Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Feeling needy.”
“Do you want to stay?”
She snorts. “No, not a chance in hell. I just hate how he gets on with it. No signs of a fried brain or a knackered body. Nothing.” She throws herself back around in her seat. “Looking as perfect as he always does, and here’s me with slobber on my boobs and baby puke in my hair.”
“Ewww,” Abbie grumbles, moving away.
“Hey.” Charley turns again, looking me up and down. “Why the hell are you dressed for work?”
Abbie finds me in the mirror. “Because she’s been to work,” she muses.
“Snitch.”
“Amelia!” Charley reaches back and smacks my bare knee. “I mean, I know you’re on the breakup diet of wine and work, but this is your thirtieth, for Christ’s sake. Even Lloyd’s taken the day off for it.”
“To look after your kids,” I point out. “So you can come and enjoy this spa day with your two oldest friends.” How have we known each other for twenty-three years? It’s crazy.
“A spa day!” Charley cries, clapping her hands. “I want all the fizz, fuss, and fantasies.”
“Fantasies?” Abbie asks. “We’re going to a spa retreat, not a sex club.”
“You know what I mean,” she mutters. “Fizz and fuss don’t feature in my life, therefore it’s fantastical.”
“Lloyd fusses over you all the time,” I reply tiredly. “Don’t pretend you’re not treated like a princess.” The man adores her. Even more so since she birthed his two offspring and now constantly sports puke in her hair. They were married in 2020, fell pregnant soon after, had Elijah in 2021, and fell with Ena when Elijah was one. It’s been full-on for the newlyweds, and we all know they’re loving their young family.
“You’re a fraud, Charley Chaytor,” I say on a smile.
“Maybe, but a little pamper day never hurt anyone.” She gives me her wide, toothy smile. “Happy birthday, chick.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, smiling, my eyes falling to my silent phone. Because it’s off.
“Hey, anyone been charged yet for our night out last weekend?” Charley asks, looking between us.
“No, we were just talking about that,” Abbie says.
“But they said we paid, right? Because I’ll die if I can never go to my favourite restaurant again.”
“They said we paid,” I confirm.
She nods, frowning, returning her body forward. “So weird.”
Chapter 2
We pull off a windy country road and through some gold gates, and I raise my brows, starting to pay more attention to my surroundings after fighting the compulsion this past hour to sneakily turn on my phone and check for emails and calls, or even check the stocks. Jesus Christ, Mr. Jarvis has activated panic mode, and here I am, his trusty adviser, travelling nearly an hour out of town for a pamper day.
Abbie lets her window down as she pulls up to a barrier, where an old, brick-built gatehouse sits, and a green-suited man steps out with a clipboard, checking the registration of the Audi. “Miss Pearson,” he says, writing something down. “Welcome.”
“Thanks,” Abbie replies, her voice quiet as she peeks at me in the rearview mirror.
“Are we at the right place?” Charley asks, leaning over Abbie to see the suited man. “Is this the spa?”
“This is the spa,” he replies, not looking up. “Follow the driveway down the stream. An attendant will meet you at the car park and assist with parking.” He walks back to the gatehouse and reaches in, and a moment later the barrier lifts.
I rest back in my seat, as does Charley, as Abbie pulls through, slowly and respectfully. We follow the beautifully clear stream on the left that has a few waterfalls dotted along the way and a brick bridge creeping from one side to the other, and on the right is an orchard with endless huge, bushy apple trees.
I recoil when I see a helicopter pad in the field just past it and golf carts trundling across the uneven lawns. “What did you say this place is called?” I ask, a little awed.
“Arlington Hall,” Abbie replies, sounding distracted.
“The fuck?” Charley whispers, leaning forward in her seat. “This is it?”
I stare out of the windscreen, taking in the wide, perfectly symmetrical structure, the double wooden doors in the centre framed with climbing plants bursting with white, delicate flowers. Endless traditional sash windows stretch on either side of the main door, all flanked by white stone troughs bursting with perfectly pruned topiary trees. It’s almost too perfect to be real, and as I gaze up the front above the door to the second floor, I see a tower with a huge clockface telling us the time. It’s nine thirty. I relax back, scanning the driveway, noting the prestigious cars—Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Porsches, Ferraris. A line of green-suited men wait to park those cars. There’s an attendant with a gold luggage cart. A pristine young woman with a clipboard waits to welcome guests. A bloody golf cart stands ready to drive them to somewhere on the grounds.