‘This is one of the few places in the world,’ Annie had reminded them, ‘that most of these people can eat a meal or have a drink or just sit around doing nothing and be absolutely confident no one is going to snap a picture of them doing it. Try to imagine what that feels like. Just try to imagine how much you’d be willing to pay for it. And that’s why any member you see with a phone in their hand – because, believe it or not, they’re not immune to the urge – is off the island, immediately, their membership cancelled. And that’s why none of our waiters, waitresses, bar staff or housekeeping crews are allowed mobiles either.’
She could do this, Jess told herself. She had been in hospitality ever since she left school – before, if you counted that first weekend job, making beds in a local B&B. She’d spent ten years at The Grange, steadily working her way up to Housekeeping Manager. She had always got on with her team, always taken pride in her job. She could do this. People were people. Guests were guests.
The rest of the invitees – Annie had reeled off more names, some familiar, some Annie obviously expected to be – would arrive in carefully coordinated waves from Friday morning onwards, and there was a packed schedule to keep them occupied all the way through to Sunday afternoon: boat trips, horse rides, brunches, lunches, dinners, movie screenings. Every cabin would be occupied, every guest one of Home’s most valued members. Nothing – Annie’s tone was gently emphatic, her expression encouraging – would be too much trouble.
While she spoke, Annie’s phone kept pinging and ringing. Every so often she would inspect it and smirk or frown. The instant the induction was over, she had it clamped to her ear and was talking loudly in a bright voice before she was even out of the room.
How Jess envied Annie her confidence, her air of unflappability, the boldness of her style. All that scarlet hair, gathered in a twist over one shoulder, the heavily kohled and fringe-framed eyes. Those great crimson talons. Perhaps it was easier to be confident when you were as tall as Annie was – six foot something, easily. Jess wished she had introduced herself a bit more forcefully, or that she had been brave enough to put her hand up during Annie’s talk and asked just one of the hundreds of questions she had about this island, this weekend, this job.
She was going to need all the confidence and boldness she could muster to get through the next few days.
‘Nearly there now,’ their driver – he wore a tight blue polo shirt and mirrored sunglasses – announced over his shoulder. He gave a little tap on the horn as they neared the end of the causeway. Someone emerged from the glass-fronted Boathouse holding a clipboard, and waved.
This was it.
If only her parents could see her now, Jess thought. All those girls at school.
There was no doubt that this was the opportunity of a lifetime.
Now all she had to do was stick to the plan.
Annie
It could be brutal, this job.
‘My darling, my angel, my love. You know if there was space, I would have you here in a heartbeat! No, no, don’t cry . . .’
For months now Annie Spark had been having conversations like this, or avoiding them. For the past week her phone had literally not stopped ringing from the moment she got up in the morning until she crawled into bed at night. The texts. The Instagram DMs. The voicemails. The texts to see if you had got their DM or had a chance to listen to their voicemail yet. The emails to see if they still had your mobile number right.
At the last count, there were five thousand, seven hundred and sixty-one Home members worldwide. There could only ever be a hundred and fifty of them, give or take, at a launch.
The invitation to Island Home’s Halloween weekend opening party had been couriered to the chosen few on 14 August. For weeks before that, Annie had been adding names, rethinking, removing, making the final adjustments. As soon as the coveted gilt-edged cards had been sent out, nestled in custom monogrammed cashmere bathrobes and silk pyjamas, she braced herself for the onslaught. Annie occupied an odd space in members’ minds – a hybrid of super-fixer, paid best friend and put-upon PA. Somebody you could stay up until 2 a.m. drinking espresso martinis with, someone on whose shoulder you might cry in the midst of a bitter divorce. But also the person you’d bitch to if you couldn’t get three extra friends into Malibu Home for drinks on Labor Day. Or shout at if the roses in your room were droopy, or the table you’d been given on the rooftop in Venice Home was draughty.