‘She does!’
They finally break apart. ‘I want to find a man who looks at me the way JoJo looks at Chastity, like she’s a soft juicy bao bun,’ Victoria says, her voice wistful.
There are a few titters around the table and we hold our breath once more as fireworks explode from the top of the Hollywood sign. ‘How did he get permission for that?’ Bailey from HR asks.
‘He’s a great negotiator.’ Money, money, money.
I hold my breath as the big reveal creeps closer. JoJo turns to Chastity and bends on one knee, before whispering, ‘Look up,’ just as a plane flies across the sky above the Hollywood sign. Light grid mantles under its wings illuminate the night sky and spelled out in lights is the pièce de résistance:
Will you marry me, Sarah?
It’s the most beautiful thing ev— Wait.
Sarah.
SARAH!
Nooooooo!
The breath leaves my body in a whoosh. No, no, no! I close my eyes – maybe I’ve imagined it in my fatigued state. When I wrench my eyes open to check, I see confusion dash across Chastity’s face, which is swiftly replaced by a dark cloud of anger. Her eyes flare with a rage that makes me shrink down in my seat.
‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’ she says in a menacingly low voice. JoJo has gone white with shock. What do I do?!
‘Melanie!’ I screech to our media guru and slam my hands on the table, making cupcakes launch upwards in surprise. ‘Make it stop! Turn off the livestream, get those cameras out of there. Shut it down. Shut it down now!’ Melanie hurries from the room, the others from her department follow close behind, barking orders to each other.
Onscreen, JoJo is chasing Chastity, trying to explain and letting out an expletive or two about Harry and the whole ‘damn gang at Excès’ – oh dear – ‘who are clearly incompetent!’ But she doesn’t listen. Instead, she throws herself into the limo and tells the driver to make haste, but not in so many nice words. The limo skids out of the park leaving a bereft JoJo standing alone with just his long face for company. And then, praise the Lord, the screen goes black.
Chapter 2
This is a PR disaster! ‘Sarah is JoJo’s ex-wife’s name! Do you think Harry just got them muddled up?’ Wild thoughts swirl as I wonder how to contain this. I stand and pace around the room. ‘How could this have happened?’
Victoria shakes her head. ‘Harry’s royally stuffed up, he has.’
‘How could he make such a careless mistake …?’ My former sugar high is now a distinctive low.
Victoria grimaces. ‘Can you imagine how Chastity feels? This epic marriage proposal, dancing girls, walk of fame star, flash mob and fireworks, with his ex-wife’s name up in lights while it’s being livestreamed!’
‘None of that is good.’ Faces around the table are downcast. No one knows quite how to react. It’s not a good sign, not a good sign at all. ‘Can you check online? See what’s being reported and then we can work out how best to spin this?’
She swipes at her iPad and gets to work. ‘It’s everywhere already.’
I rub my face; this is not a good start to the day. ‘OK, how can we play it? What can we do to minimise the embarrassment for JoJo and Chastity?’
Tapping her chin with a pen, she says, ‘What about showing close-ups of the walk of fame star, the smile on her face, how happy she was dancing?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Tie that in with some stories about how she came from nothing and is set to be one of the world’s most-loved actresses? Let’s highlight her philanthropy work. If we can drown out today with all the good Chastity has done, we might swing this back around. Didn’t she give a season’s salary to a women’s shelter last Christmas? Let’s remind everyone about that.’
‘This error is dynamite for every news outlet, Orly, but I’ll do my best.’
‘I know, the vultures!’ I groan. ‘Get onto to every reporter we’re friendly with and let’s get them sharing. Other celebs too. Who’s she close to? Find out and start sending gifts and get them to tweet about how beautiful the proposal was, send them the first part of the video, minus the ending and let’s get that online and boosted as much as we can.’
‘Good idea.’
There’s no time to ruminate; I need to start damage control with the couple themselves. I’ll send flowers, I’ll send money, I’ll send a private jet! No, I’ll send a posse of rescue pups for them to play with and make an obscenely large donation to their favourite animal shelter! I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this while I wait for Harry to return from his island adventure and start the grovelling process himself. It irks me he’s absent at such a crucial time. It’s a pattern with Harry and the other business partners. They presume I’ll fix their mistakes because I always do.
I call Harry and leave a voicemail: ‘Harry I need to speak to you urgently—’
The voicemail cuts out and a recorded message tells me his mailbox is full. My head is about to explode – just what is he doing? Surely there’s a Wi-Fi signal somewhere on the bloody island! Today of all days I’d thought he’d find a way to tune in.
The remaining staff leave the boardroom on pretences of having a busy day, and work to do. Victoria pats my shoulder and says, ‘Let’s move to our office.’
We spend the entire day attempting to make amends. I send exotic fruit and expensive champagne. I hire them a suite at the Chateau Marmont and fill it with luxury gifts. But it’s no good, they’ve gone into hiding. I call Harry and his phone is still infuriatingly off. The story is reported throughout the day on television and social media.
Reporters gleefully discuss the disaster, the juicy livestreamed ‘Cocker Love Cock-up’ a ratings win and a play on poor Chastity’s surname – yikes. Memes start circulating. Gifs are next. I want to cup my head and cry. Nothing we do stems the tide.
Day turns into night and I field calls from JoJo’s lawyers threatening to sue. I beg, cajole and bargain for more time, insisting that it was a gross error and that we’re investigating it. All steps will be taken to punish the person responsible. Who knows, maybe it wasn’t Harry? Maybe it was someone who has it in for JoJo or Chastity? It’s too late to fix it, but I make all the enquires I can and alarmingly everything circles back to Harry.
When the airport emails me a copy the sign-off form with Harry’s signature in thick cursive, I slump on my desk. It’s right there in black and white: Will you marry me, Sarah? with Harry’s approval.
It’s a mistake anyone can make, of course, but it’s not acceptable in our line of work. We have staff who double and triple check everything, yet Harry insists on going rogue and doing it all himself. And now look!
‘You’ve done everything you can to mitigate the mess,’ Victoria says, giving me a look usually reserved for lost puppies. ‘Why don’t you head out and meet Maya for dinner like you’re meant to? They can still call and threaten you as you’re walking, you know.’
Somehow, I laugh. ‘Yes. Yes, they can.’ I let out a world-weary sigh. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else I can do now anyway. I’ve tried everything. It’ll be up to Harry now. He’s probably sunning himself on that bloody tropical island, blissfully unaware that this place is falling like a house of cards.’
‘That’s Harry for you.’ She gives me a long look.
‘Yeah.’ I don’t even have the energy to think of an excuse for him. ‘I’m so late to meet Maya.’ She’s my best friend and we meet for dinner religiously at the same time every week.
‘Go,’ she says more forcefully. ‘Maya won’t mind. You’re always late.’
‘True.’ I nod. ‘OK, see you tomorrow?’
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow.’
‘Right, sorry.’ Suddenly, I envy her being able to have two days – forty-eight blissful hours – away from work.
‘Have the weekend off, Orly. Seriously. Switch your phone off for once. Harry wouldn’t think twice about ignoring calls if something like this happened to him. Why don’t you try it?’
‘I wish. What does my schedule look like for the weekend?’ Everything else has quite flown out of my mind.
She sighs. ‘It’s bloody busy.’ Swiping through her iPad she says, ‘Tomorrow you’re emcee for the charity luncheon at the Ritz.’ Oh bollocks, I’d forgotten about that. Usually Harry emcees but I had to agree on account of him going away. Public speaking isn’t my forte; I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kind of gal. ‘And then you’ve got the industry cocktail party at Bars on Barges. The end-of-month reports are due, and Harry chalked you up for those.’
Of course he bloody well did! ‘How can I hide, with all that going on?’ I groan. ‘The industry party will be a nightmare!’ A room full of industry experts with this juicy gossip swirling about the room and still no Harry to face up to it. ‘Is anyone else from Excès going?’ I hope and pray.
‘No, just you.’
‘Waaah.’
‘Don’t go, Orly. You’re busy with other things anyway. Just don’t do it.’
‘I have to go or it’ll look bad for Excès.’ When I give my word, I don’t ever renege on it – something drilled into me by my father who said the one thing we can never break is our word. If you commit to something, you follow through. Dad died relatively young, when I was only ten, so those little adages have stayed with me. And I’d feel like I was letting my dad down if I started breaking my promises. That’s something I won’t do.
‘See you on Monday.’ I air-kiss Victoria and take my bag, then dash outside into the balmy evening air. Always running late, late, late!
I glance at my watch and continue down Brompton Road, past Harrods whose concertinaed green awnings resemble eyes half-closed for slumber in the inky night.
I walk then hobble, ruing the fact a cab would crawl even slower in this traffic. It gives me plenty of time to consider the fact my career isn’t quite as gratifying as I’d once imagined it would be. In fact, it’s a great big migraine-inducing nightmare.
Eventually I see the bright lights of the West End. Bars and restaurants heave. The streets of Soho are packed with late-night revellers. People clutch cigarettes and spill from pubs into alleyways, their laughter punctuating the chilly night. Music blares from unseen speakers as I dodge tipsy executives who give me slow lazy smiles.
I turn down a cobblestoned lane and slip past a trio of friends wearing kilts who dance and sing as if all the world is a stage. Gosh, I love London. It’s a melting pot and anything goes. But tonight, all I want to do is eat spicy dumplings with Maya and decompress.
‘Sorry, excuse me, can I just … sorry.’ Ever the apologetic Londoner, I slink through, imagining my first sip of wine after a very long week.
Maya is a cardiothoracic surgeon. We met by chance at a charity fundraiser a million years ago and we’ve been firm friends ever since. She’s always around when life gets impossible or when I just need to sink a few gins and forget about the world.
As I stumble on my heels, wishing I’d changed into trainers, I finally see the little yellow lantern of the hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant we’ve been meeting at on Fridays since forever. They make the best mapo tofu dish in London. Owners Huan and Bai took us under their wing and are like surrogate parents. They always insist we eat more, fuss over us and are sweet and protective. They have a gaggle of their own children, now grown, who work at the restaurant and one who works as a neurosurgeon in the same hospital as Maya.
Bai sees me and commits to a launch hug. For a diminutive woman she packs a punch when she envelops me in her arms and squashes the air from my lungs. I make a sound like ‘Ooomphfzwark …’ before she frees me and I drag sweet precious oxygen back to its rightful organs. ‘Hey, Bai, how are you?’ I say, gasping.
Her eyes are wide with worry. ‘Maya is crying – you have to hurry.’
‘Crying?’
‘Quick, quick. She needs you.’
Bai points to our usual table in the back. The flickering candle highlights Maya’s face: mascara trails track down her cheeks and her exotic dark eyes are sunken. What on earth? Her earlier confirmation text message hadn’t given any of this away. I flick my mobile on silent so the barrage of incoming calls buzzing away won’t disturb us and then I rush over.
‘Darling!’ I drop my bag and move to hug her. ‘What’s wrong?’
She sobs, the kind of can’t-catch-your-breath tears that imply she’s been at this for some time. I hastily sit opposite and take Maya’s hand, unsure of what to do. I can count on one hand the number of times she’s cried like this and usually it revolves around losing a patient. She’s more of the stiff upper lip variety, essential in her job.
‘Did something happen at work?’
‘He’s gone.’
I rack my brain about who she could be referring to and then I realise. Oh no! ‘Ernest?’
She gives me a trembling smile with the barest of nods.
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. What happened?’
She lifts a shoulder as if it’s just one of those things. ‘His daughter just called me to let me know … It was actually quite peaceful in the end. He drifted off in his sleep at home surrounded by his cats and that little barky dog of his.’
Poor Maya. ‘Without you, he wouldn’t have had all that extra time, but he did because of the excellent way you mended his broken heart.’
‘I just did my job, but I love the way you romanticise heart surgery. He was the best. A true gentleman.’
Maya had been treating Ernest off and on for years. His ticker gave him trouble, then he had a stroke, but he had an indomitable spirit and never gave up in all of his ninety-plus years. They’d grown close as Maya had moved up the ranks and he’d been in and out of her care. While Maya tried to maintain a professional distance with her patients, some managed to creep into her heart, and jovial old man Ernest was one of them. Every Friday Maya regaled me with Ernest stories and I knew I would miss hearing about the incredible man.
‘It’s hit me so hard. I can’t imagine not seeing his dashingly suited self, propped up by his cane wandering the corridors, asking if it wasn’t too much trouble for a pot of tea.’
‘He was lucky to have you.’ I don’t know many surgeons who’d scoot off and make a patient a pot of tea. In the end, Ernest would often pop in to visit Maya, making some excuse or other when he just liked having a mug of tea and some sugary biscuits with his pretty doctor who carved out a slice of time in her busy day and gave it to him.
‘I was the lucky one.’
‘You both were.’
She balls the napkin and averts her eyes. ‘I hate that I didn’t get to say goodbye.’
I squeeze her hand. ‘But that’s the sweetest part, darling. He didn’t die after an emergency visit to hospital; he wasn’t hooked up to machines and heart monitors. The last time you saw each other you shared a slice of cake and waxed lyrical about your day. And rather sweetly, he slipped off peacefully surrounded by his menagerie of fluffy critters … As far as deaths go, that’s a pretty good one.’
‘You always know what to say.’ She takes a deep breath, her sobs slowly abating. ‘Work will be that little bit less shiny without Ernest popping in to visit.’ Maya exhales long and loud as if releasing some of her grief. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether all the heartache is worth it.’
I stare her down in a maternal way and say softly, ‘Darling, you’re fighting the good fight. Look at how many lives you’ve saved! Your work matters.’ Despite feeling low tonight, Maya loves her job. She thrives in the pressurised environment and always goes the extra mile for her patients. While days like today are impossible, she always bounces back.
‘So does yours, Orly.’ Maya knows I’ve been struggling with work lately and the lack of meaning I find in it.
It’s not comparable to saving lives. Not even close.
I fidget with the paper napkin. ‘Sometimes I feel I’d like to do something more meaningful. But then I think of how hard I’ve worked to get to where I am and I wonder if I’m having some sort of
mid-life crisis. Shouldn’t I be grateful? I dreamed of this high-flying London life but it all seems so … different to how I imagined.’ I feel ridiculous moaning about such a thing after Maya’s day, but here we are and I wonder if the distraction about my crazy life will help her bruised heart.
Maya nods. ‘You’re right. I can’t even remember when I last enjoyed the view from my apartment. Or when I caught a show at the theatre. When I walked just for the hell of it, not because I was racing to get back to the hospital. There’s never time.’
I cluck my tongue. ‘We’re burnt out at the ripe old age of thirty-five.’
‘Looks like it. How will I ever have a baby when I’m already too tired?!’ Her boyfriend Preston isn’t exactly dad material either, so part of me is relieved that there’s no time for making babies. He’s openly bigamous and doesn’t care a jot if Maya dislikes that or not. She deserves so much better than him. Conversely Maya’s dream has always been to have a houseful of babies, which she’s been saving for since forever. I only hope she’ll move on from Preston to someone who deserves her. But then again, when would she have time to meet someone new? Like me, Maya works crazy long hours.
‘Right?’ Deep down I recognise this as a huge problem. We’ve spent so long striving for these lofty goals and lost ourselves along the way. We should be enjoying our youth, soaking up every ounce of pleasure in one of the most amazing cities on the planet, but there’s never enough energy for all that.
‘Today I went to work with two different shoes on! I had to pretend it was all a ploy to distract my patients, then I spent the rest of the day acting like some jokester so they didn’t think I was losing my marbles and take my scalpel away from me!’
‘Oh, Maya! You need some downtime!’
‘We both do.’
‘Right? Give me a bubble bath and a good book and I might last a chapter before I sink into oblivion or my phone inevitably rings and startles me back to consciousness.’ For Maya, it’s even more hectic. Double shifts and long surgeries in a world where time is of the essence and there’s just not enough doctors to go around.
Escape to Honeysuckle Hall Page 2
