Only two hours to go until the party was due to begin, and a horde of immaculately groomed waiters were swarming over the grounds like black and white bees, radios crackling as though they were the Secret Service as the party director relayed his and Mrs Kendrick’s orders to various parts of the ground. Standing on the terrace, Sam Kendrick sighed inwardly. He didn’t understand the subtleties of party-giving and he never would. The whole place looked fine to him: mini orchestra set up in the ballroom, chamber quartet out by the’ pool, which was covered in a thousand minute sandalwood candles, floating across it like perfumed fireflies, no to mention the food and different types of champagne set up all over the house and grounds. His wife had never done things by halves. There would be caviar in ice sculptures laid out all over the place, together with real truffles, plates ofoysters dim-sum and Belgian chocolates, all the normal Hollywood titbits; but Isabelle eschewed the trend towards poolside buffets in favour of a formal sit down dinner, with the seating arrangements worked out more carefully than most of his contracts.
