Page 4 of The Invitation

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 bridgecreeping 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.

“Abbie,” I say quietly as she circles a fountain that would give the Bellagio a run for its money. “Are you sure this is it?”

“I’ve checked five times,” she says, rolling to a stop and turning off the engine. “This is it.”

“Show me,” I demand, needing to see for myself.

“Yes, show her,” Charley orders, unmoving from her seat, almost frozen. “I didn’t wash my hair this morning, and I’m seriously regretting it.”

Abbie flicks through her phone and hands it back to me, and I scroll through the confirmation. “They sent me a deal for a spa day,” she says. “It was a total steal, and I thought it would be a lovely way to spend your thirtieth.”

“It is, and I’m grateful, but this place doesnotlook like the kind of establishment that offers deals on spa days.”

“Agree,” Charley says.

“Agree,” Abbie adds as I search for a link in the email. I don’t see one, so I go to Google to find Arlington Hall, navigating the menu.

“How much did you pay?” I ask, cringing at the question.

“Sixty quid each.”

I laugh out loud, and both the girls turn in their seats to face me. “This can’t be it. It’s over seven hundred pounds to have a spa day at Arlington Hall.”

“Oh God,” Abbie groans, putting her head in her hands.

“There must be another Arlington Hall somewhere,” Charley pipes in. “And I bet it doesn’t look like this for sixty quid.”

“Wait.” Abbie faces me again. “The man on the gate was expecting us.”

She’s right. He was. This is all very bizarre.

A glass door just past the big wooden ones slides open, and a beautiful, leggy Black lady appears. She dips, smiling at us through Abbie’s open window. “Miss Pearson, welcome to Arlington Hall.”

Abbie withdraws. “You’re expecting us, right?”

“Of course,” she says. Silky, black, poker-straight hair brushes the clipboard when she looks down at it. “You’re right here on the list. I’m Anouska. Please, let me get you checked in. I’ll have Stan get your bags.”

I immediately go to my purse and pray I find some cash to tip, breathing out when I find a tenner. I pass it over to Abbie. “Here,” I say, and she takes it gratefully.

“Well, let’s go,” Charley sings, hopping out, looking up at the building, taking a picture.

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