Marnie by Winston Graham Read Free Book Online

personal in Manchester, and it always paid off. But you don’t always do the clever thing. I said: ‘Thanks, I’d
like to.’
    ‘Divine. We’ll meet at the door in about ten minutes. I think the MacDonalds will have room for you in their little car.’
    Well, he only lived about ten minutes away. The MacDonalds were two of the firm’s guests and were both as tall as cranes – the steam sort – but nice enough in their smart way.
They were London smart, which means a bit phoney, but not as phoney as provincial smart. She was a blonde with that sort of urchin cut that makes you look like a drowned cat, and she was wearing a
flowered grosgrain frock that showed too much leg and too much bosom. He wore his hair long and a dinner suit with blue velvet lapels. I shared the back seat of their Mark 9 Jaguar with Dawn
Witherbie and a funny type called Walden. Alistair MacDonald drove like a madman, but Terry somehow got there first, so we all got out and went into his flat, which was three rooms done very
modern; you know, bright purple carpet, orange and yellow walls, neon lights shaped like letter Zs, and a cocktail bar in one corner with the front made of padded and buttoned blue leather.
    There were twelve of us and everybody talked and drank a lot. Not that I drank much because it didn’t do to be talkative the way I lived. Somebody shouted, ‘Put the tape
on,’ and then a sort of round-the-clock dance music started coming out of the radiogram, and two or three couples began to circle in one corner. But on the carpet it was hard work, and after
a while Terry dragged a table forward and said, ‘D’you play poker, Mary?’
    ‘No. Do you mean gambling?’ I said. ‘No.’
    He laughed. ‘It’s only fun. Not really gambling. I’ll soon teach you.’
    ‘No, thanks, I’ll watch.’
    ‘If you’re as quick at learning this as you were the cha-cha . . . Two shilling maximum, Alistair?’
    ‘Low limits kill bluffing, old boy, old boy,’ Alistair MacDonald said. ‘Anybody will see you if they can do it on the cheap.’
    ‘Yes, dear boy, dear boy,’ Terry said, mimicking him. He lowered his voice and did a little finicking wave towards the dancers. ‘But we’re a mixed bag this evening. I
think we have to take a democratic view.’
    Gail MacDonald pulled the shoulder strap of her frock up. ‘Darling, don’t be a bore,’ she said to her husband. ‘We’re slumming tonight.’ She glanced at me.
‘Darling, I don’t mean you. In that divine frock – is it Amies?’ – she knew it wasn’t – ‘you look like an early Modigliani, that lovely warm skin . .
. Of course we’ll play for whatever you say, Terry, poppet.’ She kissed him.
    Some of them got round a low table which had a banquette on two sides. I wouldn’t play at first but Terry insisted on teaching me. Somehow in the process one of his hands was always
touching me somewhere; one minute it was round my waist, then it was on my shoulder – and always two or three fingers seemed to overlap on to the bare part – or he held my arm or my
hand. I didn’t like being pawed, and I was glad the MacDonalds had offered to take me home.
    I pretended I hadn’t any money, so Terry lent me two pounds, but I had no luck and when that was gone I said I was drawing out; this gave me the chance to slide away from him.
    I began to watch the game. Terry was right, it was easy to learn – anyone could go through the motions in ten minutes – but it didn’t stop there. It looked as if anybody with a
bit of time and head exercise would be able to work out what chances of winning you had when you picked up a card and what chances you had of doing better by swapping your cards. For instance if
you had four cards of the same suit and hoped to pick up a fifth, for a – what was it? – a flush, the odds against you, because there were four suits in the pack, were roughly four to
one. But if you had three cards of the same number – three fives, for