I gave up trying to sleep around five and showered and shaved. Pointless gestures that gave me the smallest pretence of being in control. By the time Honor’s text came through to say the story was live, I was sitting back at the kitchen table, head in my hands and an empty coffee mug in front of me. And shortly after that, press started gathering on the street outside with cameras and even fucking TV crews. I called the police and pleaded with them to get down here and clear the street, emphasising that the disturbance the reporters were making was threatening the health of my seriously ill patients, but there’s no sign of them yet.
Since the news broke, my phone has detonated. Currentfriends, old friends, mates from uni, all WhatsApping me and sending me messages on FaceBook and LinkedIn and God knows what else. I hold off from clicking into any of the messages—there’s only one person I want to hear from and that’s Honor—but the reading panes of my various apps suggest they’re all along the same lines: some variation onOMGornice one mateoryou jammy bastard.I want nothing more than to turn off my phone, but I’m holding out that Honor will make contact.
It’s overwhelming, and the growing sense of dread and helplessness is even more overwhelming. Sleep deprivation is not helping. The office phone rings off the hook from six. I answer it the first couple of times before realising that every news outlet in the country seems to be trying to get through, then disconnect it.
Right now, my priority needs to be the wellbeing of my guests and staff. I send out a terse group WhatsApp to the whole Good Vibes team.
There’s some unfortunate press interest around Good Vibes this am thanks to a photo the Post has published of me and Stephanie Chapman’s daughter. We are working on refuting their accusations but meanwhile please arrive via the rear entrance if you’re on duty today, and categorically do not speak to any press members. Thx.
The early part of the morning is spent in triage mode, managing the bewilderment and morbid curiosity of the staff members who turn up and reminding them of their duty of care. I refresh thePosthomepage relentlessly. Around seven-thirty, there’s a breakthrough. I stare at the headline.
HONOR DENIES AFFAIR, CONFIRMS MOTHER ON DEATHBED.
For fuck’s sake. These people have no compassion. But the paper’s turnaround is impressive. The article goes on to explain that last night’s photos were taken at the Good Vibes Hospice, and that the mystery man pictured with Honor is Dr Noah Thierry, owner of the hospice and friend of the James-Chapman family.
They’ve lifted exterior shots of the building, and a smiling headshot of me, from the Good Vibes website and, while they fall short of an apology, they’ve appeared to drop all speculation that Honor and I are an item. They’ve also resurrected some photos of Stephanie, and they have confirmed her illness as late-stage pancreatic cancer.
I exhale deeply—I must have been holding my breath. Honor’s team’s ability to twist the arm of national rags is both impressive and terrifying.
My phone rings. It’s her. I can’t answer it fast enough.
‘Hi, darling. Oh my God, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ She sounds breathless. ‘Rollo, put your tie on. Here. Sorry, I’m trying to get the kids processed.’
‘No problem. What can I do? I saw thePosthas changed its story. Well done.’
‘Yeah. We had to give them some stuff on Mum, which is the absolute worst, but it worked. Listen, I can’t talk right now, but I wanted to say—Rollo. Your tie.Now. Sorry, I wanted to tell you to keep an eye on theMail—we’ve fed them some stuff so they can make thePosta laughingstock and hopefully discredit the story once and for all. But also, have the press turned up there yet?’
‘Yep.’ I look grimly out the window. ‘TV crews too. It’s mayhem out there.’
‘Okay. Listen carefully. We’re sending over some security to help you. They’ll keep the press off your property, stop them ringing your doorbell and making a nuisance of themselves. They should be there by eight. Tell your team to stayaway from the windows and not to engage with the press. I’ll be there by ten latest.’
‘Wait—you’re coming here?’ I assumed she’d want to stay miles away.
‘Yes. We need to underline that I’m a regular visitor there, that I’m prioritising Mum, and that it’s business as usual. It’ll be powerful to have me photographed in the same doorway as those photos. Hang on, Noah—what, Serena? Yes, Mummy’s just dealing with the very silly photos that newspaper published at Granny’s hospital. Noah, I need to run. I’ll see you later.’
I take the phone away from my ear and stare at the screen. I’ve been a waste of space all night, pacing and spiralling and pining, and here Honor is indoingmode. She’s foiled the efforts of a national newspaper to discredit her, she’s dealing with my security situation, she’s processing Serena and Rollo and all the while diffusing the power of the “very silly” photos to upset her children. And it’s not even eight o’clock in the morning. She’s amazing. And at this moment, the gulf between us feels infinite.
It’s the most unsatisfactory conversation, but I need to look no further than thePost’s update for my answer to where Honor and I are headed.
HONOR DENIES AFFAIR.
That’s my answer, right there.
CHAPTER 30
Honor
Istalk imperiously through the sea of press and up the steps of Good Vibes in full armour, if armour constitutes a face of impeccably applied makeup, a black, laser-cut Alaia dress and Gianvito Rossi ankle boots. Di, in full pit-bull mode, sticks to my side as reporters scream my name. Their questions and their camera clicks are a wall of noise around me, but it’s nothing I haven’t handled a million times before. At least they’re not asking me today if Jackson is shagging anyone.
We nod at the two burly security guards, one of whom pounds on the door behind him three times as pre-agreed. It swings open and we step inside. Noah’s behind the door. His eyes are reddened and his hair is mussed up. He takes a step towards me and stops. Looks at Di.
‘Hi, Di.’ He turns back to me. ‘Hi. You okay?’
‘I’m fine. I desperately need a cup of tea.’And to collapse into your arms and not move for hours.
‘I bet you do. You’ve basically conducted a military operation this morning.’ Noah gestures at the mayhem beyond the door.
