CHAPTER 2
Honor
When my driver and security detail, Di, pulls up outside Elaine William’s immaculate townhouse, I physically sag with relief. It’s been a bloody nightmare of a day. I’ve tasked my executive assistant, Lydia, with researching at-home and hospice care options for Mum. The secret to my efficiency, and kind-of sanity, is having very firm boundaries around the best use of my time. Giving Mum all the emotional support she needs, and taking time to process my own feelings, are things I need to make time for. Researching logistics is not.
Still, it’s hard to compartmentalise my worries over Mum and tend to everything else. The paps trailed us when I dropped Rollo off at school this morning in South Ken. Then they trailed us to my offices in Soho. Jackson’s been in Manchester today with Leila, his co-star, doing some BBC interview, and the cosiness of their body language on the breakfast TV sofa has sent the tabloids into a frenzy.
Whatisit about that man and breakfast TV sofas? We met on an identical sofa, in an identical TV studio, when I was hosting one of the biggest breakfast shows in the UK and hewas my very sexy guest. Clearly, my otherwise intelligent husband has a short memory, because Leila’s doe-eyed face and his best Blue Steel impression stare out at me side-by-side from this afternoon’sEvening Standard, which Di has unhelpfully left on the back seat of the Mercedes for me.
I turn the paper over. I can’t deny Leila is gorgeous. Jackson’s a sucker for a fragile look and a vulnerable vibe. I suspect I had it when I met him. Though he’s made me far more vulnerable and fragile after years of infidelity. And that teacher—Jenna—had it in spades. He seems to confuse his on-screen and off-screen identities. He’s always the action hero: never able to ignore a damsel in distress.
‘There are still some paps around, babe,’ Di announces cheerfully. She walks around the car to open the door for me, and as I step out onto the leafy, tree-lined street off High Street Kensington, there’s the collective click of several cameras and the sound of my name.
‘Honor! Over ‘ere, love!’
‘How’s your day goin’, Honor?’
‘What do you think of your bloke doing the dirty on you again?’
I ignore the shouts. Keep my head down. Carefully pick my way up Elaine’s perfectly even sandstone steps. I’m not sure what’s happened to our little arrangement with the press, but everyone seems to regard Jackson and Leila as fair game. Jackson’s unlikely to want to cooperate in shutting it down; it’s brilliant publicity for the show ahead of its launch this autumn. At least I look perfectly groomed for the paps. One of the perks of owning a cosmetics brand is that I have makeup artists on hand at all times. Before I left the office, I dictated my answers to a US Vogue interview while submitting to a quick face mask and a dewy, iridescent makeup look suitable for this balmy summer evening.
A uniformed server answers the door almost immediatelyand takes me through to Elaine’s beautiful double living room on the upper ground floor. We take it in turns to host these soirees. Experience has taught too many of us that our secrets are safest behind the closed doors of private residences.
The sound of raucous laughter that strikes me immediately is at odds with the decorous surroundings. It appears a few of the others have already arrived. Stacey’s guffaw stands out and has the instant effect of helping me mentally change gears. The paps are outside, and that’s where they’ll stay. I’m here now; I’m with my girls and an evening of laughter and fellowship awaits me, as well as heavenly champagne, thanks to the drinks business Elaine runs with her husband.
The raucousness reminds me of that fabulous scene inBridgertonwhere the newly wed Daphne arrives at Lady Danbury’s soiree for married women and discovers that, behind closed doors, they can leave their carefully curated public personas behind and do whatever the hell they like.
My friends and I are all in different fields, but the parallels between us are striking. We’ve known each other for years and we meet up monthly, although our schedules are booked up months in advance and closed to mere mortals, because we find each other’s company highly gratifying and endlessly entertaining. These women are like a tonic. God knows I need that tonight.
I take a full champagne flute from the server and make my way over to the others, who are gathered towards the back of the room, near Elaine’s double doors, which are open onto the terrace overlooking the communal garden behind them. The blossom is long gone, but the French doors frame a perfectly verdant square of a view.
Elaine, always the consummate hostess, notices me first and breaks away to kiss me. Elaine Williams is the oldest in the group by at least a couple of decades, but her perfectly silvered coiffeur is as elegant as those of anyone else in theroom. She looks as though she’s come straight from the salon.
She puts a hand on my arm. ‘How are you doing, my dear? I’m so sorry about the papers. And I’m even sorrier about your mother. You poor little darling.’
The kind words make my eyes sting a little. Elaine does have a maternal vibe.
‘Typical of Jackson to add to your plate when it’s so piled high already.’ She tuts. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked my son, Noah, to stop by this evening. Just briefly—he’s a palliative care doctor. I thought he might be a useful person for you to meet. Runs his own hospice. No pressure, but he may be able to steer you in the right direction.’
‘Goodness. Thank you. That would be—great.’ Right now, I’ll take all the handholding and free advice I can from people like Elaine and her family. I vaguely knew Elaine’s son was a doctor, but the information failed to settle in my brain in the way that most information that isn’t directly relevant to me does.
‘Excellent. Now, get stuck into your bubbles, and come join in the fun. Stacey’s very excited to be here, as you can hear.’ Elaine’s tone is dry.
Stacey is indeed on flying form. I’ve known her for years, through Evelyn and Astrid, both of whom are here tonight. Stacey is American, an extremely impressive former Rhodes scholar who runs a FinTech company. She left her husband, Jack, a couple of years back, and fell madly in love with the guy who should have been her plastic surgeon, Ariel Bloch.
She and Ariel seem to do a great job of juggling two big jobs, as well as Stacey and Jack’s four kids—four! I can’t even imagine it—and Ariel’s two. She’s a gorgeous, glossy blonde with an effervescent personality. She’s clearly living up to her role as life and soul of the party tonight.
‘Hey girl!’ She throws her arms around me and gives me asmacker on the cheek. Stacey has never quite adopted the European double-kiss.
‘Honor was the last to arrive,’ Elaine interjects. ‘Shall we do our thing, and then we can have some fun?’ She taps a knife against her flute, and the other women drift towards them. ‘It’s time, ladies.’
We have a little tradition—it sets the tone every time we get together. Everyone takes a second to say one thing that’s bothering them, something they’re not likely to discuss with their broader circles. It reminds us we all hold each other’s confidence in our hands, but on a more practical level, it means we know what’s got inside everyone’s head. Sometimes we can help each other out—or help each other drink through it.
‘I’ll go first,’ Stacey says. ‘A guy at work is being a jackass—my COO. I think he has to go, but he’s been at Lokk since the start. It’ll be tough.’
She holds up her glass, and we raise ours, murmuring encouragement.
‘You want to go next, Honor?’ Astrid Carmichael asks. She’s the perfect embodiment of her designer fashion brand; her platinum blonde hair is swept back in a chignon and she’s in ankle-length, dove-grey silk pleats. She’s been a great friend to me over the years and is well versed in Jackson’s indiscretions.
