by James Grey
I keep wondering if any of the other girls starting tomorrow are on this train, but I’ve hardly seen a soul at any of the country stations we’ve stopped at. I wonder if they will have brought more than I have. But the letter said we wouldn’t need to bring much clothing. Just a couple of casual outfits. It said most clothing would be supplied, ‘where necessary’. Ever since I started packing yesterday, I’ve been wondering what that meant.
Apart from that, I’ve just got my toothbrush and toiletries, a couple of books, my phone and my iPad. But if this train ride is anything to go by, I won’t be doing much reading in the next two weeks. I tried, but I just couldn’t seem to focus. Images kept invading my head. Charles sitting in a plush, comfortable armchair, beckoning me over to him; my handsome high school maths teacher calling me to the front of the class and instructing me to bend; feeling the tight cling of a close-fitting black dress as I ring the doorbell of a Mayfair apartment.
The man with the newspaper folds it up and rises as we pull into another deserted station. His spaniel, head down, strains at the leash as they walk towards me. The gent nods casually at me as he passes, giving one of those awkward half-smile, half-grimace greetings we English like so much. I flush in response. What if he knows?
I’m alone in the carriage now. Next stop is mine.
The end of the line. Trains do not penetrate the Cotswolds beyond this station. I stand up and brush myself down. Silly, really: I’m only in a baggy black t-shirt and jeans, and my hair’s such a mess I’ve simply tied it up and hoped for the best. If I wanted to impress anyone, it’s way too late.
But still. I’m being met. By someone. And that nervous, first-day-of-term feeling has come back to me.
I take a deep breath as I gather my bag and make for the door. Cautiously, I open it and climb down the steep drop onto the platform. Only a handful of people are spilling out of the other carriages. The train’s motor has been switched off, and the sounds of chirping birds are louder than the footsteps of my fellow passengers. The turbocharged trot of high heels that follow me everywhere in London is conspicuous by its absence on this gorgeous Sunday evening in the country.
I’m a long way down the train, and most people have reached the platform exit long before I do. From what I can see, most of the passengers are a lot older than me. The sort of people who might have gone to a museum in Oxford for the afternoon, or taken tea in one of the small towns on the way. But I notice one young woman who stands out like a beacon. She’s my age…no, younger. Maybe only twenty. That’s a short skirt. Fuck, she’s drop-dead sexy. Oh my God. She’s so one of us. I’m so not going to fit in here.
She’s messing with her phone as she walks, but I can tell she’s spotted me. She doesn’t show it. She looks like she knows exactly what she’s doing. She doesn’t have the uncertain walk I’m sure I’ve got, nor is she curiously taking in her surroundings like I am. It’s a mite intimidating.
I keep my eyes down. She reaches the doorway before me. I follow her through the small ticket office and blink as I emerge into the bright sunlight. There’s little more than a patch of gravel outside. Typical rural station: they’ve built it well outside the village.
A car has pulled up just to the right of the doorway. It’s a Jaguar, but I’d guess it’s one from the sixties. British racing green. A smart chauffeur stands next to the passenger doors, both of which are already open. I’m relieved we’re just about the last ones off the train: this is not the low-key pickup I’d have chosen for my arrival. I thought this school place was meant to be discreet?
“Miss Carling! Miss Stoycheva! Welcome!”
The chauffeur gestures towards the car doors. The blonde in front of me, whom I gather must be Eastern European, barely nods at the chauffeur, and makes for the front seat. She’s carrying even less than I am. Still hasn’t said hello. Hmm. I’m not getting a great vibe here.
“Err, hi…” I say.
“I’m Chris and I’ll be taking you ladies through to the school. Pleased to meet you!” He offers a hand and I shake it. He’s smart in his uniform, and his easy manner has a calming effect on me.
“Good journey?” he asks as he motions me towards the back door.
“Yeah, it was OK,” I smile. “Probably did too much thinking though…”
“Ah, don’t you worry,” he says, closing the door after me and making his way to the driver’s seat. “That’s normal enough, although we get all sorts of reactions here.”
He looks over his shoulders at me and rolls his eyes towards the bitchy blonde, still tapping away on her phone. I grin back at him. I like Chris already.
“This is already an unusual experience,” I say to him as he turns the key and the engine bursts into life with a throaty rumble. “First time I’ve had a chauffeur or ridden in a car like this. I wasn’t quite expecting it…”
“I’m not sure how much you’ve heard,” says Chris as we pull out onto a narrow country lane. “But you can expect to be treated very, very well. It’s all….you know….part of getting used to some of the circles you might be moving in when you’re done.”
I stay silent, not knowing how to answer these vague yet loaded words. The leathery interior is warm and comfortable, but I’m not quite ready to pursue this conversation with a man I’ve just met. There’s still an overthinking part of me worrying that I’ve got the wrong end of the wrong stick, or that the whole school-for-hookers thing is one big, fat, practical joke.
I change the subject. “Lovely out here, isn’t it? I’m a city girl really, never been out this way much.”
“Oh, you poor thing! The countryside is gorgeous round here, and in this weather there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I’m from these parts so I would say that, but I bet you’ll agree soon enough! Where we’re going is one of those well-kept secrets – a long way from any trains or big roads – you’ll love it out there!”
I smile, roll down my window and nestle into the back seat. There’s a sunbeam draped across me, and I feel better now than I did on the train.
“We’ve got about 40 minutes through the back roads,” says Chris. “Just relax and enjoy the ride.”
“Well ladies, we’re just about here.”
I sit up and take in my surroundings. True to Chris’s word, it’s gotten quieter and quieter as we’ve driven closer to our destination. We’ve been mostly on single-track roads, and passing traffic has been rare. Once or twice we’ve had to pull into a widening to let somebody squeeze by, but the few passing cars have mostly deferred to our stately Jag.
The road we’re on now is very shady, with willow trees hanging low on the left hand side. They brush my window as we motor past. To the right, a hedge, and beyond that a field of sheep, still drenched in sunlight even after seven o’clock. Now Chris has his flicker on, and I feel a pulse rise in my throat. We must be there.
The car takes a left at a break in the willows, and pulls up in front of iron gates framed by two grey stone pillars. Curious, I lean forward between the front seats for a better view. There’s a stone bird of prey atop each pillar. Our chauffeur presses a button somewhere on the dash and the gates begin to open.
We pass through onto a gravel driveway. Even the bitchy blonde seems interested now. Chris swings the car to the right and I gasp.
Holy shit! There’s a mansion in front of us. No, wait, a château. It’s built in a French style, not the usual Cotswolds way, although the masonry is as beige as the rest of the houses in this part of the country. Two wings extend out towards us, like big arms waiting to gather us in. The wings are longer than the middle section is wide. It’s more eccentric than beautiful, but certainly imposing.
I can see two storeys of enormous windows, seven on the front and eight on each of the side wings. That’s a lot of rooms. Now I notice more windows, small ones protruding from a dark roof, quite reminiscent of the Louvre’s in Paris. Attic rooms, maybe. I even notice a couple of haphazard turrets, with tiny windows of their own. I wonder where I’ll be sleeping
.
This is no school. This is a manor house. A country place for someone very, very rich. Maybe even someone royal. And a lot of servants.
Chris lets me out of the door and I raise my eyebrows as I take in the full scale of it all while I stretch and try to look comfortable. I somehow expected something a little more institutional. If there really are only twelve of us then there’ll be room to spare. I smile at the thought that this will be my home for two weeks.
“Welcome to Cranleigh House. Do you like what you see?” says Chris.
“It’s like…well, it looks a lot more spacious than my place in London!”
“I think you’re right there. And the grounds are endless. Just watch out for the ghost!”
I blanch. Even the other girl gives Chris a worried look.
“Only kidding, girls! Probably…”
He winks at me, but not her.
“But Chris, this looks like someone’s home! Whose is it? Do they actually live here?”
“Ah, that would be telling. Actually even I don’t know, Miss Carling. Honestly. These things are kept secret, and I’m sure you can understand why. But clearly he’s not short of a penny or two. And he must like his home being used for…training purposes.”
He clears his throat and beckons us towards the front door.
“I’ll be leaving you here, ladies. You’ll be in good hands.”
Before I can say anything he touches his fingers to his cap, turns on his heel and makes for the Jaguar.
For a moment I am alone with the other girl, stranded on the doorstep and wondering what will happen next. I try to give her a smile, but her blue eyes flit past mine and look away. I am not even sure if she speaks English. She snorts impatiently and pulls out her phone again. I’m sure she’s just avoiding talk: the letter made it quite clear there would be no signal out here.
The heavy door begins to open. It creaks, and all I can see at first is gloom. But now a woman appears. She has a kindly, bespectacled face, like that of a favourite aunt. She must be in her early sixties, and wears a long dress. If she’s meant to look like a teacher, she’s got it spot on.
“Hello girls! Lovely to see you – that’s everyone now!” She beams with delight. “Come in, please! Both so beautiful! I’m Miss Honeywell, I’m the housekeeper. Now, which of you is which?”
I like this lady.
“I’m Emma Carling…” I volunteer.
She shakes my hand warmly. Then she looks at the other girl, who remains expressionless.
“You must be Petra then!”
“Yes.” It is the first time I have heard her speak, and one word is enough to confirm that she does have a thick accent. There’s absolutely nothing in her tone that makes me want to like her, and somehow I’m not surprised. They shake hands and we follow Miss Honeywell inside the mansion.
“You must be tired from your trip! I’d best show you two to your room.”
Room? I have to share with her? I sigh inwardly as I bite my tongue. I’m not going to get into any arguments right now. I had my fill of those at my last job.
“The house is pretty empty tonight,” continues Miss Honeywell as we head toward a grand central stairway. “The main staff don’t arrive till morning. But you can leave your bags here. Wilfred will bring them up in a moment!
“It’s my job to get all of you girls settled in. I’ll be here throughout your stay, and I’m in charge of your day-to-day care. That means anything you need outside of your instruction, especially your food, is my responsibility. You can always come to me if you want anything.”
We’re climbing the staircase now. Petra is ahead of me, and I can’t help noticing the golden strip of skin between the bottom of her close-fitting blouse and the top of her skimpy skirt. Her butt is right at my eye level, and it’s undeniably cute. The cheeks bobble up and down in time with her leg movements. I’m feeling decidedly unglamorous, and wonder what the other girls have chosen to wear today.
We turn left at the top of the vast oak staircase, and then we follow the hall around to the right. It feels like we must be moving down one of the wings, but it’s hard to tell because the doors are all closed and I can’t hear a sound apart from our footsteps. And their echo. Not that Petra’s Tinkerbell feet make any sound, I’m quite sure. We walk to the very end, passing beneath a couple of elegant chandeliers, and stop before a stout wooden door with a gold knob.
“Girls, this is to be your room,” says Miss Honeywell as she pushes it open. “As you can see, there is plenty of space.”
I stop and stare. Plenty of space? This room is, in all seriousness, bigger than my entire flat in Putney. I see two vast, four-poster double beds, deliciously made up with royal blue linen to match their canopies. Thankfully they’re far apart. Petra quickly claims the one furthest from the door by trotting across and dumping her handbag on it. Somehow I’m not surprised. This could be a long two weeks.
It looks like we won’t have to share very much, at least. There are two dressing tables, two full-length standing mirrors and two chests of drawers, one with an old-fashioned ticking clock on it. There’s a tray of expensive-looking designer toiletries on it, and I feel like I’m in one of those hotel rooms I used to hear about from colleagues who travelled around Europe on work assignments.
I notice a beautiful free-standing bath in the corner near the window. Well, it’s not so much a window as a French door with a cast-iron railing beyond it.
I walk over to the window and take in the view. I can see the willows, the road we came in on, and beyond that the verdant fields. Nothing but rolling countryside. I get the feeling we must be miles from the nearest neighbour. I shiver slightly at the thought. Maybe it’s the evening drawing in. Maybe something else.
Miss Honeywell interrupts my thoughts. “I should point out the walk-in wardrobe,” she says as we troop after her to a door between the two chests of drawers. “We have stocked it up according to the measurements each of you sent us last week. Everything on the left is yours, Emma, and everything on the right is for Petra. Starting tomorrow, you will always dress, where necessary, from this wardrobe. Please keep it tidy as much as possible.”
There it is again. Where necessary.
Even from the doorway I can see it’s like a small clothing shop inside there. I feel myself gaping at the sheer volume of it all. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. “You’ll have plenty of time to look through all that this evening,” breezes the housekeeper. “Let me show you your underwear.”
She waves at the chests of drawers. “You’re not to wear any of your own underwear after tonight. You will find everything you could ever need in those drawers. Again, yours is on the left, Emma. Everything in there is brand new…you’re such lucky girls to be young enough to wear what’s in there, that’s all I can say!”
I smile at her. I like her style, and couldn’t have asked for a friendlier welcome. Apart from my icy room-mate, that is.
“Girls, we like to let you rest on your first night. Wilfred will bring you your bags and an evening meal shortly. Tomorrow you’ll get properly briefed and shown around. The bathroom you’ll use is just at the top of the stairs. Please don’t stray beyond there until after your tour tomorrow.
“I’ll say good night to you for now. If you need anything, you can call Wilfred or myself with this buzzer button, but I should imagine you’ll be alright getting to know each other. And get an early night: you’ve got a big day ahead.”
Chapter IV
The door shudders closed behind us. I stand in the middle of the room, feeling awkward. Petra has abandoned her phone at last, and gazes out of the window.
I’ll take one last stab at this. Be the bigger person, Emma.
I walk over to her, muster the most genuine smile I can manage: “Hi Petra, we haven’t met properly yet! I’m Emma. It’s nice to meet you.”
She looks suspiciously down at the hand I’ve offered her. Bitch. But she takes it and shakes, after a fashion. Her grip is limp,
even for a girl. She looks me up and down as she does so. She seems more than satisfied: is that a faint smile I see at the corners of her mouth?
“Hello,” she says in a syrupy Slavic way. She tosses her head to one side. “Petra. How old are you?”
Strange way to start a conversation. But I’ll go with it.
“Oh, um…twenty-six. What about you?”
“I am twenty-two.”
She’s still standing right in front of me, looking directly at me. It’s making me feel uncomfortable. I wander, as casually as I can, to the window railing, and lean on it.
Looks like it’s up to me to speak again: “Where are you from, Petra?”
“Bulgaria,” she replies.
Of course she is. They’re all stunning out there.
“And you…are English, yes?”
“Afraid so,” I smile. “You East Europeans can’t have a monopoly on the industry!”
Fuck. Have I just been racist? Nice one, Emma.
She doesn’t react to my nervy attempt at a joke at all. Suddenly I’m terrified again. Terrified that I’m the only one here for the reasons I think we’re all here for. Especially with this stern, strong, beautiful woman before me. A woman who knows she’s already one up on me.
“Sorry, umm, sorry.” I mumble.
She doesn’t acknowledge this.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
Just the question I don’t want. And she puts it to me with a tiny smirk. Great, this one wants to play nasty games. I don’t think that can lead to good things.
I feel myself twisting my ankles like a shy schoolgirl and do my best to avoid the elephant in the room. That prostitution thing.
“I guess I just…want to learn. I lost my job last week. Time for something new. You know?”
She shrugs.
