by Karen Swan
‘Well, it’s a shame you can’t come tonight – we’re hitting that new steak place in Amagansett – but the spare bed’s still free if you want to swing by,’ Chloe said. Elle had rented a tiny cottage in Montauk for the summer season but Chloe was so often spending the weekends in it too, that she was chipping in with the rent. Strictly speaking it was a two-bedder, but Poppy wasn’t too grand to sleep on the small two-seater sofa-bed in the living room, her bare feet dangling over the end of the mattress.
She put down the ski resort brochure and reached for her bag. Friday six o’clock meant it was officially the weekend. She was outta here.
‘Hmm, Sunday day could be good. What time will you be leaving to come back?’
‘Not till late. If you got the first bus down—’
Poppy gave a lopsided grin. ‘Alternatively, Alexander will be back by then. If he’s choppering in to his compound, I might try to cadge a lift with him.’ Her phone rang again. ‘I’ll text you, let you know.’ She picked it up and shot Chloe a wink as she drained the remains of her water bottle. ‘Hey, Mike, how are you? Still in LA I see . . .’
Michael Greenleve, music producer, cockney as a pearly king but now a high-roller in LA. Chloe felt she almost knew Poppy’s clients by heart too. Sitting in such close proximity meant conversations were rarely private and, as such, Chloe knew he liked rock but not reggae, took his steak rare, smoked only Partagás Serie D cigars, was on his third wife, had just ordered the new invitation-only LaFerrari Spider, had mistresses in both the Hills and Hawaii, where he did a lot of his recording (both mistresses knew about the wife but not each other), and was currently committed to a high-intensity interval-training exercise programme that had seen him rushed to emergency care twice – without a single conversation explicitly about him ever passing between them.
‘Down to San Francisco . . . ?’ she heard Poppy’s voice receding behind her. ‘In a sub . . . ? Ohmigod, Mike, that sounds amazing! . . . Yes of course I can. When were you thinking . . . ?’
Montauk, Long Island, the next day
Embers from the beach fire twisted in the air before them, performing gymnastic leaps and arcs against the blushing dusk, the cool beads of condensation sliding down the beer bottles in their hands. Chloe was sitting in a low-slung Adirondack chair, her bum almost grazing the deck, her long bare legs extended up onto the low balustrading of the stoop with a view of the surf crashing beyond, the soundtrack from inside the bar just a mellow backbeat out here. She was examining her toes and wondering whether the baby-blue polish had a touch of the hypothermic about it as Elle, sitting beside her, caught up on her Instagram feed.
They had enjoyed another of their signature lazy days on the beach, although the definition of lazy here was quite different to her understanding of the word when she had lived back in Chiswick: instead of a lie-in, hangover, greasy spoon brunch and an afternoon on the sofa or, if the weather was nice, lying on a blanket in Dukes Meadows, her Saturdays here consisted of a five-mile hike around the Point, a Pilates class and a game of beach volleyball, before she could justify a prolonged flop on the sand all afternoon.
Chloe pressed her fingers to the skin by her eyes; it felt salted and tight now, in spite of her crazed SPF30 habit that saw her reapply layers every ninety minutes without fail. But then, she had Celtic blood, it was obvious just from looking at her; her father had always described her pale skin and freckles as being like nutmeg sprinkled on milk. She’d inherited his hazel-green eyes and her mother’s luxuriantly thick auburn hair – she wasn’t made for five hours on white sand; she was built for northern winters and cable-knit sweaters, gathering logs and drinking cocoa.
Elle, on the other hand, was born to days like these – almost six feet tall and of Ghanaian descent, her blue-black skin gleamed defiantly right back at the sun, her limbs so long and lean it was like lying next to Naomi Campbell, skin as taut as a trampoline. The only thing to bother her in this landscape was getting sand in her hair – a magnificent Afro that easily added another five inches to her height. Beside her, Chloe couldn’t have looked more like a former hockey-playing English schoolgirl if she’d tried. A soul singer with a voice like warm honey and ginger, Elle was born to the stage – her voice demanded it, her physique commanded it and subsequently, she held something of a niche cult status in the cabaret bars and party scene of downtown Manhattan. No party could swing without her. She was always the most vibrant and fabulous person in a room – helped by a penchant for colourful vintage clothing – and Chloe was still occasionally taken aback to think that this bird of paradise had so completely taken her under her wing. The first time they’d met had been at the Strand bookshop on 12th and Broadway; they’d both reached for the same title when there was only one copy left. Elle, who had got her hands on it first, had suggested sharing it and meeting up for coffee to discuss it afterwards. The coffee, ten days later – they had both raced through the story – had segued into dinner and then dancing in a club in SoHo, and just like that, a friendship had been born. They’d barely left each other’s sides since and with Poppy frequently joining them too, Chloe had felt the first buds of her new life here begin to flower.
‘So where d’you wanna eat?’ Elle asked, dropping her head back on the chair and looking at her with a desperate expression. She did this a lot, her hunger coming on in sudden, violent bursts; when she needed to eat, the word ‘now’ was always silently attached to it.
Chloe’s eyes narrowed in consideration. She was always hungry, not just sporadically. ‘Are you feeling burgers? Or pizza?’
‘Right now, I’m vibing both.’
‘Well let’s go to Navy Beach, then. It’s closest and we should be able to get a table quickly.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Elle said, tucking her long legs in and standing up. It was like watching a baby giraffe waking up. ‘I’ll get the tab. My turn.’
She disappeared inside, the top of her hair brushing the doorway. Chloe stared out to sea and watched the last of the boats coming back in from a day on the water, the lights of the marina further along the headland already flashing beacons. She tracked the lights with her eyes, barely bothered to move her head. She didn’t want to move; she felt limpid and relaxed, the beer adding a gentle buzz to the warm night. She would sleep well tonight, she already knew, and she hoped Elle didn’t want to go clubbing later, that they could let their evening drift to a drowsy close. Clubbing meant more drinks and small talk with nameless men, eye contact and suggestive dancing. And whilst that worked for Elle, these easy hook-ups, they were a complication she didn’t need; not yet. She kept trying to get herself there but she wasn’t in that place yet. It was too soon.
Her own phone rang on the deck beside her chair and, for a moment, she was tempted to leave it. Especially when she saw it was from work. She picked it up because it was from work.
‘Hello?’ she asked quizzically. No one from the office ever called her at the weekend.
‘Chloe? It’s Jack.’
‘. . . Hi, Jack!’ She couldn’t hide the astonishment in her voice. Jack Mortimer was one of the company’s founding partners, a good-looking, tall, former public school boy with a flop in his hair that would make Hugh Grant sigh with envy. He had rowed for Cambridge and was what her mother – who had a gift for summing people up with neat accuracy – would have called ‘an old-school playboy’ with a renowned love of the cards, horses and women. He was famously horizontal most of the time, but caught at the wrong moment, on the wrong day, he could be offhand, mercurial and quick-tempered – a cat with claws. ‘What’s up? Is everything okay?’
‘Not really, no.’ He sounded distracted. ‘Look, where are you?’
‘In Montauk.’ Her eyes fell to the inky horizon again.
‘Oh great,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Practically halfway to London then.’
What? That wasn’t remotely true, although clearly it was undesirable to him that she wasn’t still on East 10th. Something was wrong. She rose to st
anding, going to lean on the balustrade. The last wink of day was barely a slit on the horizon, night’s dark chariots pulling down jet curtains, the sea breeze beginning to pick up. ‘Jack, what is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Look, Chloe, I need you to get back to Manhattan.’
‘Okay,’ she said slowly, wondering what was going on. ‘I can leave first thing, but—’
‘No. I need you to get back here, like, now.’
‘Now?’ she spluttered, looking at the beer bottle in her hand; it was her third. A gentle numbing fuzz was beginning to settle over her. ‘But why? What’s happened?’
There was a pause and she could almost hear his struggle in the vacuum.
‘Jack?’ Her hand gripped the phone more tightly, her eyes pinned to the boat on the horizon now, as though she needed something to hold on to. She felt the anticipation build in her with every breath, fear beginning to creep like a mist.
‘There’s . . . there’s no easy way to say this, Chloe . . . there’s been an accident.’
‘. . . Are you okay?’
‘Not me.’ She heard him take a deep breath. ‘It’s Poppy.’
‘What?’ Chloe gasped, feeling the blood pool to her feet as she forgot to breathe.
‘She was hit by a car as she left the office tonight. Some fucking idiot careered onto the kerb –’ He swallowed. ‘. . . The driver fled the scene. The police are looking for him now but by all accounts it happened so quickly, it was over and he was gone before people even knew what was happening.’
A car driving onto the kerb? No. This couldn’t be happening. ‘Do they think it was a terrorist act?’ Chloe whispered, scarcely able to believe she was asking the question. Two minutes ago, it had just been another regular Saturday night . . .
‘No. At this point, everything suggests a drunk driver. Hit and run.’
She scrunched her face up at his answer; was it preferable? Where was the comfort in it being an accident, knowing that it was simply random, just plain bad luck, the ultimate case of wrong place, wrong time?
‘But is she okay? I mean, she’s okay, right?’ She saw Elle, who had come back now and was standing by their chairs, questions on her face as she took in Chloe’s urgent tone.
There was a pause. ‘We don’t know anything yet, the doctors will only liaise with next of kin. But from what I understand, she’s still unconscious.’
‘Still? What do you mean, “still”?’ Her voice was shrill, tight as a wire.
‘According to eyewitnesses at the scene, she hit her head on impact.’
Chloe gasped again. ‘No!’
‘But . . . but on the plus side, the paramedics were there within minutes. She’s going to be fine, Chloe,’ he said with determination, as though that alone would decide it. ‘She’ll pull through this. Poppy’s strong.’
Chloe didn’t answer – exactly how strong did you have to be to take on a car and win?
She couldn’t process this. She couldn’t think straight. It was as though the world had tilted ninety degrees on its axis and her feet were sliding . . . ‘Have her parents been informed?’
‘Yes. We’ve booked them on the next flight out. They’ll be here by morning.’
‘I’ll collect them from the airport then,’ Chloe murmured, gathering herself, trying to rally.
‘No need. I’ve already told them I’ll do it.’
‘But there must be something I can do.’
‘There is, it’s why I’m calling. I need you to get back to Manhattan and pick up Poppy’s client load.’
Chloe’s jaw dropped. ‘Me?’
‘I know it’s a lot to ask. This is all a lot to take in. Trust me, I know.’
‘But, Jack,’ she stammered, trying to keep up, to make her brain function. Why was he even thinking about work at a time like this? ‘I don’t do front-of-house, for one thing. I’m nowhere near experienced enough. I don’t have the contacts or the . . . the nous to handle her clients.’
‘Give yourself more credit, Chloe, you’re easily up to this. Tom told me how you stepped in when they had vacancies in London.’
‘But that . . . that was a different level. General membership – tickets to a Bieber concert, dinner reservations at the Firehouse. I’d be no good with the big boys.’
There was a pause. ‘Chloe, please. There’s no one else I can ask.’
‘What about Serena?’
But it felt like treachery even suggesting it. Poppy didn’t have the darkness in her to hate anyone but if she had, she would have hated Serena Witney. Serena was the only other VIP lifestyle manager in the New York office, but the two women couldn’t have been more different, and it was no accident of design that their desks were at opposite ends of the office. Whilst Poppy’s clients adored the warmth, bohemianism and witty irreverence that belied her formidable professional capabilities, Serena’s admired her for a service that was cool and clinical. She was never late or unprepared, tired or anything less than immaculate, and she looked upon her own clients’ successes as a proud mother would, basking in the reflected glory. Poppy had no objection to that, as she’d muttered to Chloe many times over lunch, stabbing her kale with her fork, but she did object that Serena was neither a team player nor an adequate manager to the more junior associates on her desk and only ever seemed interested in engaging in a battle of egos with her. Poppy handled Serena’s brittle nature the best way she knew how – by taking the mickey – and when she’d joked that Serena had only ever taken the job to land herself a rich husband, Poppy had seen the glimmer of fear in her eyes and subsequently repeated it at every possible opportunity.
‘Serena handles Lorenzo Gelardi,’ Jack said with barely repressed weariness.
‘Oh. God, yes.’ How could she have forgotten? Lorenzo Gelardi was Serena’s own pet mogul, heir to a shipping fortune which he had taken and built up into a world-leading logistics empire. The fact that he and Subocheva despised each other – Alexander’s model wife had once been engaged to Lorenzo – only served to further polarize Serena and Poppy’s positions and embed their own rivalry. If the men were to find out they were both clients of the same concierge company things would become difficult enough; there was simply no question of both of them being handled by the same lifestyle manager too.
‘So you can see why I need you back here and holding the fort – pick up Poppy’s client list and keep them happy, that’s all I’m asking. Just until she recovers. Which she will.’
‘Of course.’ Chloe nodded, hearing his optimism, wanting to feel it. She watched a wave barrel towards the shore, rearing up as though holding its breath, before smashing down into oblivion. She watched the foam bubble and hiss before it sank into the sand. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Poppy – mown down. By a drunk. Just a regular Saturday night out . . .
He heard her silence and registered it as disapproval. ‘Look. I know I must sound like a heartless git talking about clients at a time like this, when all any of us cares about is Poppy pulling through. Believe me, I feel demented about it, I want to kill the bastard who’s done this to her. But there’s nothing I can do, and sitting around, out of our minds and letting everything go to pot, isn’t going to help her – and it could actively hurt us; she wouldn’t want that. She would know we can’t leave her clients dangling whilst they’re waiting for her to get better. They all adore her, of course they do, but let’s not fool ourselves – if we don’t keep their juggernauts rolling in the interim, someone else will. Their sympathy will run short if they can’t continue their own lives as normal.’
‘Jack,’ she sighed. ‘I hear what you’re saying, but there must be others better placed to fill in for her than me. Xan, for example. I’m the newest member of the team here.’
‘Yes, but you’ve also worked for the company overall for longer than any of them. Not to mention you fit the profile – Poppy’s clients like an unflappable English voice at the end of the line.’
‘Yes! Because her father’s a peer of the realm. T
hey like the nobility by association. I don’t have that. My father was a maths teacher.’
‘Listen, you sit next to Poppy, you overhear her conversations, the tone she uses with her clients, what they like. You know them, even if you don’t know that you do. Trust me, there’s no one better qualified for this than you.’ He took a breath. ‘Plus, Poppy would choose you to cover for her, you know she would.’
Chloe closed her eyes, knowing he was right. She tried to think, to pull herself together. ‘Did the iceberg dinner go to plan, do you know?’
‘I haven’t heard otherwise so I assume so. Subocheva’s never slow to make his displeasure known, let’s face it.’
‘Well I guess that’s something. She had been planning it for weeks. Did you know she even had special reind—’
‘On to the next, Chloe,’ he said briskly. ‘That’s old news. Subocheva will already be on to the next thing so you must be too. It’s why I need you back here. You need to get up to speed with where he’s at and find out exactly what he needs next.’
‘But what if I can’t do it, Jack?’ she winced, winding her fingers in her hair. ‘I don’t have Poppy’s contacts, her imagination.’
‘Fake it till you make it. Just keep smiling and saying yes. Nothing’s impossible, only time-consuming. Come to me or Tom if you hit a wall.’
As if. ‘I guess,’ she agreed, biting her lip nervously.
‘Look, you’re not alone in this, Chloe. We’ll support you in every way we can but you need to remember you’re doing this to support Poppy. It’s the best way you can help her right now. We’re all left hanging, not knowing how she is or what’s going on. The only thing we can do is keep the balls in the air for her till she gets back and starts trying to convince everyone she’s really a cabbie’s daughter from Peckham.’