![]()
Chapter One
Thursday Afternoon
Jess
She had made it.
That was what Jess kept catching herself thinking.
Head of housekeeping, Island Home. Her name was Jess Wilson and she was the new head of housekeeping for Island Home.
She still couldnât quite believe it.
It had all been a bit like a dream, the past week. First the phone call from Homeâs head office, offering her an interviewâafter all those years of applying. All those years of hoping. All those years of being told they would keep her CV on file.
Then the interview itself, down in London, with Adam Groom, Home Groupâs director of special projects, the second-most-important person in the whole company. Her sudden panic about what to wear, what to say.
It would be hard to exaggerate how much she had wanted this, or for how long. Growing up where she had, in Northamptonshire, just down the road from Country Home, she could remember driving with her parents past that long drystone wall, glimpsing through the trees the glinting waters of the estateâs private lake, peeking through the front gates at the long straight drive up to the Elizabethan manor house, experiencing a little thrill every time, trying to guess what it looked like inside. Hearing a helicopter passing overhead and wondering who was on board. Reading about Home in magazines, as a teenager, imagining what it would be like to work there, to be part of something like that.
There was still a very small part of Jess that worried this was all going to turn out to have been a terrible mistake. That she was going to get to Island Home only to be told theyâd looked into her references and discovered her to be an imposter. That as soon as she opened her mouth everyone would immediately knowânew haircut and new clothes notwithstandingâthat she was just not cool enough to work somewhere like this, would never fit in, was not what they had been looking for at all.
That was certainly the impression she had carried away from her interview.
It had taken place at Covent Garden Home, Jess shifting forward and backward in an armchair that was slightly too low for the table, conscious that the straining button on her new blouse was in serious danger of popping open, trying to assume a position that looked relaxed yet eager, trying to work out what to do with her elbows. All the advice her friends had given her about this interview and all the pep talks she had given herself on the journey felt suddenly irrelevant and absurd when faced with an obviously hungover Adam Groom eating a full English breakfast.
Between wincing sips from a Bloody Mary, he had squinted at her printed-out CV for what was evidently the first time, telling her random things about himself whenever he glanced up from his scrappy bit of paper and addressing her chest throughout. The only mention made of the distance sheâd traveled down from Northamptonshire to meet him in person was when Adam remarked that the hotel she currently worked atâthe Grangeâwas just down the road from Country Home. âI know,â she had told him, smiling. âIâve actually applied for jobs there quite a few times . . .â Eight, to be precise. She would have said more about why, perhaps added something about how much she admired all that Adam and his brother had achieved with Home, what a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity working at the launch of one of their clubs would be, but as she was in the middle of talking, Adam had called the waitress (young, slim, pretty) over to ask for a bit more ketchup, and Jess had trailed off.
All the way home on the trainâthat long, expensive, unreimbursed train journeyâsheâd kicked herself for all the stupid things sheâd said, all the opportunities sheâd missed to sell herself, thought about all the things she would say to Adam if she were being interviewed again now. All the things she would not say. Knowing that this had been her big chance and she had fluffed it.
That night she had received a phone call asking her whether she was available to start immediately.
âOf course,â sheâd told them, not even really thinking until she got off the phoneâit was so unexpected, the whole thingâwhat a bombshell this was going to be to her current employers, her colleagues, her friends. Not until even later did it occur to her that she had never asked why her predecessor had left so suddenly, what kind of arrangements, if any, had been made for the handover.
It was hard to believe that had only been a week ago. The past few days had been manic. Frantic shopping expeditions, the last-minute haircut she was not quite sure about (a feathery shoulder-length bob the hairdresser told her would be easy to manage but was actually impossible to style into anything other than a birdâs nest by herself), a moment of panic late the previous evening when it had looked as if her suitcase wasnât going to close. A couple of daysâ induction at Homeâs head office in London. The kind of restless night you always have before a big day, waking before your alarm goes off.
And now here she was, having waited on the mainland for the causeway to become passable, crossing it in a chauffeur-driven electric Land Rover Defender with two other new arrivals, both Littlesea locals, all daunted, all trying very hard not to show it. She would surely never forget that first sight of the road emerging from the sea, surprisingly winding, alarmingly narrow, the way the piles of rocks on either side of the track appeared first; then within minutes the wet surface of the road itself was shining in the early-afternoon sunlight, clumps of seaweed still stranded across it in inky scribbles, the island a hulking outline on the horizon.
She would have been a fool not to be a little nervous. How different all this would be from the Grange, the hotel at which she had worked for so long, with its acres of tartan carpets, its formal dining room complete with bow-tied waiters, the saloon bar with its golfing prints, the little plastic bottles of lily-of-the-valley toiletries, the lingering smell of disinfectant in the corridors. How weird it was going to be to move from somewhere so familiar, where she knew everybody, where everybody knew her, to somewhere completely new, completely strange.
It was a bright October afternoon, the cloudless blue sky crisscrossed with vapor trails.
As the wooded island ahead of them loomed ever larger and wider and darker, Jess tried to make out all the different buildings and features that had just been described in their induction. The Manor, or at least a windowed turret of it, was visible first, peeking out among the tips of the pines. Then, as they got closer, she could make out their destination: the Boathouse, a two-story weathered wooden building a hundred meters from the end of the causeway, with an adjoining large parking lot full of glossy black SUVs next to a glass-fronted reception area where members collected their cabin keys, deposited their phones for the duration of the stay, and sipped champagne in front of a blazing fire while they waited for a porter in a golf cart. Next to that, farther down the pine-lined beach, was a concrete and cedar single-story building jutting out into the waterâthis, Jess supposed, was the underwater restaurant, Poseidon. Beyond that she could make out a steep road disappearing up a sharp slope into the woods.
This was not the landscape sheâd grown up with, but she could see its beauty, evenâor perhaps especiallyâat this time of year. The pale slender trunks of the silver birches. The fierce glow of the beeches. The yellow of gorse and broom. The dark pebble beaches. The white-blond stretches of sand. Springy thickets of sea buckthorn. Banks of browning bracken. The late-autumn sunlight sparkling on the waves.
For the most partâand for obvious reasonsâthe cabins and their terraces were arranged so they werenât easy to spot from a distance, from the water. The spa and tennis courts were on the far side of the island, close to the old water tower that was now a revolving Italian restaurant, near the sailing and water-sports facilities and the staff accommodations (not visible from the water either, and where about half the islandâs employeesâJess includedâwould be based, the other half arriving each morning from the mainland). It was funny to think how strange all this felt to her now, and how familiar it all would be in just a few daysâ time. Her Home.
The people were going to take a bit of adjusting to as well. The head of membership, Annie Spark, for instance, an extraordinary vision with waist-length Jessica Rabbitâred hair, in a bright pink jumpsuit, high-top sneakers, and huge gold hoop earrings, who had greeted her at the Causeway Inn, the seventeenth-century harborside pub overlooking the exact point the causeway met the mainland, acquired by the Home Group (Annie had explained) as somewhere members could sit and enjoy one of a range of fifteen local ales and ciders or a bite to eat while they waited for the tide to turn and the road across to the island to become passable.
In one of the downstairs barsâa room with a sea view, arranged with low, mismatched vintage armchairs, a pair of crossed logs smoldering in the fireplaceâAnnie had talked them all through the itinerary for the weekend.
Tonight, Thursday, there would be an intimate dinner for a select five guests (and four very senior members of Home staff) in the Manor, hosted by Ned Groom. Annie had listed the members invited. Jess felt her heart jump. All around her, fellow newbies tried to keep their expressions neutral. It had already been underlined, both at the interview and in a stern aside from Annie, that you would not last long at Home if you were the kind of person who was easily starstruck.
It had also been made very clear, when she had accepted the job, what a privilege it was as a senior member of the team to be allowed to keep a phone on her while she was working. Indeed, on her arrival at the head office, she had been given a brand-new work iPhone and instructed to keep it with her, charged and on at all times, in case she was needed. She had also been told, very firmly, never to take it out when a guest was thereâjust as all the arriving staff had been instructed to keep an eye out for any member whoâd failed to surrender theirs on arrival.
âThis is one of the few places in the world,â Annie had reminded them, âthat most of these people can eat a meal or have a drink or just sit around doing nothing and be absolutely confident no one is going to snap a picture of them doing it. Try to imagine what that feels like. Just try to imagine how much youâd be willing to pay for it. And thatâs why any member you see with a phone in their handâbecause, believe it or not, theyâre not immune to the urgeâis off the island, immediately, their membership canceled. And thatâs why none of our waiters, waitresses, bar staff, or housekeeping crews are allowed mobiles either.â
She could do this, Jess told herself. She had been in hospitality ever since she left schoolâbefore, if you counted that first weekend job, making beds in a local B&B. Sheâd spent ten years at the Grange, steadily working her way up to housekeeping manager. She had always got on with her team, always taken pride in her job. She could do this. People were people. Guests were guests.
The rest of the inviteesâAnnie had reeled off more names, some familiar, some Annie obviously expected to beâwould arrive in carefully coordinated waves from Friday morning onward, and there was a packed schedule to keep them occupied all the way through to Sunday afternoon: boat trips, horse rides, brunches, lunches, dinners, movie screenings. Every cabin would be occupied, every guest one of Homeâs most valued members. NothingâAnnieâs tone was gently emphatic, her expression encouragingâwould be too much trouble.
While she spoke, Annieâs phone kept pinging and ringing. Every so often she would inspect it and smirk or frown. The instant the induction was over, she had it clamped to her ear and was talking loudly in a bright voice before she was even out of the room.
How Jess envied Annie her confidence, her air of unflappability, the boldness of her style. All that scarlet hair, gathered in a twist over one shoulder, the heavily kohled and fringe-framed eyes. Those great crimson talons. Perhaps it was easier to be confident when you were as tall as Annie wasâsix foot something, easily. Jess wished she had introduced herself a bit more forcefully, or that she had been brave enough to put her hand up during Annieâs talk and ask just one of the hundreds of questions she had about this island, this weekend, this job.
She was going to need all the confidence and boldness she could muster to get through the next few days.
âNearly there now,â their driverâhe wore a tight blue polo shirt and mirrored sunglassesâannounced over his shoulder. He gave a little tap on the horn as they neared the end of the causeway. Someone emerged from the glass-fronted Boathouse holding a clipboard, and waved.
This was it.
If only her parents could see her now, Jess thought. All those girls at school.
There was no doubt that this was the opportunity of a lifetime.
Now all she had to do was stick to the plan.
Annie
It could be brutal, this job.
âMy darling, my angel, my love. You know if there was space, I would have you here in a heartbeat! No, no, donât cry . . .â
For months now Annie Spark had been having conversations like this, or avoiding them. For the past week her phone had literally not stopped ringing from the moment she got up in the morning until she crawled into bed at night. The texts. The Instagram DMs. The voice-mail messages. The texts to see if you had got their DM or had a chance to listen to their voice-mail message yet. The emails to see if they still had your mobile number right.
At the last count, there were 5,761 Home members worldwide. There could only ever be 150 of them, give or take, at a launch.
The invitation to Island Homeâs Halloween weekend opening party had been couriered to the chosen few on August 14. For weeks before that, Annie had been adding names, rethinking, removing, making the final adjustments. As soon as the coveted gilt-edged cards had been sent out, nestled in custom monogrammed cashmere bathrobes and silk pajamas, she braced herself for the onslaught. Annie occupied an odd space in membersâ mindsâa hybrid of superfixer, paid best friend, and put-upon PA. Somebody you could stay up until 2:00 a.m. drinking espresso martinis with, someone on whose shoulder you might cry in the midst of a bitter divorce. But also the person youâd bitch to if you couldnât get three extra friends into Malibu Home for drinks on Labor Day. Or shout at if the roses in your room were droopy, or the table youâd been given on the rooftop in Venice Home was drafty.
When people began to realize they hadnât made the guest list, they went into overdrive: unexpected dinner invites, insistent suggestions of a quick drink, questions about when it would be a good time for a quick phone catch-up, all started to roll in. PAsâor lower-tier members pretending to be the PAs she knew they couldnât affordâbegan emailing ten times a day just to check there had not been an administrative error, some sort of oversight.
She did have sympathy for these people. She couldnât have done her job if she didnât. But equally she couldnât have done her job if she let herself be swayed by that sympathy. Her loyalty was to Ned and she knew that he trusted her implicitly to make decisions in Homeâs best interests. Take, for instance, this actress Annie was on the phone with now, as she paced up and down the cobbled harbor front outside the Causeway Inn, huge emerald-green down coat pulled tight around her against the chill October air, smoking first one cigarette and then another.
At the other end of the line? Ava Huxley. British actress, auburn-haired, startlingly thin, teeny-tiny, next-level posh. Once widely regarded as a very big star in the making, she had been in o...
