Listen, Art’s trying to melt someone again, yeah, he’s in my
coach. Yes, more microcarpentary, I think. Yes, well. Do you think we
can do something to stop this one looking quite so much like a waiter?
It’s not that… well, it’s partly that, I just wish Art wouldn’t
drip-feed information just to see the look on their faces when they see
it. Not very chivalrous, eye em oh…. Okay, cool. I’ll send him there.”
she clicked the phone shut.
“A waiter?” I ask, remembering how much this suit cost me to hire.
“A cute waiter. We’ll be there soon, so listen carefully. When we get in
to the main building, take the staircase to your left, go all the way to
the top, and then the third room on the right.” The coach drew to a
halt. “Tell them I sent you, and save a dance.” The door open, and with
a quick peck on my cheek and a rustle of silk and petticoats she was
gone. I sat in somewhat stunned shock for a couple of minutes before
climbing out the still opened door. Emma was nowhere to be seen, and
neither was the coachman. There was a very large castle with an inviting
doorway in it, so I went inside.
There was a stairway on the left, so I took it.
The content of this site is © Nicholas Avenell 2001-2006 (With a couple of exceptions, read the page)
Aquarion