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THIRTY-FOUR
34
The Gala glittered with titles, diamonds, champagne, and talent.
Later it might curl around the edges into spilt drinks, glassy eyes, raddled make-up, and slurring voices, but the gloss wouldn't entirely disappear.
I handed over my invitation and walked along the wide passage where the lights were dimmed low, the music loud, and the air thick with scent.
Around the dancing area, there were large circular tables with chairs for ten or twelve around each, most of them already occupied. According to the seating chart in the hall, at table thirty-two, I would find the place reserved for Ian Ure. My false name for the night. Nobody should recognise me with a false beard and glasses, but that didn't prevent a battery of curious eyes swivel my way. Many people raised hello, but none could work out who I was or hide their shock surprise that they didn't know me.
A voice behind me said incredulously, "Ian!"
I knew the voice and turned around with
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