Escape to Honeysuckle Hall

by Rebecca Raisin

  ‘Orly? You’re not exactly convincing me with all these long silences.’

  ‘Sorry, there’s … a lag on the phone line. Yes, I can definitely make it happen,’ I say and hope to golly Harry flies back in today and I can lump him with these gargantuan problems so I can go and eat my body weight in gelato.

  ‘Gerald requires the best suite at the Ritz, with a spa experience in the Chanel au Ritz, front-row tickets to Opéra de Paris. Coco would like a haute couture experience with a designer, maybe Christian Dior himself if you can arrange that?’

  I shake my head at that. ‘Christian might be hard but I can definitely find—’

  ‘Hard? I thought you made the impossible happen?’

  ‘You’re right, but even I can’t magic him back to life, Sylvia. He died back in the Fifties.’ I grin to Victoria, who smothers her laughter. ‘But let me find someone of equal stature if not better for Coco.’

  ‘I feel like you’re already letting Gerald down, Orly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, truly I am.’ I bite down on my bottom lip to stop laughter swelling. Sometimes the ridiculousness of these situations just astounds me. So Christian Dior died sixty-something years ago and now I’m letting Gerald down?!

  ‘Very well. Make a proposal with anything else you can think of, leaving a two-hour gap twice a day so they might wander Paris itself organically.’

  Code word for: get sozzled in their suite. ‘Great idea. I’ll get back to you ASAP.’

  ‘Sooner please.’

  ‘Of course.’ How did I end up here? These experiences don’t spark joy anymore, they start a regular run-of-the-mill migraine.

  We ring off and before I can blink an email comes through from Sylvia stipulating Gerald’s every whim for a weekend in Paris, right down to the type of glassware he deigns to drink from.

  This is going to prematurely age me.

  He wants bouquets of Gold of Kinabalu orchids which are extremely rare and sell for around four thousand pounds a stem. A stem! With all my might I try not to think of where that money could be better spent – like feeding children in developing countries, building wells for water in war-torn cities, supporting refugees. I let out a long scream-like sigh. ‘Eughhhhhhhh!’

  ‘Was she a total harridan about soup spoon gate?’ Victoria asks, her blonde locks falling over a shoulder.

  ‘It was mentioned.’

  Victoria grimaces. ‘And pray tell, where is the proposal to take place this time?’

  ‘The Eiffel Tower.’

  She puts hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, no.’

  I practically inhale the coffee. ‘Oh, yes.’ Yes, yes, yessity, bloody yes.

  She lets out a long sigh and consults her iPad. ‘How did it go with Mr Basketball? Did you smooth it over?’

  I nod. ‘He enjoyed a personal performance by none other than the songbird supreme herself. They’re big fans.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Imagine being that famous that any entertainment you request is exclusively for you.’ Victoria is relatively new to Excès and still in awe of our clients and their lifestyles.

  I laugh. ‘Speaking of money, can we take a look at Jorges’ contract? I’d like to give him a raise; I’m sure he’s way overdue for it.’

  ‘I’ll speak to accounts. Consider it done.’ The phone buzzes and Victoria snatches it up. After a minute she says, ‘Hold please.’ She turns to me. ‘You’ve got a call on line three. Another journalist.’

  I scrub my face, probably smudging make-up from top to bottom, and pick up the phone. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Good morning, Orly. Noel here, from the Daily Sun.’

  Urgh. Of all the tabloids, the Daily Sun is the bottom of the barrel. They’ll publish any old tripe with the phrase: ‘from a source close to the star’. I can only get myself into more hot water over the JoJo debacle conversing with such a person from the sleaziest rag in town.

  ‘Would you care to go on the record about—’

  ‘No comment.’ I end the call before he can get another word out.

  We continue to go through the list and quickly resolve any loose ends.

  ‘Harry is due back today for our monthly advertising meeting. Do you think he’ll actually show up?’

  Victoria swipes away at her iPad and mumbles to herself as if she’s incanting spells. ‘According to his schedule his flight was due to land at Heathrow at 8 a.m., this morning.’

  ‘He’s landed already?’ And hasn’t called? I take my mobile and press redial. ‘Still switched off.’

  She checks the time. ‘It’s only 9 a.m. He’s probably on the tube, or being busted by customs or something.’

  Even though I’m hopping mad at Harry, part of me feels intense relief he’ll be back soon and will shoulder some of the burden. Until then, I’ve got work to do. ‘OK, let’s catch up before we start on Gerald’s Eiffel Tower proposal.’

  Victoria sits at the desk and I take the chair opposite and fire up my laptop.

  ‘We’ve got the royal birthday party of the little princess to organise.’

  I type her name into my list. ‘They’re always so much fun. Do they have any ideas?’

  ‘Their chief of staff mentioned an Alice in Wonderland theme, but said we’d know best and that they’d like the food to be fair-trade and sugar-free and the party favours to be locally sourced and not made from plastic.’

  ‘OK, that sounds simple enough. Did they want a venue or to hold it at the palace?’

  Victoria scans her notes. ‘She’d like a proposal to include both options, but they’re leaning towards a venue as long as the security teams know well in advance and can have early access.’

  ‘Leave that one with me. Next?’

  ‘Our favourite writer enquired about a family holiday to Haiti. She’s interested in them volunteering, but is mindful of it being ethical, and not wanting to fall into any voluntourism traps.’

  ‘So more along the lines of helping out with a project might work …?’ I tap the pen on my chin. ‘Let me research Haiti and where they can best help. Gosh, I love her.’ She’s been our client for the last few years and her experiences always include an element of giving back. It’s the type of thing I’d love to be involved with too and I only wish our rich clients practised more philanthropy rather than just taking selfies in their Gulfstream. But who am I to talk? I help them achieve this!

  Victoria makes a note and continues down the list.

  We spend the next few hours going back and forth about our clients’ needs before we’re ready to start on Gerald’s proposal. I glance at the clock and wonder where Harry is.

  ‘We need more coffee,’ Victoria says, eyeing her to-do list.

  ‘And keep them coming …’ As she swishes off to the coffee machine, I dial Harry’s number but it goes straight to voicemail again. It doesn’t say his mailbox is full, so at some point he must have emptied it.

  I leave a message: ‘Where are you? Call me please. Now I’m starting to worry you’ve been kidnapped and held for ransom and at this stage there’s not a chance I’ll be exchanging my hard-earned money for you.’ I laugh, part of the anger defusing at the thought of his return. ‘See you soon. Bring me a bagel if you know what’s good for you.’

  He’s probably lost his charger again, or stopped at home and fallen into a deep sleep. Something doesn’t feel quite right, but I remind myself that Harry isn’t the most reliable person in the world, and his way of dealing with stress is ignoring it until it all blows over …

  There’s work to be done with the JoJo fiasco, so I take a deep breath and prepare to eat humble pie, which definitely won’t taste as good as the bagel I’ve been craving, and dial JoJo’s lawyer’s direct line once more …

  ‘Hello, Mr Kingston, it’s Orly from—’

  ‘I know who it is. We’re filing a suit against Excès for breach of …’ Mr Kingston then goes into a long monologue about everything he plans on suing us over and I eventually give up trying to interrupt, especially when I don’t understan
d the complicated legalese.

  When he finally takes a moment I say, ‘OK, I understand. If you’ve informed our legal team then there’s not much else I can do except to apologise once again and let you know none of this was done maliciously. I’d love to tell JoJo myself if he’d consider taking my call?’

  ‘No.’ His voice is gruff. ‘You’ve done enough damage. Any communication can be done through me.’

  ‘Right, thanks for your time.’

  He hangs up without another word.

  ‘No luck?’ Victoria says.

  ‘Just a whole heap of bad luck. Can you email our legal team and ask them what they’ve heard and what they suggest my next course of action should be? I probably should leave it to the lawyers now but part of me wants to personally get hold of JoJo and plead our case. Ask them if they think that’s wise.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll do that now.’

  Chapter 4

  The day flies by and turns too quickly into evening and still no sign of Harry. My forgiving mood soon dissolves.

  I’m weary right down to my bones but figure he’s not going to come into the office this late anyway. I ponder it all, fatigue making me doubt myself. ‘You don’t think he’s fallen in love with some impossibly gorgeous back-up dancer, do you?’ I’m half joking but it’s the longest we’ve been out of touch and it’s unusual not to hear from him.

  She guffaws. ‘When he’s got an impossibly gorgeous English rose? I think not.’

  I’m sure I’m anything but, with bags under my eyes so big I’ll probably have to pay an excess baggage fee next time I fly, but I appreciate the confidence boost. Despite Harry’s man-about-town persona I’ve always trusted him around other women. He says things like: it’s us against the world, which makes me feel like we’re a team and can flit off here and there but know our hearts belong with each other. He’s not the type of guy to keep secrets – he’s too spontaneous for that. He loves the thrill of the chase, instant gratification, but he gets that through work, securing big stars and making their dreams come true.

  I’ve always thought one of the reasons he loves me is because I’m so different to the people he rubs shoulders with every day. I’m not an attention seeker; I prefer to stick to the periphery, and that’s why we gel. I’m the place he goes for calm, and he’s the place I go to feel alive.

  ‘You’re a gem, Victoria. Thanks for today.’

  ‘You’re welcome, now scoot and go get some rest.’

  We hug goodbye and I grab my bag and head out into the darkness to hail a cab. ‘Paddington, please.’ I fall inside, making small talk with the cabbie about the state of the world, politics and the dubious summer weather.

  When I get home Harry’s nowhere to be found. His mobile goes to voicemail again so I pour myself a glass of red big enough to fit my head inside and run a steaming-hot bath, sure that he’ll walk in at any moment with that rueful grin of his and a million excuses.

  In the bath, I guzzle my wine, which has an almost anaesthetic affect. My limbs grow heavy and my knotted shoulders slowly loosen. I take a minute to figure out where it’s all gone wrong lately. Why do I dread work when once it buoyed me up? From the other room my phone bleats. Bloody Harry. I should know by now every time I throw myself into the bath, like clockwork he’ll call. Reluctantly I leave the perfumed water, wrap my robe tight and race to the kitchen to answer.

  ‘Harry, I was—’

  ‘It’s Maya.’

  ‘Hello, darling,’ I say. I go back to the bathroom to rescue my steamy glass of wine and take another swill, but am surprised to be met with silence.

  ‘Maya, are you there?’

  I can hear her quick breaths down the line.

  ‘Is Harry home?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I glance around the still apartment. ‘Not yet, why?’

  I hear an audible intake of breath. ‘It’s probably nothing.’

  ‘Spit it out, Maya. When someone says it’s probably nothing that means it’s a giant drama of epic proportions. He’s upset another client and they’ve gone to the press?’ Then another more worrying thought hits. ‘He’s OK, isn’t he? He’s not hurt or anything? Has he been admitted to hospital?’ Maybe Maya recognised his name on an admission?

  A bitter laugh escapes Maya. ‘No, no I don’t think anything could ever hurt Harry. I’m at your apartment; buzz me up.’ There’s a strange tone to Maya’s voice and I wonder why she’s here. She usually works late on Mondays, catching up on weekend admissions.

  I press the buzzer so Maya can catch the lift to the tenth floor while I dash into the bedroom to throw on some clothes. Just as I pull my hair into a ponytail, the doorbell chimes.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, frowning at Maya’s ashen face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She bustles past me. ‘There’s no easy way to go about this, so I’m just going to rip the plaster off, OK?’

  ‘O-K.’

  She grimaces then pulls her mobile phone from her handbag and fiddles with it. She then takes out a bottle of wine from the Mary Poppins-style oversized tote; a very fancy vintage she usually reserves for celebrations. But by the look on her face this does not feel anything like a celebration. Not even close.

  ‘This is the Daily Sun online edition. I’ll give you a minute.’ She pushes her phone towards me like it’s contagious and looks everywhere but me.

  Flummoxed, I stare at it and within seconds my world implodes. ‘NO!’

  ‘It might be nothing, right?’ She wrings her hands. ‘It might just be a shoot thing; he could be an extra … He could be a place holder.’

  In a perfectly filtered candid photograph is my Harry locking lips with none other than Carly C herself. ‘An extra? A place holder?’ My voice rises hysterically.

  She screws up her nose. ‘Like you see in the movies. You know, someone to replace the actual actor until they’re ready to shoot. He might be a stand-in, a—’

  I close my eyes and hold up a hand. ‘Darling, thank you for trying to spare me, but we can clearly see—’ the vision of them pressed against each other is burned into my retinas ‘—that Harry is a bloody lying, schmoozing pig of epic proportions! He’s got his hand up her top for crying out loud! What’s he looking for – his bloody CAR KEYS? The meaning of life?’

  I flick through the article and it gets worse – ten-page spread worse. My gut roils as I realise this will be available on newsstands as well as online soon enough. ‘Oh my good God.’ My hand flies to my mouth. ‘It says the Daily Sun reached out to me and I responded with no comment! I didn’t know it was about me, I presumed it was about JoJo and Chastity! Urgh, I’m a fool!’

  Desperation dashes across Maya’s face and I sense she has no idea what to say – I wouldn’t either if our roles were reversed. ‘Maybe it’s …’

  I continue reading:

  Carly C’s ‘hands-on’ romp with mystery man!

  Reality starlet turned pop sensation Carly C was spotted getting a thorough frisking from a mystery man who turns out to be none other than Harry Highland from luxury concierge club Excès. ‘We’re in love,’ the raunchy performer announced to pals holidaying with her on a remote tropical island. ‘He tells me it’s us against the world.’ Another source close to the star says, ‘They can’t keep their hands off each other.’ Carly C is currently producing a music video and documentary and it’s thought that Harry Highland is there to help with his very demonstrative hands-on approach! Harry was formerly linked with joint owner of Excès, Orly Taylor, who recently made headlines for ‘cocking up’ movie star JoJo’s proposal to actress Chastity Cocker. A close friend of Carly C told the Daily Sun this PR disaster is what drove Harry into the arms of Carly C. The Daily Sun contacted Ms Taylor for comment but she declined.

  For all that is holy – not only has the damn man cheated on me but somehow I’ve got the blame for the JoJo disaster? I fall onto the sofa in a screaming heap and flick through the many, many, many online pages of Harry and Carly C’s brand-new ‘Smokin’ Hot Island Tryst’ l
ove affair. I can tell the very moment my heart shatters. It feels like it’s splintering my insides. Will this kill me?

  ‘He told her it’s us against the world! Is that a line he used with all of us? I trusted him!’ I can’t get air into my lungs. ‘I’m dying, Maya! Get the … paddles!’

  ‘What?’ She looks alarmed.

  ‘GET THE PADDLES!’

  ‘Do you mean the defib? I don’t carry a defib around! Are you really in pain?’ She goes into doctor mode and pushes me flat, taking my pulse or something. I don’t know because I’ve briefly left my body and am floating just above, while below the pale-faced me thrashes and bucks as if Maya is actually shooting electrical currents through my body. Dramatic or what?

  ‘Call it, Maya,’ I say groggily. ‘Code red, it’s a damned code red!’

  Maya stands and shakes her head. ‘This isn’t a code red, Orly! This is your standard bastardy code break-up.’

  ‘Right. I didn’t know there was a code for that.’

  ‘There isn’t.’

  I slowly return to my physical body as the shock wears off. It’s soon replaced with white-hot fury. ‘How could he?’

  Maya opens the wine and tops up my glass and pulls me to a sitting position. ‘Here, I can assure you this is purely medicinal. Drink.’

  I slug it down; Maya is a medical professional after all. She sits beside me. ‘What’s your game plan?’

  ‘My game plan? How many steps ahead am I required to think? I don’t know, maybe we could start by cutting out the crotch of his Armani pants, then move on to …’