The Invitation (Arlington Hall #1)

Chapter 1

I’m at my desk, five floors up and five rooms back, and I can still hear the blare of the car horn from the road outside. I take a deep breath and ignore the beeps of my phone, all messages from her. “Absolutely, Mr. Jarvis,” I say, checking the time. I’m late. “Let me look into that and get back to you.” I cringe, hearing the horn blaring again.

Gary appears at the door and tilts his head, making his grey quiff wobble, his lips pressed into a straight line. I hold up my hand, my expression full of apology, and get back to my call. “It’s a small shift, Mr. Jarvis. I honestly don’t think it’s cause for panic stations just yet.”

“When you’re playing with your own money, Amelia, you can be the judge of that.” Mr. Jarvis hangs up, and I exhale, slumping back in my chair.

“Aren’t you supposed to be off today?” Gary says with scorn, looking at the mini suitcase by my desk.

“You tell that to the FTSE 100,” I mumble, gathering up Mr. Jarvis’s file and popping it into my handbag. “He’s having a complete meltdown.” And I can’t really blame him, considering Mr. Jarvis is a heartbeat away from retirement and all his investments are due to mature in a matter of months.

I grab my bag and case, leaving the office before Abbie brings the buildings of Kensington down with her persistent honking horn. “I’m off.” I have no idea when I’m going to get back to Mr. Jarvis. Maybe while the girls are distracted during one of their treatments, I can whip out my laptop and snatch a few moments to reassure him his retirement pot is safe. No need for any drastic action just yet.

“Have a wonderful day,” Gary calls as I head to the elevator. “And, Amelia?”

I press the call button and turn.

He smiles, slipping off his glasses. “Happy birthday.”

Oh yes. Thirty today. “Thanks,” I say on an exhale, stepping into the cart. I escape the sound of Abbie’s horn in the time it takes me to ride down to the foyer, but the racket starts again the moment the doors slide apart.

Rushing outside, I fling open the passenger door, shoving my head inside her car. “Really?” I say as she grins at me. “The whole of Kensington knows you’re here.” I throw my case on the back seat and slide in, and Abbie pulls off fast, her Audi TT quite nippy.

“We’re late picking up Charley,” she says, her attention split between the traffic and my lap. “Nice dress.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m sure a cream pencil dress will fit right in at a spa.”

“I had to be prepared in case a Zoom call was needed.”

“And was it?”

“No.”

“So now you look like you’re going for a meeting instead of a cheeky spa day.”

I point to my case on the back seat. “I’ll change when I get there.”

Abbie looks at the dashboard when her mobile starts ringing. It’s Charley. “She’s called eight times since I’ve been waiting for you.” She rejects the call.

“Sorry.” I check my mobile, wincing at the icon telling me how many emails are in my inbox.

“Oh, please turn it off, just for today,” Abbie pleads, turning her beseeching blue eyes my way. Her chestnut hair is plaited messily over her shoulder, as opposed to my perfect, businesslike bun.

“I will,” I assure her, feeling a loose wisp of my ashy blond hair tickling my neck. I reach back and tuck it in.

“Do it now.”

“What?”

“Now. Turn it off now.”

“Silent?” I try.

“No, turn it off. We’re going off-grid. I have your mother helping Corey run the shop for me today, and Lloyd’s taken the day off work to look after the kids so Charley can come. The least you can do is turn off your phone.” She raises her brows. “Since it’s your birthday we’re celebrating. Just the three of us. Not the three of us and all your clients.”

“Okay,” I relent, taking the plunge and turning it off. I take a deep breath as I do.

“Happy birthday.” Abbie smiles across at me, taking my hand and squeezing. She doesn’t say any more. I’m thirty, recently single, and homeless. Life could be better. Could also be worse.

“Thanks.”

Her mobile rings again—Charley again . Abbie answers this time. “Ten minutes.”

“See you in twenty.” Charley sighs, then hangs up. It’s one of many things Charley and I have learned about Abbie over the years. If she says she’s going to be half an hour, she’ll be an hour. If she says she’s five minutes away, she means ten.

Abbie glances across to me as she turns at the lights. “We should go out this weekend.”

I snort. “I’m still not over last weekend.” A bit of vomit rises, reminding me of the hangover that lingered for days. “I only started feeling normal yesterday.”

Abbie laughs. “Oh, but what a fun night.”

“I’ve still got memories coming back to me,” I say, looking down at my phone again. We had gone out for dinner at Amazonico, our favourite restaurant—a little pick-me-up, an obligatory breakup dinner with my girls. It was all very civilised until we moved to the bar area and the Porn Star martinis came out. My white COS dress was absolutely ruined, covered in black marks, and I have no idea how. I frown, looking at Abbie. “You pushed Charley home in a shopping trolley,” I say, another flashback coming to me.

Abbie gasps. “Yes! So that’s where it came from.” We chuckle together, the mystery of the Tesco shopping trolley that appeared in Charley and Lloyd’s front garden solved. “And we got a rickshaw back to mine.”

“Oh God,” I murmur, now recalling Bonnie Tyler blaring from the speakers as the driver pedalled like a maniac to get us home. “Hey, has a transaction come through yet from Amazonico?”

“No.” Abbie frowns around the word. “So weird.”

It is. The morning after, all of us with fuzzy heads, we tried to remember who got the bill. And couldn’t. None of us had a payment on any of our cards, and it was then we realised none of us recalled paying. Horrified, I called the restaurant with my tail between my legs. Apologised. I was told there was no need, the bill was paid. But none of our cards had been charged. Still haven’t. So weird. “How far away is this spa, anyway?” I ask.

“About forty minutes from Charley’s, maybe.”

“And where is it?”

“Arlington Hall. South Oxfordshire.”

“Sounds posh.”

“Doesn’t it?” she sings happily, reaching for the screen on her dashboard and flicking through the radio stations as I look across at her fresh, makeup-free face.

“Thanks for this,” I say quietly, and Abbie glances at me briefly, before taking her attention back to the road.

“Any more flowers?”

“Some last Friday and some yesterday. Mum’s house is starting to look like your florist.”

“He should buy them from me. I’d give him a discount. Has he called again?”

“A few times,” I reply. “It’s easier not to answer.”

She nods, thoughtful, knowing why I’m taking that stance. Guilt. It’s lingering like a bad smell. Speaking to Nick will only enhance it. Cowardly? I don’t even know anymore.

I gaze out the window, falling into a daydream. Truth is, he didn’t really do anything terribly wrong, except declare out of the blue that he wanted marriage and kids. Like ... immediately. Things changed from that moment. I felt myself withdrawing, and Nick pushed on the matter more. Suddenly, the small things we had in common felt ... irrelevant. He liked numbers, I liked numbers. We shared the same network of work friends, and the conversation was always the same. Work. Finance. Financial planning.

Until he made the conversation about babies and marriage. Constantly. I couldn’t breathe. I told him I wasn’t ready. And he told me I wasn’t getting any younger.

He told me I was selfish. That I owed him some kind of commitment.

That was the end of me and Nick.

As we turn onto Charley and Lloyd’s street, I laugh, seeing our friend standing on the pavement outside their London semi with her rucksack. “She’s been there the whole time,” I say, glancing down at my phone. Which is off. So I find the clock on the car display. Exactly twenty-one minutes since she last called Abbie. Charley starts hopping on the spot, waving her arms madly, like we could miss her waiting on the kerbside, jumping like a demented jack-in-the-box.

Abbie starts smashing the ball of her palm on the horn, and I look at her, exasperated. “Why all the noise today?” I ask. “This is supposed to be a peaceful, Zen day.”

“Are you kidding?” she says, swerving into a space before looking up and down my cream pencil dress.

I open the door and get out on a grimace, pulling the lever of the seat to release it before climbing into the back, leaving the front seat for Charley. I smile at the Tesco shopping trolley that’s still in their front garden.

Abbie starts hitting her horn again as Charley dances around the car and chucks her bag into the footwell. She falls into the seat and brushes her curly strawberry-blond hair back while blowing out the side of her mouth. “Finally.”

Abbie ignores her light dig. “We remembered where the trolley came from.”

“Oh, where?”

“I pushed you home in it.”

Charley stills in her seat, thinking, as more flashbacks come to me, the three of us cackling like witches as we bumped Charley across the pavement. “That explains my bruised coccyx. I thought I’d slipped down the stairs.” She starts hitting the dash. “Go, go, go.”

We laugh as Abbie zips out of the space and zooms off down the road, Charley turning in her seat to look past me out the back window.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Feeling needy.”

“Do you want to stay?”

She snorts. “No, not a chance in hell. I just hate how he gets on with it. No signs of a fried brain or a knackered body. Nothing.” She throws herself back around in her seat. “Looking as perfect as he always does, and here’s me with slobber on my boobs and baby puke in my hair.”

“Ewww,” Abbie grumbles, moving away.

“Hey.” Charley turns again, looking me up and down. “Why the hell are you dressed for work?”

Abbie finds me in the mirror. “Because she’s been to work,” she muses.

“Snitch.”

“Amelia!” Charley reaches back and smacks my bare knee. “I mean, I know you’re on the breakup diet of wine and work, but this is your thirtieth, for Christ’s sake. Even Lloyd’s taken the day off for it.”

“To look after your kids,” I point out. “So you can come and enjoy this spa day with your two oldest friends.” How have we known each other for twenty-three years? It’s crazy.

“A spa day!” Charley cries, clapping her hands. “I want all the fizz, fuss, and fantasies.”

“Fantasies?” Abbie asks. “We’re going to a spa retreat, not a sex club.”

“You know what I mean,” she mutters. “Fizz and fuss don’t feature in my life, therefore it’s fantastical.”

“Lloyd fusses over you all the time,” I reply tiredly. “Don’t pretend you’re not treated like a princess.” The man adores her. Even more so since she birthed his two offspring and now constantly sports puke in her hair. They were married in 2020, fell pregnant soon after, had Elijah in 2021, and fell with Ena when Elijah was one. It’s been full-on for the newlyweds, and we all know they’re loving their young family.

“You’re a fraud, Charley Chaytor,” I say on a smile.

“Maybe, but a little pamper day never hurt anyone.” She gives me her wide, toothy smile. “Happy birthday, chick.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly, smiling, my eyes falling to my silent phone. Because it’s off.

“Hey, anyone been charged yet for our night out last weekend?” Charley asks, looking between us.

“No, we were just talking about that,” Abbie says.

“But they said we paid, right? Because I’ll die if I can never go to my favourite restaurant again.”

“They said we paid,” I confirm.

She nods, frowning, returning her body forward. “So weird.”