Escape to Honeysuckle Hall

by Rebecca Raisin

  Maya flicks her glossy mane of curly black hair. ‘What would you do though if you didn’t have a share in Excès? If you could just forget everything and do what you wanted to do?’

  ‘Retire …?’

  She laughs. ‘At thirty-five?’

  I toy with the empty wine glass in front of me. ‘No, I’d be bored. But seriously, I have these wild thoughts of escaping. Throwing it all in and going back to a small town and doing something that actually helps people. But how? Doing what exactly? And what if I hated it?’ I shrug. ‘Maybe I’m just well overdue for a holiday.’ But I know it’s more than that. Some days I feel like I can’t catch my breath and anxiety makes me dizzy.

  ‘What does Harry think? Is he feeling the same?’

  I think of my curly-haired fiancé, with his dark broody eyes. I’m still shocked he proposed; part of me always thought we’d have this fleeting passionate romance that would burn out because Harry is so fickle – always on the hunt for the next shiny bauble. But then he surprised me by proposing and making grand life plans that we’ve never quite got around to.

  ‘Harry has no idea. You know what he’s like; he thrives on his high-octane life. Flying here, there and everywhere, barely taking a breath. I haven’t seen him for ten days now, actually. He’s been on a private island with Carly C, helping meet her every whim while she’s launching her album and filming a behind-the-scenes-of-fame documentary thing, sort of like Beyoncé did.’

  ‘Celebrities.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Let’s hope he’s not meeting her every whim.’

  I giggle. ‘She’s engaged to some YouTuber, isn’t she?’ You’d think I’d follow the tabloids in order to keep one step ahead, but very rarely do they get it right. I’ve learned it’s much like everything in the shallow world of celebs – a big, fat lie. Usually a marketing ploy.

  ‘I have no clue about Carly C.’ Maya laughs. ‘But you should talk to Harry, tell him how you’re feeling about things at work. That you feel like something is missing.’

  I lift a shoulder. ‘Maybe. He’ll just tell me I’m being dramatic.’

  ‘Which is ironic since he panders to people who only eat the blue M&M’s.’

  ‘Right?!’

  ‘How are you going with your plans to buy a property in the country? Is he still keen on that idea?’ Harry and I sat down a while back and had a heart-to-heart about our dreams for the future and where we saw ourselves in five, ten, fifteen years. Our plan had been to save for a sprawling country property, a place that could become a sanctuary; a wonderland where we could safely raise children and have a nest to commute from. Once again, it was all just words. Promises like vapour, diaphanous and fleeting.

  You can’t help who you love though, and I adore him despite our differences. It’s those differences that leave me enthralled; the way Harry takes charge of a room, charms everyone – men and women alike. His utter confidence that things will always go his way. It’s quite blinding being in love with such a guy, almost like staring at the sun at times.

  ‘Time has marched on and we’re still no closer to buying a place. He never commits to any viewings, and definitely never has the time to spend a weekend attending open houses …’

  I don’t tell Maya I still spend every Saturday morning scouring the internet for my dream home even though Harry’s got cold feet about it. ‘It’s hard to explain but I can see myself in that new lifestyle. A big old house with high ceilings, a roaring fire, Vinnie the little rescue pup at my ankles, maybe some adorable fluffy chickens so I could forage for eggs for Sunday brunch. Time to pickle vegetables from my garden, make chutneys for grazing plates when friends from town visit, that kind of thing. A simple life, where our children can climb trees, play chase and breathe fresh country air. Wouldn’t that be the perfect tonic for burnout?’ But am I dreaming? Is it pure fantasy when Harry won’t even attend viewings?

  ‘It would and it sounds bloody lovely, Orly. Who wouldn’t want that?’

  ‘Maybe Harry …?’ I consider the day from hell, his absence. It feels as though something has shifted between us and my love for him has dimmed a little. Like staring at the sun doesn’t so much blind me but instead burns. I change the subject because talking about my would-be country house causes an ache in my heart – it’s like I can feel it’s the right move and yet I can’t convince Harry. ‘Have you heard the latest celebrity gossip around the hospital today?’ I ask, knowing she probably hasn’t. Maya is old-school when it comes to technology – she rarely uses social media and spends her downtime exercising, of all things. If there’s a juicy story in the press about one of our clients she’ll usually hear it via the nurses who fill her in on life outside of the wards.

  ‘No, I haven’t, darling. Did something happen?’ So I tell her all about the so-called proposal of the millennium and everything that followed. Her jaw drops. ‘It was livestreamed? Oh God, Orly, he didn’t!’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘How could he get Sarah and Chastity mixed up? That’s taking distracted to a whole new level.’

  I nod. ‘And now he’s nowhere to be found.’

  She clucks her tongue. ‘Just like bloody always. Darling, it’s not fair that he scarpers when he sees fit and coincidentally it’s always when he’s made some huge cock-up. Why didn’t you go with Carly C?’

  I shrug. ‘She chose him. He’s such a magnet for celebs – he can talk the talk whereas I’m better in front of the computer sorting out all the headaches. I don’t actually mind that though,’ I say truthfully. ‘I can’t parade around with their entourages and take it seriously. It makes me feel all sorts of awkward; I’d feel like this gangling bird tottering behind these glamorous over-the-top characters. Harry loves that side, so it’s best left to him. Anyway, let’s not ruin the evening with any more talk about boring old work.’

  ‘Darling, we can park that conversation if you want, but it sounds like you had a really stressful day. I’m worried that you’re always left to fix things with very little support. I know you all have your own clients, but you all share in the successes and it’s like they ride your coat-tails when it suits them and you’re on your own when it doesn’t.’

  Bai’s son pops a plate of prawn crackers down and I take one, crunching it into a million pieces over myself, while Maya delicately eats hers without a crumb in sight. ‘I know, I need to get harder, tougher, but when I’m in the thick of it I’m just in problem-solving mode, you know?’ What else is there to do except fix it as best I can?

  She tilts her head. ‘You don’t need to change, Orly. They do. Especially Harry, who should be by your side when things like this happen.’

  I take a bottle of wine from my bag, a freebie from the office. ‘Red?’ I ask, knowing Maya is right but not knowing what to do about it all.

  ‘I’ll stick with Chinese tea. I’m not feeling one hundred per cent and a wine headache will only keep me up. But I’ve heard—’ she peers at the label ‘—Congratulations Mr and Mrs Deely is a great vintage.’ She gives me a megawatt smile. Maya is one of those health-conscious types and doesn’t usually partake in a lot of alcohol. Her way to deal with worry is to run, a much healthier stress reliever but not one I’d subscribe to.

  ‘The best! Perks of planning fancy weddings at Claridge’s, eh?’ I laugh as I fill my glass with the exotic red, which is actually a pricey little quaffer, and top up Maya’s tea. ‘Here’s to Ernest, one of the finest gentlemen to walk this earth.’

  Maya clinks her cup alongside my glass. Her eyes fill with tears. ‘May he rest in eternal peace back with his beloved Betty.’ I think about the man I never met, but feel I know. He cherished his wife and talked about her every single day, even decades after she died. That’s the kind of love affair I want, one that lasts a lifetime.

  ‘Why don’t we start planning your wedding?’ Maya asks gently. ‘That’ll give us something fun to do, something to drag us out of this rut we’re in.’

  ‘Maybe …’ I say, when I really mean no. The thought of my
own wedding just seems so abstract; I can’t picture it for some reason. I don’t have time to ponder why as tiny Bai’s thundering footsteps echo behind me.

  Our favourite tofu dish is presented to us and I smile. Bai determines what we need to eat and we duly comply by hoovering up every last delicious morsel. Usually, she’ll feed us something to put colour in our cheeks, or meat on our bones. Wordlessly she continues placing steaming dishes in the middle of the table and then hugs Maya whose eyes pop out of her head from the pressure. ‘Now eat, girls, eat, eat; you need to put some colour in your cheeks and some meat on your bones.’

  Chapter 3

  The interminable weekend finally comes to a close. I’d fielded calls from reporters around the globe until my phone went into heat-saving mode and switched off. The charity fundraiser had been a disaster when a drunk guest stormed the stage to speak, knocking me from the podium hard enough to hurt my pride and my derriere. Then of course the Bars on Barges industry party went off with a bang, the smell of fireworks and muddling down the Thames too much for my constitution, so I spent most of it in the loo with seasickness. Or maybe it was embarrassment – who knows. When the barge moored, I’d been the first off, and zoomed down that gangplank with about eleventy billion industry vultures in my wake asking whether the ‘Love Cock-Up’ was all a publicity stunt.

  Maya had popped in for a visit late Sunday evening. I’d finished the weekend over a few too many G&Ts, while clever Maya stuck to sparkling water. Always the voice of reason, she let me vent away as I sucked down gin like that would help matters.

  Today, I head into the office regretting my life choices. Why, oh why didn’t I choose sleep over drinks? Water, yoga, vitamins, even. I’m not just burning the candle at both ends, I’ve doused it in petrol and set fire to the whole bloody thing. Mondayitis is here with a vengeance, just like always.

  As I bump along in the taxi, I make all the right sounds to my client on the phone: ‘Gerald is our number one client, of course he is,’ while only half listening as I scroll through social media on my iPad looking for news on JoJo and Chastity.

  The paps have managed to get some snaps of Chastity in the loving arms of someone other than JoJo. I slap a hand to my face. What looks to be drone footage has caught them overhead next to a glittering blue swimming pool. Chastity wears a skimpy bikini bottom and not much else. Her version of damage control, I guess, proving she’s lovable in the eyes of another. Poor JoJo. He is besotted by her and now she’s done a runner to salvage her pride.

  As the taxi creeps through the heavy traffic of London, I check my emails. Still radio silence from Harry. As my street comes into view I pop everything into my bag, all the while murmuring, ‘Yes, yes, of course I can, yes,’ to my client.

  With my mobile phone pressed hard to my ear, I mouth my thanks to the driver, tap my credit card to pay and dash from the taxi, as always running late, late, late. I hurry past the designer boutiques of Mayfair before stopping out the front of the Excès office to catch my breath. It feels like I’ve given decades of my life to the cause. I’m bone-weary of the bloody place.

  ‘Are you still there, Orly?’ a shrill voice admonishes me down the phone.

  ‘Yes, yes, Sylvia, I’m here.’ Shivering through a cool summer morning, I gaze up at our swanky office. The sight used to leave me enthralled – we made this thing – now it just leaves me feeling weighed upon. I should be grateful, but instead I’m exhausted. Perhaps I need a vitamin injection or flat shoes or a weekend of reordering my stamp collection or … something.

  ‘Gerald really wants to impress Coco, and I mean really impress. Do you think you can top your previous efforts?’

  Sylvia’s tone suggests I cannot.

  ‘Yes, I know I can,’ I say, oozing confidence. ‘We will exceed every expectation he has.’ I cross my fingers it’s true. Each experience seems to get more outlandish; soon I’ll be taking bookings for luxury trips to Mars. But that’s my job, right? Say YES and reach for the stars!

  Being a people pleaser has its disadvantages but it’s crucial in my line of work. I put out fires, cajole personal assistants, butter up glum celebs, and dance around the office with a big cheese-eating grin trying to rally the troops. ‘Let’s make today our best yet!’ Lately though, it seems that I’m getting lumped with all the problems while the partners swan off early with flimsy excuses.

  Maybe I need to toy with the word no more often.

  ‘He deserves only the best. And forgive me for saying this but we’re not sure if you’re the person to provide that. Are you?’ Sylvia brings me back to earth with a thud. ‘It’s all over the news here about your disaster with JoJo.’

  Really, it’s a miracle we have any clients left so I do my best to get through this.

  ‘Oh, JoJo sees the funny side,’ I lie with a chuckle as if we’re all in on the joke. ‘Plus that wasn’t my proposal.’ I firmly throw Harry under the bus for the sake of the business and pull the phone away from my ear and suck air deep into my lungs. ‘JoJo isn’t one of my clients.’ Fix this, Orly. ‘I do hope you’ll give me a chance to prove I’m capable again.’ The words roll off my tongue sweet as sugar but inside they feel hard as marbles.

  Gerald is a multi-millionaire techy on the cusp of billionairedom, who uses our services every time he has a new girlfriend he wants to propose to. Which is at least twice a year. The guy just can’t settle with one woman and is always extravagantly asking for their hand in marriage before the relationship stales and he’s alone again.

  Word is, Gerald is a bit of a control freak, a tough-talking belligerent type, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve never spoken to the man. I deal directly with his PA Sylvia, who isn’t all that saccharine herself. Being one of the elite mega-rich means he’s also never happy. Nothing ever quite lives up to expectation. God could drop from the heavens and walk on water and he’d complain about the view, but my job is to pander to his every whim and grin and bear it.

  ‘Well, let’s see how well you put together a proposal for the getaway and we’ll go from there.’

  ‘Sure. What did he have in mind?’ I ask as I walk towards the double doors and am welcomed in by Jorges the doorman who gives me a toothy grin. I pretend to doff a hat as I slide past and make a mental note to review Jorges’ contract. He’s been with us since inception and always has a smile for our clients. He’s probably overdue for another raise.

  ‘A private jet to Paris, all the bells and whistles. Caviar, Strottarga Bianco, unless there’s something more luxe that you know of?’

  I roll my eyes, grateful we’re not on a video call. Gerald doesn’t even like caviar. He buys the most expensive brand and to date no one on any of his proposal jaunts has ever eaten it. The staff report back and tell me how delicious it was, a little perk for them for working so hard at making our experiences go off without a hitch.

  ‘Caviar, check. I’ll look into what’s trending.’

  ‘Champagne, a crate, Dom Pérignon.’

  ‘Perfect choice.’ I stifle a yawn. I’d only snatched a few hours of sleep in the end because there’d been a problem with a booking in the States that I had to fix with my fuzzy gin head and all. Luckily it had only taken me the better part of two hours to resolve so our client, one of the most famous retired basketball players on the planet, could surprise his second wife with a week at the Bellagio and private access to his very own high roller room. My eyes water thinking of the cost and all the extras his PA ordered for their week. Just do it, I’d been told, spare no expense. And so when there was a miscommunication and our sports star was left waiting, I had to fix it and fix it fast even if it was the witching hour for me – no rest for the wicked!

  It’s funny because I used to dream of having these luxury experiences for myself; now I dream of a full uninterrupted eight hours of sleep.

  Sylvia continues, ‘They’ll dine in Paris itself, I’ll come to that in a moment, but gourmet finger food on the plane would be ideal. Nothing messy. He doesn’t want a repeat
of last time. You won’t drop the ball again will you, Orly?’

  As if it’s my fault that last proposal Gerald dropped the contents of a Chinese soup spoon directly onto his white Versace shirt. It wasn’t even soup, but hoisin roast duck and salad, made in delicate mouthful-sized portions presented on elegant porcelain Chinese soup spoons.

  ‘No, you can trust me, Sylvia, I won’t make that mistake again.’ I try hard to sound contrite. It’s all part of the job. We all know it’s not my fault but I accept responsibility because, in their eyes, I’m at the bottom of the ladder in this equation. Le sigh.

  ‘He wasn’t very happy, you know …’

  I hold in a groan. I know. He briefly tried to sue me over it before Harry schmoozed him into a more malleable mood. Note to my future children: law is where it’s at these days.

  ‘I regret that every day and I can assure you it won’t happen again.’ I’ll pay for someone to hand-feed the damn man if I have to. At my desk I mouth Sylvia to Victoria, who grimaces and takes my bag from my shoulder.

  ‘Well, as long you know, he’s giving you a second chance here.’ She speaks to me as if I’m an unruly child who needs taking into line.

  Kill me. ‘I won’t let Gerald down, I promise. And I’m so grateful for another chance.’

  ‘Last chance.’

  ‘Yes, I completely understand.’ I count slowly to ten and focus on breathing so my head doesn’t explode.

  Victoria presses a coffee into my hand and I shoot her a grateful look.

  ‘I’ll email you everything else he needs for the plane: flowers, masseuse, string quartet, the usual, but for the proposal itself he insists on having the Eiffel Tower closed to visitors – and he’d like to propose to Coco at the very top, perhaps in the Le Jules Verne restaurant – also to be closed to others. A luxe degustation of the chef’s signature dishes afterwards, perhaps? Can you make all of that happen, Orly?’

  Oh bollocks. Usually my clients’ wildest dreams are possible, simply by throwing a fat stack of cash at the powers that be, but the Eiffel Tower is a prickly one. We’ve been rebuffed there before. Closing the entire structure down for hours on end is usually impossible unless it’s booked years in advance. But if I don’t make this happen for Gerald, we’ll lose him, and as fussy as he is, he’s not really different to any other of our high-flying, mega-wealthy clients. They assume that they’ll get what they want, because they usually do. I wish for my bed. I don’t seem to have the energy for this today – I suck down caffeine hoping it’ll shock me back to life.