Free The Foster Husband by Pippa Wright

spread of sandwiches and sausage rolls,
much as if we were attending a provincial wedding rather than a party held by a multinational corporation.
    Some said it was because Leila had been cautioned for possession when leaving last year’s do, and it had made the papers, which reflected badly on the company as a whole. But everyone knew
that was rubbish as the scandal just made Hitz sound like a rock and roll sort of place, which in our line of work was a good thing. Also the publicity had brought Leila a lot more business, so she
was delighted. Some said it was because our former head of marketing had woken up with a black eye and a missing tooth after last year’s party, and had to attend a meeting the next day
looking like a tramp. But he’d left now, so that couldn’t be it.
    I thought it was more likely that our head of finance had wielded the anti-fun scissors; no one had got a bonus this year, and it hadn’t escaped my notice that they’d failed to
replace the last two people to leave the production team.
    But there was one Hitz Christmas party tradition that would not die, no matter what cutbacks were forced on us. For the last three years, Sarah and I had pulled a stunt at the Hitz Christmas
party. In truth I wondered if we’d ever top last year, when we’d stripped down to leotards and broken into the full ‘Single Ladies’ routine. But that had taken weeks of
rehearsals. With Lagos having got in the way this year we just hadn’t had the time to practice.
    ‘But Sarah,’ I said, pulling down the hem of my dress, which kept clinging to my tights in a way that spelled trouble for later that night, when I was bound to be less sober and
therefore less attentive. ‘We could get
hurt
. Can’t we just take a year off or something?’
    She stopped in the entrance to the marquee, grabbing my shoulders with both hands, her eyes glittering with determination. This year’s cunning stunt had been her idea, which made her
especially passionate about it.
    ‘Kate, the cunning stunt must continue. Don’t you see – they can take away our party, but they can’t take away what makes it great: you and me. Everyone is relying on us.
We’re like . . . Father Christmas or something. We owe it to everyone.’
    I must have looked dubious, because she shook me, ‘Do you really want to deny everyone the full Christmas party experience? Do you?’
    ‘I’m not denying anyone anything,’ I began.
    ‘That’s what Chris said after Lagos,’ Sarah sniggered, letting go of me.
    ‘
What
did Chris say after Lagos?’ I demanded.
    ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said airily, her back turned to me as she walked into the marquee.
    ‘Whatever,’ I said, trying to sound breezy.
    To be honest I barely remembered what had happened after I’d downed a row of whiskys at the Airtel party. I’d found myself sneaking out of Chris’s hotel room at stupid
o’clock the next morning, staggered to my flight, and had tried very hard not to think of it ever since. I firmly believe that a bit of brazen denial is the best way to deal with such things.
Who wants to sit around talking about the stuff you’re ashamed of? Best to pretend it never happened and hope everyone else does too.
    Sarah stopped in the entrance and took in the room. Smiling waiters greeted us with trays of champagne and dubious-looking bright blue cocktails. It was a given that at least half of the waiting
staff were aspiring musicians and presenters who would try to thrust a demo CD into your hand, or turn the evening into an audition if the opportunity presented itself. It was important not to let
yourself get into a conversation with any of them, or you’d never escape. Sarah and I, Christmas party veterans, took a glass each without making eye contact with the server.
    Tables were laid out around an enormous dance floor where a few brave, or prematurely drunk, colleagues were already trying out their moves. Most people were, like us, just taking in the