Obviously, one needed to be at a certain level of wealth to consider joining – but essentially, although a good deal plusher than its original dusty incarnation, Home was still intended as a place for artists, dreamers, creators, performers. That was Ned’s vision. Just look at the five members he’d invited for dinner tonight. One major Hollywood star and his highly successful actress wife. One of the most recognizable （and expensive） artists in Britain. A transatlantically visible talk-show host. A hot young film producer, and son of one of the most famous directors of all time. Forget Gandhi, Jesus and Oscar Wilde. This was the stuff of which dinner party dreams were made. And she, Annie, had arranged it, got to sit in, make small talk. Instead of pre-agreed monosyllables spat out at junkets by celebrities who would rather be anywhere else, she got to hear what Jackson Crane really thought about working with Christopher Nolan. To hear what Georgia’s guest appearance on the Chanel Haute Couture catwalk felt like. To understand first-hand how hard it was on live TV to coax an entertaining anecdote out of, say, a Formula One driver. What Elton really asked for in his dressing-room rider.
And all five of them, no matter how celebrated, were probably a little bit excited about it too. But not one of them had any idea yet, the slightest inkling, what was in store for them tonight, what Ned was planning.
It could be pretty brutal, this job.
Annie absolutely loved it.
Nikki
It had been clear that Ned Groom was revving up for a tantrum from the moment he’d arrived at breakfast.
‘Big day today! This lot had better not fuck it up,’ he’d barked, with a jut of the chin in the direction of the waiters bustling nearby in stiff denim aprons. ‘Got that?’ he added, to the one nearest to him, smiling warmly when the boy nodded in answer, clapping him on the arm, telling him he was sure he wouldn’t be letting anyone down.
Joking. Joking. Not joking. Joking. That was how it worked, with Ned. Everything was a joke until it was serious. Everything was serious until it was a joke.
Their table – their regular table – was right next to the building’s vast picture window. Ned sat down. He glanced briefly through it to the wildflower meadow beyond, the grass still frosted where the shadows of the trees fell, the mist still lingering in the hollows of the ground. He adjusted his napkin on his lap.
‘Now then, Nikki, what’s on the agenda?’
Nikki ran her boss through the morning’s diary between sips of green tea – final meetings, before the first members were due, with the head chef, head barman, head gardener, spa manager, design director and events team. When Ned’s attention turned briefly to the menu, she discreetly dashed off a three-word email with them all on CC: Warning! Bad mood.
‘I need everyone to be match fit. Biggest opening in the history of Home, this. Certainly the most bloody expensive. It needs to be perfect,’ he said, draining the first of many coffees, dabbing at his lips with a folded napkin. ‘Any word from my brother this morning?’
Nikki looked at her watch. It was 6.45 a.m.
‘En route by now I think. I’ve asked him to call and let me know when he’s on the causeway.’
Adam should be on his way, even if he had not yet texted to tell her so. Or replied to either of her texts checking in. She had booked the cab for him, put the pick-up and the driver’s number in his diary, texted last night and again this morning to remind him when it was coming. All he had to do was wake up and clamber into it and fall asleep again. Adam could surely manage that, couldn’t he, on a weekend as important as this one?
Just as every morning for the past month, Ned and Nikki were the only diners in The Barn – the most casual and relaxed restaurant on the island, with its rustic-luxe decor, its couches, its all-day breakfast menu from which you could order a full English for dinner should you so desire. Nikki had ordered the Bircher muesli, Ned the eggs Florentine. Alerted by their snotty wobble, Nikki could tell from about ten feet away （easily） that Ned’s yolks were undercooked. She tried to signal to the waitress bringing over the plate – with a quick grimace, a sidelong glance, a meaningfully raised eyebrow – that she should abort her mission, but the waitress was oblivious. She placed the plate in front of Ned. Without even bothering to prod the eggs with a fork, let alone take a bite, Ned wordlessly lifted up his breakfast with both hands, rotated his torso ninety degrees and let the plate drop to the floor. He was very particular about his eggs, Ned Groom. He was very particular about lots of things, although Nikki was sure it had never been quite this bad before.