Page 1 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

One

The June heatwave clung to the flat like a damp cloth. The windows were open, but the air refused to move; heat and the sour smell of last night’s wine hung in the corners. Outside, a gull screamed.

Sammy stood at the kitchen sink in a T-shirt and bed socks, rinsing a wine glass that wasn’t hers. Beyond the counter, in the open-plan living room, Chloe lay sprawled on the sofa, one arm dangling and her phone buzzing against her chest. Mascara smudged her cheeks. She groaned, rolled onto her side, and kicked free of the blanket. An empty wine bottle tipped and rolled under the coffee table.

‘Sam,’ she said in a thick voice. ‘You’re going to hate me.’

Sammy didn’t look up, rinsed another glass, pushing a strand of mousey blonde hair back with her wrist. ‘That ship already sailed at seven this morning.’

Chloe pushed herself upright, wincing. ‘I can’t do the garden party.’

Sammy dried the glass, set it in the cupboard. Outside, another gull. Another scream.

‘What kind of can’t?’ she asked.

‘The head-is-going-to-fall-off-my-body kind.’ Chloe pressed her palms to her temples and hauled herself up from the sofa with a grunt. She steadied herself on the armrest before staggering toward the galley kitchen. But then Chloe always moved as if she expected to be watched – even when hungover. ‘I’ll actually die if I have to smile at rich people today.’

‘You said this job was important.’

‘It is. That’s why I need you. Please. They said it could lead to more work. Proper work. Full time. And we need the money, Sam. You know that.’

Sammy propped herself against the counter and looked from her friend – still wearing last night’s clothes, platinum blonde hair flat on one side where she’d slept – to the unpaid electricity bill in the post pile, its red letters seeming to stare back at her.

Chloe stepped closer, reaching for Sammy’s hand, her grip warm, the action familiar. ‘Come on,’ she said, softer now, thumb brushing lightly over Sammy’s knuckles. ‘We’ll soon get ourselves back on track.’

Sammy had once loved Chloe for exactly this: her ability to fix problems with a touch, a smile, a promise that everything would work out fine.

Back then, it had seemed like rescue. Like being chosen.

Sammy secured the tea towel neatly on its peg.

‘What do I even have to do?’ Sammy asked.

Chloe brightened immediately. ‘Show up, smile, serve drinks and snacks. Easy money. Honestly, you’ll be great at it.’

Someone laughed in the street below. Sammy rolled her eyes. ‘Where is it?’ she asked.

‘Barnstaple . . . Devon.’ Chloe rattled off the address, drifting back to the sofa. ‘Fancy place. Big house. Don’t worry about it, you’ll be great.’

‘I’m not doing this for you,’ Sammy said, already reaching for her handbag, checking for her purse, her car keys ‘I . . .’ she stopped herself. ‘I’ll go and shower.’

Chloe smiled. ‘Knew you’d fix it.’

Sammy paused at the bathroom door. ‘I’m not fixing it,’ she said. ‘I’m covering it. Again.’

Chloe pulled the blanket up over her head; she was asleep before Sammy closed the door.

Brambleton Hall rose out of the Devon hills with the unbothered confidence of something that had never needed to announce itself. The drive curved gently upward, whispering under the tyres, and on either side the parkland rolled away in long, uninterrupted sweeps. Majestic trees dotted the grass – beeches, chestnuts, larch and oaks – spaced too precisely to be wild, as though they’d been set in place once fully grown. Their branches sagged in the summer heat.

Her rusty blue Toyota crept up the drive – with Sammy sitting a little straighter – and juddered to a halt between a Bentley and something low and silver. She could see the dent in her passenger door reflected in its high polish.

Sammy switched off the engine and rested her hands on the wheel. The air smelled faintly metallic, like rain that hadn’t arrived yet. Somewhere nearby, a jazz band was playing. A woman laughed loudly, as if performing for an audience. It was the sort of laugh Chloe could slip into without thinking.

The house sat, large and pale, surrounded by lawns so green and flat they looked ironed, alternating stripes still visible from a recent trim. The topiary seemed to droop in the heat; clipped yew spirals and peacocks frozen mid-strut, losing their sharpness under the heat of the day. Beyond, deer grazed in the parkland.

Sammy looked out at the guests scattered across the lawn: men wearing bright jackets, stripy ties, linen suits and Panama hats; women beneath hats angled to frame their best features, with oversized sunglasses shielding their eyes.

This was not just serving drinks with a smile. It was a performance of sorts, and everyone – guests and staff alike – seemed to understand what was expected of them.