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)
“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 does not look 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.
“Charley,” I hiss.
“What? Lloyd’s got to see this.”
I smile awkwardly to the tall, slim lad taking our bags. “She doesn’t get out much.”
“Happens all the time,” he says, going on his way after Abbie slips him the tenner and he nods his thanks. Oh God, something tells me tips around here stretch further than a tenner.
“Fuck me.” Abbie bumps into my side as we wander up the brick path to the door.
The first thing that hits me is the staircase that sweeps round to the left, the wood white, crisp, and spotless, the taupe carpet runner plush, despite the endless feet treading it. The clash of traditional and modern is quite breathtaking. We approach a huge double pedestal desk, where a perfectly turned-out lady waits to check guests in. And today, unbelievably, we’re guests. I leave Abbie to do the honours, still a little worried that we will be told at any moment there’s been a mistake.
Wandering to the left, I get drawn to an imposing, enormous portrait hanging on the wall halfway up the stairs, the white wooden frame carved beautifully. But the woman in the portrait? She’s truly something. Majestic. Classy and elegant. I gaze up at her, seeing her hardly visible smile perfectly. She could be French. She oozes that kind of sophistication. I drag my eyes from her precise French pleat down her cream pencil dress that falls just below her knee, to her slender legs and the beautiful sapphire-blue kitten heels gracing her small feet. I back up a little to get the whole of her in my sights.
Stunning, I think, also wondering who she is as I stroll on, taking in the luxury surrounding me, until I reach a doorway where a gold plaque tells me I’m entering the Library Bar. A rich, polished oak bar runs the length of one side with old beaten brown leather barstools lining it, built-in bookcases frame the brick-built fireplace, and high-backed blue velvet wing chairs are scattered around but seem precisely placed. Endless glass shelves loaded with various bottles line the raw brick wall behind the bar, and smoky-blue, ribbed glass pendant shades hang on gold chains spaced intermittently over the bar.
I pull a cocktail menu toward me, admiring an embossed crest in the corner. The letters AH are framed with delicate wisps of golden ivy and apples. I browse the list, seeing modern takes on classics, and the Arlington Hall specials.
“Can I get you something?”
I look up to a waiter in a green waistcoat. “Maybe later,” I say on a smile, returning the menu. “I have a spa day to get through first.”